Five Poisoned Apples

by Skye Hoffert et al.

  She was in a foul temper. Everyone kept their distance from her.

  Now, as Ava and her men rode up the steep trail, she saw the knight who had replaced Marius as leader appear from the morning fog, riding back to join them. She held up a hand, halting her company.

  “The monastery lies not far ahead, Your Majesty,” the knight said. “What do you wish us to do?” After days of boring travel, he looked eager for a fight.

  “We will destroy it. Find us a sheltered place to stop and lay our plans,” she ordered.

  The knight’s brows rose high, but he saluted and wheeled his destrier about. A short time later, Ava and her eight remaining men rode into a small clearing on the mountain’s side. She dismounted without help, keeping to one side of the group, rummaged briefly in her leather satchel, then concealed something beneath her cloak.

  The men gathered in a loose circle, watching with wary yet eager eyes as she approached. Every one of them made obeisance, yet she dared not trust their loyalty. All had made vows to follow her religion, but how deep was their faith? Fear remained her greatest source of power, her means of control.

  Ava stepped up beside the youngest man-at-arms, the boy with too much curiosity. With a smile she reached out to him as if for support.

  “Your Majesty.” Startled yet polite, he offered his arm. Like a striking snake, her dagger flicked out, leaving a slash in his sleeve that quickly turned red. He leaped back, his mouth open to scream, but the poison worked swiftly. A strangled cry escaped his throat as he slumped to the ground.

  The other men backed away, their eyes wide with horror as they gazed from their queen to their erstwhile companion. His eyes had already glazed over to a milky hue.

  Ava addressed the fallen guard as if answering a question. “I need a reason to enter the holy house. And you, my dear boy, are now that reason.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ava rapped on the door in the gate. The monastery itself was small, though it was solid and walled, each stone carefully chosen to fit against the next. To her left stood a small apple orchard, its trees laden with fruit. The sight brought a faint stirring for her own orchard and grotto back at Raven Castle. She placed her hand on the iron door handle and rattled it.

  When the door opened, she saw the lean, weathered face of an old monk. He took in her bedraggled appearance, from the faded gown and muddied boots to the wild hair curling about her face.

  “Father,” she pleaded. “We have an injured man in our party . . . We were attacked by bandits in the night. P-please help us.”

  His gaze narrowed as if he sensed something foul. “Who are you, my child?”

  “Please help us,” she repeated, ignoring his question. She stepped aside so the monk could see the young guard now being carried between two of her men, his head sagging forward. The other men were dismounting, leading their horses. All armor and weapons were hidden beneath cloaks or in packs.

  The monk made the sign of the cross, forgetting his moment of apprehension.

  “May God have mercy on this poor soul. Bandits, you say?” After closing the door, he opened the gate itself and motioned for them to enter. “Come, come. We have healers here and will do what we can to help.”

  Relief flooded Ava when her last man had entered the monastery, leading his horse and the fallen guard’s mount.

  The monk bent over the unconscious man laid out on the cobblestones, gently probing with long fingers, too preoccupied to notice the grim men fanning out to surround him.

  “I have never seen the like of this,” he murmured as he inspected the man’s sightless stare, the irises pure white. “Brother Jonathan! Brother Atticus! Come at once!” he cried out as he rose. When four other monks rushed into the courtyard, all with shaved heads and wearing long brown robes cinched with ropes, Ava removed the dagger she’d been hiding beneath her cloak and pointed it at the monk who had admitted them.

  His expression turned to one of horror.

  Five monks had fallen.

  The Adienne Monastery was no more.

  The monk who opened the gate to them—Ava had saved him for last. Even while her men pinned him to the ground, the older man remained defiant. She had nicked him with the poisoned blade, running it down his cheek like a caress, pressing hard enough to draw blood.

  “Your reign will soon end,” he gasped as he lay shivering on the courtyard, fighting the poison coursing through his veins.

  “You are wrong, old man.” She knelt on the cold stones beside him and whispered into his ear while his brown eyes turned opaque, like the fog surrounding the monastery. “I will lie in wait here for the Raven Heir, who is soon to arrive. Her fate will be the same as yours.”

  Ava exulted in her conquest— or did this feeling come from the spirits inside her?—as she watched her men carry the monks and her fallen guard down a hall and into a storage room, where they laid out the bodies on the packed-earth floor. She continued down that same hallway to the small kitchen located at the back of the monastery. A fire blazed within a blackened fireplace. A scarred wooden table held a meager supply of food. A few loaves of bread. A cluster of vegetables with the dirt still clinging to them. But in the center of the table, a bowl of apples waited. Imperfect, splotched with brown—nothing like those the orchard at Raven Castle had once boasted.

  She picked one up and sniffed it as an idea unfolded within her.

  Her stepdaughter loved apples.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kara could not recall a lovelier setting. Since Marius’s attack at the lake, she and the men had traveled through rocky passes and climbed more tree-lined ridges than she liked to remember. Today the morning fog had burned away, leaving blue skies and pleasant warmth, and before them—at last--lay the monastery.

  “It’s not much to look at,” James said, “but we’ll eat real food and sleep with a roof over our heads tonight!”

  “It’s such a peaceful place.” Kara could see a cross atop one of the buildings inside, and those were definitely apple trees loaded with fruit near the walls. Her mouth watered at the sight.

  Once they reached the gates she dismounted on her own, proud of the stamina she’d built during the journey. “I’ll take your horse,” Lewis offered. “Looks as if the wicket gate is open, so you can go on inside, Your Majesty, and get yourself a cool drink. Father Atticus will welcome you.”

  Damien seemed to be occupied with checking his horse’s rear hoof, so Kara pushed on the door in the gate and stepped inside, feeling both shy and eager to meet the kind men who had befriended Damien, first when he was just a youth and later as a man.

  She looked upon a small, plain courtyard with a well in its center. Low buildings framed it on either side. A large man came out of the nearest building with a basket of apples hanging on his arm.

  “Welcome, my child,” he said in a friendly tone. “Who might you be?”

  “Kara,” she answered.

  He beamed as he approached. He was taller than she would have expected, with broad shoulders. His head wasn’t shaved like Father Matthias’s, but he did wear the brown habit with a belt tied loosely across his waist. “We saw your party approach and hurried to make you welcome. We are preparing a meal, but an apple might slake your thirst from the dusty road.”

  “The others are outside your gate,” she said. “Damien Atwood and his men.”

  The monk’s smile deepened. “Such friends are welcome, indeed. I’m delighted you are here.” He reached into the basket filled with yellow-speckled red apples and picked out one at the top. Her stomach rumbled in response. Yes, she was hungry for something other than dried meats and fruits that tasted like sawdust.

  “For you, child. A welcome gift.”

  As Kara reached for it, a few other monks entered the courtyard. She scarcely noticed the robed figures, so focused was she on the gleaming fruit in her hands. She lifted it to her mouth and placed her lips on its skin, then sank her teeth into the crisp, juicy flesh. Its flavor was initially sweet,
followed by a hint of something metallic. Bitter.

  Her tongue felt strangely numb . . . How very odd! A cloaked figure stepped from behind another monk, its slim arm reaching up to pull back a hood. A flash of auburn hair gleamed in the fading light, and a woman moved into Kara’s line of vision, her green eyes glowing with triumph.

  It couldn’t be . . . Not the regent . . . Not Ava here in the monastery!

  Somewhere behind Kara, a door slammed against the wall and feet pounded on the cobblestones.

  “Kara, no!” Damien’s cry filtered slowly through a haze. “It’s a trap! Get back!”

  Kara pulled the apple away from her mouth and saw two rows of teeth marks in its skin—just enough to puncture the flesh of the fruit. Bewildered, she stared at it, then at the woman striding toward her. Why was her mind moving so sluggishly? She should flee.

  Why couldn’t . . . she . . . move?

  Chaos filled the courtyard around her. Swords clanged and clashed. Men shouted. She heard Damien’s hoarse cries for his men to surround her. The monk in front of her grinned, revealing a broken tooth, just before an arrow seemed to sprout from his neck. He fell, and apples scattered over the ground.

  The apple dropped from Kara’s hands as cold seeped through her, as familiar as the midnight ceremonies in the castle grotto, stealing her breath away.

  While prying a stone from Juniper’s hoof, Damien had caught a glimpse of Kara entering the courtyard and the robe of the man greeting her. He had thought nothing of this, but when no monks emerged afterward to welcome his party and offer help, alarm had filled him, born from years of experience.

  Calling his men to arms, he had scrambled for his sword in its scabbard on his saddle. As he burst through the monastery entrance with his men at his heels, he shouted a warning.

  Kara stood in the courtyard as if frozen, an apple clutched in her hands.

  Bowstrings twanged, and a quarrel struck the monk with the basket of apples in the throat. As he fell, apples scattered, and one rolled over the cobblestones, bouncing until it stopped near the foot of another monk, who kicked it off to the side. An arrow struck this monk’s chest, knocking him backward, but the man regained his feet. Scarborough and the others now fanned out behind Damien, swords drawn, bows singing. Arrows felled two more monks in the act of throwing off the entangling robes to draw their swords.

  Not monks. Raven knights and guards wearing gambeson and chainmail beneath the robes. At this tardy realization, Damien snapped into battle mode just as another knight charged him from a doorway, sword raised. He parried the strike, but another jab nearly caught his unprotected side. Dodging and feinting, he hoped the larger, heavier man would tire quickly, but he was badly outmatched. Another twang, and an arrow struck the man’s face before he toppled to the ground.

  Then there was a strange stillness, a pause in the battle. Damien turned to see the last three enemies, two knights and a guard, who stood in a row with shields raised, move slightly apart to reveal a redhaired woman. The regent, clad in a filthy, tattered gown. At her feet, sprawled on the cobblestones, lay Kara, her face still and white.

  Damien heard an anguished cry, then realized it came from his own throat. He started forward, sword raised, but his men caught him from behind. “Stop, lad, it’s no good!” he heard Lewis cry.

  “It’s over,” the regent shouted. “The princess is dead. Lay your weapons on the ground. Surrender, and I may be merciful.”

  Damien’s rage brought a bitter taste to his mouth. “We will do no such thing,” he roared back. “Your reign of evil ends today. Too many of us have suffered at your hand, including my father.”

  The Raven knights began to advance on his men, shields protecting their faces, swords in attack position. Arrows either stuck into or bounced off those shields, and his men were no trained swordsmen, but Damien knew they would use their greater numbers and battle experience to advantage.

  The regent’s emerald gaze fixed on Damien as she stalked toward him with a dagger in each hand. “I know you . . . son of a traitor.”

  “You are the traitor who poisoned a king and hanged his margrave.” Damien raised his sword to meet her. Constantine, Scarborough, and the other men were fighting the soldiers. Though he couldn’t see them, he heard swords clashing, ringing, along with fierce cries.

  Despite the threat of attack from the left, he dared not take his eye off the regent queen. Fury and hatred contorted her face, along with a potent evil. Her eyes changed from green to inky pools. A wave of nausea washed over him, and a sense of something so evil, so vile—

  He had never harmed a woman before, but this one seemed more like a wild creature.

  “If you kill me, every one of your men will still die,” she taunted, extending one of the daggers toward him. She lunged at him, and he narrowly missed being grazed by the blade. She struck at him again and again with unnatural strength, whirling like a devilish wind. Her arms seemed as strong as those of any man he had encountered in battle. Something was feeding her . . . something unnatural.

  He parried another strike, dove low, and hooked his leg around hers, sending her crashing to the ground. One of her daggers skittered across the pavement. He pressed his sword’s edge against her neck until blood welled. She bared her teeth in response.

  “Surrender,” Damien bit out. “I will show you mercy.”

  “Damien, watch out!” someone yelled, and swords clashed behind him.

  Fire streaked across Damien’s arm, and he cried out in pain, stumbling away from the regent. The one guard, intent on defending the regent, raised his sword high. Before Damien could react and defend himself, an arrow zipped past his cheek and struck the Raven guard’s chest. The man fell like a stone, and his sword clattered beside him.

  The regent raised her remaining dagger, still intent on striking Damien. This time he didn’t hesitate but ended the battle with one quick, decisive stroke.

  Ava did not even cry out. She stood a moment, staring into his eyes, her mouth open in an expression of pure shock. Then she fell, the life spilling out of her in a rush, and lay at his feet. He stood over her, breathing hard, gazing down at her face, so filled with hatred even now in death. A shudder raced through him.

  The air rippled around her and a cold breeze pulled at his hair as though alive . . . then disappeared.

  “Saints above,” James breathed, his grip tightening on his crossbow.

  Damien looked up at his friend, who had saved his life, and opened his mouth to speak his gratitude. But then James uttered a terrible groan and fell upon the cobblestones. Damien saw the blood soaking his torn jerkin. Time slowed to painful heartbeats.

  Scarborough and Constantine rushed forward. “I saw it happen,” Constantine growled. “He killed the knight but took a knife in his side, trying to protect me, then ran off to save you.”

  “He’s alive, but we’ve got to stop the bleeding,” Scarborough cried, his voice rough. He and James were like brothers, always fighting yet solid friends.

  Leaving the men to tend each other’s wounds, Damien turned to Kara. She lay on her side, one arm outstretched, the other beneath her limp body. Gently he rolled her to her back. Her delicate face was white as snow, and the pupils of her eyes were milky.

  “Kara,” he murmured as he gathered her limp body into his arms, “please, please don’t leave me.”

  Her cheek seemed to press against a cold surface. Bewildered, Kara tried to move. Was . . . was she on the ground?

  Why can’t I see anything?

  Swords clashed near her, ringing with the force of thunder. Men screamed. A battle raged above her head and seemed to go on for an hour. She couldn’t tell—it was as if time stood still. She was surrounded by hoarse grunts and curses on all sides. The ground shook as if something fell beside her.

  She was cold. So very cold.

  “Don’t let any soldier escape!” someone cried.

  “Get her out of here,” another man snarled. “She’s a sitting target.”
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  The chaos stilled. She heard voices, moans, curses, and cries from all sides.

  Then a clank and rustle and breathing as someone knelt beside her. A gentle hand rolled her to her back, brushed her hair from her face, then pressed at the side of her jaw.

  Panic flooded her when a pair of strong arms reached under her shoulder and knees, lifting her in one swoop, pressing her face into a worn jerkin. But then she heard Damien speak her name and breathed in the familiar scents of pine, sweat, and leather. A wild grief tried to break free, but her lips would not move.

  After her first taste of the apple, everything was swallowed up in pain. A blackness as heavy as the midnight hour fell upon her.

  Ava did this . . . this unspeakable evil. There can be no hope left . . .

  “Your Majesty, please. Can you hear me?”

  Damien’s roughened voice reached through the fog swirling in her head. She tried to open her eyes. Tried to open her mouth but couldn’t. It was as if her every muscle and limb were carved of out of granite.

  “She’s breathing. I still feel her heartbeat,” Damien said. His voice trembled, sounding as desperate as she felt. She felt herself move sideways as if Damien slipped through a narrow doorway.

  Her throat tightened with effort. She tried to scream, but the sound merely reverberated over and over in her head. Oh, so many things she wanted to say and couldn’t! She wept inwardly as her body rested against his.

  “James! James, don’t you dare die on us,” she heard another man cry. Did that voice belong to Scarborough? She could scarcely recognize the stoic bowman’s voice, it was so full of anguish. What had happened to James? The scream within her intensified.

  “You should lay her down, lad,” Lewis said quietly. “Your wounds need treating, and decisions must be made about the prisoners.”