The Poison Throne

  “Aye,” he murmured, “I can well unnerstarnd your father’s mind.”

  “My Lord Razi does not want this either, Master Huette. He is loyal to the Prince.”

  Pascal’s face creased into a knowing grimace and he glanced at Wynter indulgently, as if educating her in her innocence. “Oh aye,” he snorted, “I’m sure they had to beat him to the throne. I’m sure they had to drag him kicking and screaming to that level of power.”

  The unwitting accuracy of the man’s words brought Razi vividly to Wynter’s mind. The way he’d resisted the guards at that terrible first banquet, his father’s plan only freshly revealed to him. The look on his face as they had pressed him down into his brother’s throne. She ground her teeth and had to press her nails into her palms to stop from yelling the truth into Pascal’s knowing face. She recalled staring helplessly as Christopher, bloody and screaming, was dragged away to the keep, the very real threat of his death by torture hanging over Razi’s head ever since.

  “I assure you,” she whispered, “My Lord Razi wants no part of his brother’s inheritance. He is loyal.”

  Huette tilted his head kindly and patted her shoulder. She pulled away, cursing the tears that she couldn’t seem to banish from her eyes. “Sure didn’t he sit all last night long in his brother’s chair, lass? Making merry and eating his brother’s portions? Next yer know he’ll be wearing the purple and tending at the council as if he had every right to rule.” He seemed to misinterpret her shining eyes as fear, and his face became even kinder and he rubbed her arm comfortingly. “Yer carn’t blame him, really. It’s in their blood, yer see. A pagan like him, they don’t have the same fealty, do they? They just don’t unnerstarnd.”

  He shook his head sadly and looked around at his boys, “I can’t stand to think what this place’ll be like oncet he takes power. Mebbe they have the right idear up North,” he said thoughtfully, watching his son as he concentrated on his work. “Mebbe we ort ter just send the lot of ’em packing. After all, iffin they can’t be bothered ter e’en worship proper…” he trailed off, deep in thought, while Wynter stood rigid with horror and speechless fear.

  Any further conversation was interrupted by Jerome’s high voice at the door. “There ain’t no bloody ladies here, you fool. Piss off!”

  “WAIT!” Wynter shouted, “Wait!” She sprinted to the front of the library, swiping at her eyes and biting hard down on her lips to get some control. Her wild arrival surprised Jerome into stillness and shocked the little page that he was trying to bully out the door.

  “Who do you seek, child?” she asked unsteadily.

  “Why you, Protector Lady.”

  At the use of her title, Jerome’s eyes popped open like heated chestnuts and all the apprentices shot up like rabbits to look at her anew.

  “Good Christ!” murmured Gary, looking her up and down. “A lady, no less!”

  The little page held a letter out for her, the King’s crest evident on the seal. He was mortally terrified of the five apprentices, and the paper trembled in his fingers.

  “His Majesty, the good King Jonathon, expects a reply, my Lady.”

  “Good Christ!” repeated Gary, and Jerome paled at the sudden revelation of her powerful standing in court life.

  Wynter snapped open the note, sniffing deeply to clear her nose and blinking the script into focus. Her heart dropped at the curt message.

  You are required to attend tonight’s banquet in place of your father. Be ready by the tenth quarter.

  Wynter groaned and looked to the heavens.

  “His Majesty requires a reply,” squeaked the little boy. Wynter gritted her teeth, knowing what she’d like to say to his Majesty. But she swallowed her anger and took a deep breath instead. The page must have seen the black fury in her face, because his eyes slid to the wall and he stood waiting, his face carefully blank.

  “Tell his Majesty I shall attend,” she hissed and the little boy bowed and scampered quickly off.

  Wynter stood for a moment, holding the note and looking at nothing. When she finally focused on her surroundings, the apprentices were standing about, their hands hanging loose at their sides, their faces solemn and almost afraid.

  Do I look that upset? she thought.

  Though he could have no idea what was going on, Gary seemed as though he wanted to say something comforting. But every time he opened his mouth, he appeared to think the better of it and stayed silent.

  She turned and walked back to where Pascal was waiting for her. Slowly she secured her tools back in their roll and shouldered them. She looked around the room, her eyes roaming the pictures, the happy faces, the merry little poems.

  Pascal was watching her with kind, intelligent eyes, and Wynter forced herself into politeness.

  “I cannot do this today, Master Huette. Do you think I have given you enough information that you may continue until my return tomorrow?”

  “Oh aye, lass, no bother.”

  She looked at him and he smiled.

  “Thank you,” she said flatly, and left.

  Distance

  Razi was just leaving his suite when Wynter turned into the hall. It was well into the second half of the eighth quarter and he was going to be late for his council meeting. Jonathon’s guards were moving about the hall like restless horses, but her friend took his own sweet time locking his door and adjusting his gloves.

  The tailor had done an incredible job on Alberon’s clothes, and Razi looked magnificent in the elaborate purple coat. But Wynter thought he was thoroughly unlike himself. His usual loose grace seemed trussed-up and confined in the heavy brocades. He was like a tightly bound, carefully contained version of the wiry, striding man she knew him to be.

  “Your Highness,” she said, hurrying towards him, longing to discuss what she’d discovered in the library. She knew that he wouldn’t have time to talk here, but she wanted to grab him and make arrangements to meet later, before the business of the day swept him from her. But when Razi turned to her, his expression stopped her dead in her tracks.

  Even with all her years’ experience of seeing her father donning his courtly mask, Wynter had never been so shocked at a transformation. Razi’s face held no warmth for her, there was nothing in his eyes but impatience, and he twisted his mouth in irritation as he tugged his glove and turned to go.

  “I am busy, Protector Lady, you will have to wait.”

  She called after him as he strode away, “I will see you at the banquet then, your Highness!”

  He came to an abrupt halt, his shoulders hunched, his hands frozen in their relentless fretting with his gloves. He took a breath and turned to look at her, his face stony.

  “What do you mean?” he asked quietly and it was obvious that, as she had suspected, he didn’t know about Jonathon’s demand.

  “His Majesty has done me the honour of offering me my father’s place at tonight’s meal.” They locked eyes for a moment, Razi’s face unreadable.

  “You are a fortunate girl, are you not?” he bowed coldly. “I shall see you there.” And he strode off down the hall without a backward glance.

  Wary of the hall guards, Wynter allowed herself only a moment to watch him leave, but her mind was churning. Would he not offer to be her escort? Was he not going to walk her to the hall? She had been counting on Razi’s support as she entered the unknown territory of the royal rooms, and the protocol-laden nightmare of dining at the royal platform. But he was retreating from her and she realised that she hadn’t the energy left to be upset with him. She just turned, tired, disappointed and empty, and let herself into her suite.

  Her intention was to go straight into her father’s room, but there was a note on the receiving room table. Wynter’s hopes soared when she saw that it was sealed with Razi’s crest. She dropped her tools and snatched it up, snapping the seal in excitement. But when she read the page, all her hopeful joy deserted her, and her heart dropped.

  The note was in Razi’s official hand, squared off, emin
ently readable, completely impersonal. It was a neatly written list of instructions for her father’s care, meticulous notes of times and volumes of medicines, suggestions for diet and strict guidelines for rest. She read it and knew that it meant Razi would not be attending Lorcan as frequently as he would like. That he was doing his best to ensure that her father received a continuous level of care, even in his absence.

  It filled her with panic, this neat list. It spoke volumes of Razi’s intent to distance himself from them. It heralded a sudden, determined pulling away. Wynter held the note and felt the maelstrom howl around her. She battled the image of herself and Lorcan, spinning and vulnerable. Alone again, and for the first time maybe lacking the strength to make it through. Tears filled her eyes again, and she bunched the paper in her hand, the temptation to fling it away almost too great.

  A thin sheet came away from the back of the main note and fluttered to the floor. She looked at it, and even before she read it, the sight of Razi’s sloping, rushed, personal handwriting made her close her eyes in overwhelming joy and gratitude. The damn tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin and she scrubbed them away with an impatient snort.

  Dear Sis, Forgive me, forgive. The world has not enough sorrys to enable me express how terrible I feel. Understand this: I will not weaken. You can no longer approach me as a friend. I will never again show you any tenderness. Do not attempt to reproach me or rekindle our affection, it will never be possible. But I swear to you, and I pray you never forget, I love you, my little sister, my darling girl. Be safe.

  Your adoring brother eternal, Razi.

  She read the note, and re-read it, and read it again. Goodbye, it said, goodbye, goodbye.

  He would not have planned to write this note. She guessed that he originally intended a cold and brutal break. But this was Razi, and he wouldn’t, in the end, have been capable of such cruelty. His writing was almost illegible, badly blotted and smeared, his left-handed penmanship smudging the ink in his haste. He must have dashed it off at the last minute, unable to set her adrift without some recognition of how deeply he felt for her, of how much her love meant to him. She didn’t care about the tears now. She just let them fall.

  Oh Razi. This is wrong. All wrong. This is all so wrong.

  A curious, detached sorrow came over her then, and she’d never felt anything like it. She made no effort to hide her tears as she unthinkingly shambled into the retiring room and stood at her father’s door.

  Lorcan was still in bed, though it was obvious that he’d been up and washed himself and combed his hair. The chamber pot had been emptied and cleaned, so the maids must have been around. She wondered if he had lain abed while they were here, but it would be hard to imagine him doing that. It was more likely that he had roused himself to leave everything outside his bedroom door, and had locked himself in until they were done.

  He didn’t notice her standing there, which was in itself alarming. He was lying half on his side, his right hand curled by his face, looking out the window with an expression that seemed relaxed and unguarded. His eyes were roaming the tops of the orange trees, following the flitting movements of the many multi-coloured birds that made their home in the branches. His room smelt of warm, clean skin, tincture of opium and orange blossom. It was heavy and peaceful, and she could not intrude on it with her loneliness and her selfish tears.

  Wynter backed slowly away and retreated to her room, quietly washing her face and hands and brushing out her hair before going in to see him again. Her father noticed her this time, and he grinned drowsily and dragged himself up a little straighter in the bed.

  “Baby-girl!” he drawled, his raspy voice a balm. “How went it?” He patted the edge of his bed, and settled back heavily into his pillows.

  She swallowed her desire to bury her head in his shoulder and weep out her loneliness and despair. Instead she went and perched next to him and tried to smile. “Hello, Dad. How fared you today?”

  “Oh, Razi was in and out, fussing and fiddling… bloody boy… and I’m bored out of my mind… I need news and gossip.” His words were thick as slow-flowing honey, and Wynter glanced at the telltale brown glass bottle and half-empty beaker of water on the bedside table.

  She adjusted the covers and patted his hand. “Did Razi give you some tincture of opium?”

  He sighed and his smile grew dreamy and blissful. “Oh aye. He claimed I wasn’t relaxed enough.” He breathed happily, “I must say, it’s wonderful. No more pain.”

  Her father’s unwitting acknowledgement of his constant pain squeezed her heart. She looked away, for fear he’d notice the pity in her eyes.

  “I’m to take your place at the banquet tonight,” she said, for want of something better to break the silence.

  “Oh bloody hell,” Lorcan moaned, wiping his hand over his face. “What a pain in the arse for you.” And he left it at that, his eyes heavy.

  Great! thought Wynter, Great sympathy there. She eyed the brown glass bottle wryly. Maybe I’ll have a little swig of that beforehand. Float my way through the proceedings on a nice fluffy cloud.

  “Tell me…” he asked with a lazily amused smile, turning his head on the pillow to see her better, “what think you of Pascal? And how were the apprentices? Rotten to the core? Lecherous thugs? Did you have to beat them into submission?”

  She did her best to chuckle, but he took one proper look at her raw eyes, her unsteady mouth and his face fell into pantomime concern and dismay. “Oh God in heaven,” he drawled. “What have they done? Have they set fire to the library? Pissed on the books?”

  That actually made her grin and she pucked his arm. He nodded fondly at her and took her hand in his.

  “Darling,” he said, “We’ll get through this. It’s all just wind and farce. We just have to duck the debris and hang on until the bitter end.”

  “Dad…?”

  Something in her tone sharpened him, and he waited while she plucked up the courage to speak.

  Oh, she thought, I shouldn’t do this. Not now. It’s not fair of me! He’s not strong enough. But was there ever going to be a time again when Lorcan would be strong enough?

  “The King is wrong, Dad,” she said suddenly.

  He tutted impatiently and tried to pull his hand from hers, but she tugged back and forced him to look at her. “He’s wrong, Dad. He’s wrong. When you said that the people would never accept Razi, you were right.” She shook her head in disbelief at the memory of the apprentices. “The things those boys were saying.” She looked him in the eye. “The things Master Huette was saying! It was… it was like listening to Shirken. It was just like being up North again. It was awful.”

  He knew exactly what she was talking about; she could see the sorrowful recognition in his face. “They’re looking for someone to blame, baby-girl. A reason for their trouble. They think that if they can find that one reason, and deal with it, then their troubles will end.”

  “But they’re blaming Razi. And not just that. They called him a pagan! They were talking about decent Christian women. I… I couldn’t believe it. When have Southlanders ever talked like that?”

  Lorcan chuffed a little laugh out his nose, and squeezed her hand. “Wynter, it’s not too long ago that Southlanders were burning each other at the bloody stake!” He fought the inertia of the drug, cleared his throat and went on, his mind sharper than his tongue. “You’ve no idea… what people were like… even… even in my grandfather’s day. They’re just reverting. When people are scared, they turn into the most awful beasts. It’s just the way they are. There’s naught to be done.”

  “But it’s Jonathon’s fault!” He frowned at her raised voice and gave her a warning, slant-eyed look. “Dad, don’t look at me like that! It is his fault. He’s tearing the kingdom apart, and he’s blaming everyone but himself…”

  “You don’t understand…”

  “Do you? Tell me how you understand, and then explain it to me. Explain why it is that our good King has throw
n everything out? Everything! All the tolerances, all the progress, all this kingdom’s magic! His most beloved, most wonderful son, Alberon… and Oliver? Dad, Oliver? His great friend, that brother of his heart?”

  At the mention of Oliver, Lorcan shut his eyes. “Stop it,” he moaned.

  Wynter shook his hand, forcing his eyes open. “The King is wrong. You know it! Whatever this machine…” He looked at her sharply, his lips thinning. Do not mention it, his face said, do not say those words. “This thing, whatever this thing was, that you made when you were young. How could it cause this?”

  He shook his head. He would never discuss that with her. Never. She pressed on regardless.

  “What could it have wrought, that would cause Jonathon to bring about the usurpation of his own heir? At the great risk of toppling the crown? The man is crazed!”

  Lorcan shook his head again “You mustn’t…” he whispered.

  “If this continues – the gibbets, the repression, the mortuus in vita – everything will be ruined. We will become like all the others.” Wynter spun her hand in a circle, indicating all the kingdoms that surrounded them, rancid with hate and self-imposed ignorance and fear. “It will be like a candle snuffed in the depths of night.”

  Lorcan pressed his head back into the pillow and looked up at the ceiling, his face hopeless. “I thought we could just do this,” he whispered “Just go blind and deaf and dumb, and walk through this and out to the other side.”

  “And what would there be on the other side, worth walking out to?” she asked gently. “Do you think whatever it is will turn out to be worth the shutting of our eyes? Would you want to live there?”

  The unspoken question hung between them. Would you want me to live there without you? A woman alone, in a world like the one we just left up North?

  “What do you want me to do, girl?” he asked hopelessly. “You can see I’m bloody powerless.”