Five Poisoned Apples

by Skye Hoffert et al.

  “As if I care about a scratch,” Damien growled. But he lowered Kara onto a soft surface and arranged her hands and legs in a comfortable position.

  Then warm lips pressed against her forehead. “Hold on, Kara. Whatever this is, do not give in to it,” Damien implored, his breath soft near her ear. “Ava is dead. Don’t be afraid.”

  Don’t leave me, she pleaded silently, terror exploding inside.

  And then he was gone. Others were around her, yet she felt completely alone.

  Damien’s chest heaved as he regarded the courtyard now stained with blood.

  Three of the regent’s men were alive but wounded, one severely, and languished in a locked storeroom. The other four were dead, along with the regent. Their five bodies lay in the courtyard, shrouded in the monks’ ruined robes, ready for burial. Of his own men, all had suffered some injury, but only James and Stewart were in serious condition. If not for his expert archers, Damien knew the brief battle would have gone the other way.

  “Damien, you must come see this.” Constantine stood in a side doorway of the main building. “It’s the monks.” The tone of his friend’s voice brought Damien in a hurry. “This way,” Constantine beckoned, and led the way along a narrow passage. “I was hunting for cloth or something to use for bandages, and I found this.”

  Cubicles lined the hall, three on each side. In each of the cubicles, a body rested on a pallet.

  “Are they dead or alive?” Damien ducked inside to check. “This last one isn’t Brother Bernard. He appears to be one of the regent’s men-at-arms.” The six men still breathed, and their hearts beat faintly. He lifted Brother Atticus’s eyelid to find a white film covering his eye. Every one of them had some small scratch on the arm or face, and all had filmy eyes.

  “I believe they are poisoned.” Damien looked up to meet Constantine’s worried gaze. “And so is the queen. But Brother Bernard is not here. If he returns, he might know a cure.”

  Was the missing monk dead? On a journey? Hiding somewhere?

  Too distressed to bother about burial arrangements or the care of prisoners, Damien returned to the storeroom where Kara lay on a table. Gently he lifted her eyelid to see the same milky haze. He called her name, shook her shoulders, laid his cheek to hers.

  “Wake up, Your Majesty. Kara, please!” Her pale face remained serene.

  What could he do to stop this? He knew nothing of medicine.

  A door slammed somewhere, the sound echoing unnaturally loud through the quiet halls. Damien left the queen, retrieved his sword set by the wall, and ran to meet the new threat, his heart pounding. Had more Raven soldiers come?

  He reached a doorway in time to see a young monk emerge from the stables, stop short, and let his satchel slip through his fingers to the ground as he looked upon the devastation in the courtyard—the blood-stained cobblestones, the bodies lying ready for burial. His mouth agape, he fell back against the courtyard wall and slid down its length.

  “Brother Bernard!” Damien called to him and hurried over, delighted to see his friend unharmed. “My brother, ’tis Providence has kept you safe.”

  “What happened here? Where are my brothers?” the young monk asked. “I left at dawn to collect herbs and I return to this!”

  Damien bent his head. “They are . . .” His voice trailed off. Did he even know if the monks still lived? Or were they in a terrible sleep from which they would never awaken until death freed them? “I can’t explain. You need to come. They might yet be saved.”

  The monk’s gaze swept the courtyard and came to rest again on the wrapped bodies. “Who . . . are they?”

  “The queen regent and four of her men,” Damien replied. “We have not yet had opportunity to bury them. We arrived only an hour or so ago and were ambushed.”

  The monk pushed himself up from the wall. Some color had returned to his round face. “Brother Matthias sent word weeks ago, asking us to fast and pray that justice would prevail and the throne would be finally restored to the rightful queen. I never thought the evil would come straight to our door. I never thought—” He broke down until Damien interrupted him.

  “Brother Bernard, we must make haste. We have the queen here, but she is dying. Your brothers are dying.”

  The monk closed his mouth and fell quickly into step behind Damien.

  Damien watched over Kara’s still form now lying on a narrow cot within one of the small guest bedchambers. The other men had gathered nearby as the monk ministered to her, dripping into her mouth a foul concoction of crushed plantain, yarrow, garlic, and laurel. The pungent, acrid scent of herbs filled the room. The priest moved on to treat his brothers and the young soldier in other rooms.

  Lewis stepped forward, picked up Kara’s slim hand, and held it between his own gnarled palms. “She’s getting colder.” He cleared his throat, his mouth quivered as if repressing emotion, and his eyes welled up. “I do not think she’ll make it through the night. I am so very sorry, my boy.” His voice broke, and he laid down Kara’s hand and slipped from the room. The other men silently filed past Damien, understanding he needed time alone.

  A lone candle flickered on a small table next to the cot, sending shadows to dance along the wall. Damien ran one hand across his face, suddenly overcome. Kara must not die! The witch had been defeated. The marshal too, and her other men. But now, the greatest enemy of all remained.

  He didn’t know how to fight death itself.

  His trembling fingers picked up her hand and cradled it gently. “Kara.” His voice thickened. “Please, we need you. Tiborne needs our rightful queen. Do you not want to live? There is still so much left for you.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Please try!” he whispered.

  His plea remained unanswered.

  Her skin had turned almost translucent, and the air leaving her lips barely brushed his palm when he touched her face. What did she need most from him? Damien had tried so hard to keep her safe. Yet duty had merged into something far more personal, far more risk-laden. He had grown to care for a woman beyond his reach.

  “I love you, Kara Chaloner. I have always loved you. I will wait for you for as long as it takes and as long as you need.”

  Then he did the only thing he could think of: He prayed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kara stood in a barren orchard, its trees stripped of fruit and leaves. Slowly she turned around, recognizing Raven Castle. This place looked like home but felt strange. The stonework, the grass on the ground, and even the trees were faded and grey as if all life had been bled away. She heard a strange cry above and raised her head. In the clouded sky, a pair of vultures circled until one descended to perch in the tree nearest her.

  She folded her arms across her chest to ward off the icy chill spreading through her limbs, but the cold only seemed to intensify. The castle kitchen would have a fire; she could warm herself there. She walked through the orchard, her feet as heavy as lead weights. Before her beckoned the door of the castle kitchen, representing comfort and safety.

  To her dismay, the kitchen door was locked. She rattled it again to make certain then rapped on the door, raising her voice. An eerie silence greeted her. Perhaps she should walk around to the castle’s main entrance. She was about to do so when a door banged. Whirling around, she saw the trees twist and raise their branches to reveal a stone wall, and the gate door swung open. Somewhere in the grotto beyond, Ava’s pool remained hidden amid the overgrown weeds. She sensed darkness. A presence.

  “Who is there?” she cried out. A wind picked up, blowing her skirts around her.

  Still no answer.

  And then a gathering shape rose from the back of the grotto, a formless man. Or woman? She couldn’t tell which, if either, but she felt a hatred so sharp and evil that her stomach roiled. It felt as though spiders crawled over her skin and scalp.

  You are alone . . . so much fear within you, the spirit said.

  “No, I am not alone,” she choked out, “and I
am not afraid of you.” The declaration felt childish and weak as soon as it escaped her mouth. For so long she had felt very much alone and abandoned.

  Let us help you. Let us in. Someone or something’s breath tickled the back of her neck, the puffs of air playing with her hair. You are not strong enough for the Raven throne.

  Ava had once made a similar offer, promising to teach secrets of power. She had refused it then.

  Kara darted left, intent on escaping the grotto and the castle grounds. She ran past rotting apple trees that reached out to snag her dress and hair. If she could make it to the curtain wall, she knew of a place where she could climb it. If she could make her way to the city streets, she might be free. A glance over her shoulder revealed the spirit snaking and winding around the trees, keeping low to the ground like a rolling fog.

  Miles and miles of orchard materialized in front of her, stretching without end. Her feet became heavier and heavier until she collapsed to the ground, breathing hard, pressing one hand against the stitch in her side. She was lost in a netherworld, neither fully living nor fully dead, and there was no way out. It would be easier to give in than to fight.

  But she must take a stand.

  The wind stirred blighted leaves, whirling them around her in a slow circle as she stood and faced the spirit. It gathered darkness into its center, spinning wildly, snagging leaves and twigs. In another moment, it would engulf her.

  She breathed a prayer through frozen lips, her breath forming a cloud of white. The air was like ice now, biting and cruel, stinging her exposed flesh. “Though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. You will never leave me, nor forsake me.” She repeated it over and over, clenching her fists until her nails sank into her palms. She would believe and trust, as Damien did. God had not forgotten her as she had once feared.

  The throne belongs to us, the spirit hissed as it split into many forms; writhing snakes, faceless women and men, and other foul creatures she had no name for. We will claim it as we claim you.

  “The throne will never be yours,” Kara shouted into the howling wind. “And I will never belong to you. I will rip out that grotto stone by stone, and I won’t stop until you’ve been rooted out of all of Tiborne.”

  A blast knocked her to the ground, and the shapes swelled with rage, their voices rising into a collective scream. She scooted backward, her feet digging into the damp soil, eager to put as much distance between them and her as she could. Yet, even as she moved, somehow she sensed they could no longer touch her . . . not when she belonged to one far stronger, one who had never let her go, one who had kept both her and Damien safe even in the most troubling of times.

  All color seemed to leach from grotto and orchard as the spirits collapsed into themselves, crumbling like dust, sinking deep into the ground.

  Everything was colorless now . . . her clothes. Even her skin.

  Was she dying?

  “Kara.”

  A man’s voice spoke, broken and rough.

  “God, please,” he begged, desperation lacing his plea.

  “I love you, Kara.”

  She rose to her feet and began to run again, light and free, following the man’s voice.

  Damien watched the monk pour another tonic into Kara’ s mouth. The bitter yellow liquid dripped between her stiff lips. If the young man hadn’t previously assured him the antidote was working—the evidence lay in her faint yet persistent pulse—Damien would have thought her dead by now. Scarborough, Lewis, and the monk tended their other patients, administering the same medicine.

  For three days, Damien had waited by Kara’s side, scarcely leaving even to eat or sleep or stretch his legs. He spoke to her for hours on end, reminiscing about the way they used to sneak into the castle kitchen and steal sweetmeats. Or the way he would wink at her when no one was looking to make her laugh. He told her about her father—how King Richard had tried to make amends in the end, pleading for his daughter’s life, and how Damien and his father had together decided they would do all in their power to help her. Even if it meant losing everything.

  “I would do it again, Kara.” He sat beside her, holding her lifeless hand to his cheek. “I would do it all over again, for you.”

  He sat and talked until the newly lit candles burned low, sputtering and gasping on last bits of wick. “Kara, please. Come back to me.”

  A man’s voice murmured, pleading and grief stricken.

  Pain crackled through Kara, ripping into her chest and lungs every time she drew breath, but she could not ignore that voice. Deep and compelling, it pulled her through the darkness, refusing to let her go.

  She blinked and opened her eyes. She lay in a small, dim room with bare wooden walls. A patch of sunlight fell across a shabby blanket. Someone held her hand. She rolled her head to the left and saw Damien sitting by her side, her fingers enmeshed in his.

  His eyes flew open. “Kara,” he exclaimed, leaning forward to brush the hair off her forehead. Tears glimmered in his eyes.

  “Damien,” she breathed, her voice thin and raspy. She was so very thirsty. So very tired. He took a cup from her bedside table and held it to her lips, supporting her head with his other hand.

  “What of the others?” she asked after drinking, fearing the worst. “What happened?”

  He set the cup down on a table and reclaimed her hand. “We were ambushed by Raven soldiers and fought them until no threat remained.” He hastened to fill her in on the details, ending with “James and Stewart were badly injured in the battle, but Brother Bernard believes they will live.”

  She noted his bandaged arm. “And you?”

  “I will mend. James saved my life twice that day, risking his own.” His eyes darkened, then brightened as he smiled. “I now owe him my life three times over, which seems quite enough.”

  “You all risked everything for me,” Kara said quietly. “I owe my life to all of you, many times over.” Tears welled in her eyes at the sacrifice each man, each friend had made on her behalf. She had never known such loyalty.

  Damien lifted her hand, entwined with his, to kiss her knuckles. “We were proud to fight for the Raven Queen. Even now, Constantine and Lewis ride to Vallhane with your scroll. When you are well enough to travel, I’ll take you to King Victor until the trouble has passed. He will help you reclaim your throne. We all will do whatever we can to support you.”

  A new life was about to unfold, one she was not really prepared for in some ways. And yet this trial had brought many lessons she would never trade. This time around, friends would be with her through whatever challenges might come.

  “When I do return to Tiborne . . .” She gripped Damien’s hand, her heart pounding like a drum. Could he see how much she cared? “I hope you’ll be there, by my side.”

  A spark now flickered in his eyes. “I plan on it. For as long as you need and in whatever capacity you wish me to serve.”

  “I was hoping for something different,” she flushed, wondering how best to voice exactly what she wanted. “I was hoping for . . . well . . . you.”

  She was met with the longest, quietest pause, and then the spark in his eyes blazed into a flame, warm and full of admiration.

  “Only . . . only if a certain rebel wished it,” she added.

  His answering kiss, soft and gentle, removed any doubt as to how he felt.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  “Your Majesty, I have something to show you.”

  The whisper tickled Kara’s ear. She shivered with delight and met her husband’s mischievous gaze. Sunlight fell through the solar’s stained-glass windows, shining crimson, gold, and green on the stacks of papers demanding her attention, plans to rebuild and restore public buildings. Six months ago, she and Damien had married at the Tiborne Cathedral before rejoicing citizens; and three weeks ago, he’d been crowned as her beloved Prince Consort. Father Matthias, restored to full health, was helping her reestablish freedom of worship in Tiborne,
and Damien’s faithful men all held positions in her new government.

  Damien leaned over her and pushed the papers aside. The day was glorious, yet here she was, stuck inside, poring over state affairs. Not that she minded her new responsibilities as Queen of Tiborne, but sometimes . . . sometimes she wanted nothing more than to kick off her shoes and run outside.

  “Come.” Damien laughed under his breath as if he’d read her thoughts, and extended a hand. She took it, leaving the never-ending work behind. He led her down the main staircase and several halls then turned left. “Now, you need to close your eyes.”

  “I will do no such thing, Damien.”

  He grinned. “But then it won’t be a surprise.” With one shoulder he pushed open the door leading to the kitchen. They slipped past the worktables, nodding at the astonished giggles and head bobs of the shocked servants who were preparing supper.

  “Tell me. You know I hate surprises,” she murmured as they stepped outside.

  “Better yet, my love, I will show you.” He gently squeezed her hand as they entered the orchard. There, he stopped. “So, what do you think now?”

  Gazing at the familiar surroundings, Kara sucked in a breath. She had avoided the orchard as much as possible, unable to bear the sight of the decayed trees and decrepit grounds. But now . . .

  It was spring again. New life sprouted from gnarled branches, delicate buds unfurling to catch the sun. Damien had promised he would bring her mother’s orchard back to its former glory. The old trees had been pruned and tended, and new trees had been planted to replace those past hope of recovery.

  “Damien, this is wonderful!”

  He nodded and gently tugged her forward. “It will be. But there’s more.”

  Down the center of the orchard they walked to the corner where the old grotto once lay. True to her word, Kara had ordered every moss-covered stone ripped out and the pool drained, leaving behind a dry pit in the earth.