The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (87 page)

But I resist. “No.”

“It’s not safe! We need to—”

I whirl on him. “Your sword will
not
protect me from poison.” To the rest, I say, “Ximena, stay with Iladro until Doctor Enzo comes. Everyone else, with me
now
.” I stride through the door to the kitchen, and everyone tumbles after me.

The kitchen is chaos. People rush everywhere to dump food and clean bowls and utensils. I catch the acrid scents of vomit and of burning bread. On the stone floor beside the chopping table lies a man I’ve never seen before. He is clearly dead. His eyes bulge, frozen in terror and pain. Blood-tinged vomit leaks from the corner of his mouth and puddles beside him. A girl in a maid’s frock stares at him from behind the roasting spit. Tears stream down her face. Belén and the guards move to block the entrances.

“Silence!” I yell. Quiet settles, even as eyes widen with dread. “Everyone against the wall, there.” I gesture, but they do not move fast enough. “Now!”

They scramble all over one another in their hurry to comply, but manage to line up neatly.

I pace in front of them. “Who prepared the scones?” I ask.

Silence. Then a timid voice says, “I did, Your Majesty. Felipe and I.”

I turn on the source of that voice. It’s the crying maid. “Did you poison them?”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty, I would never—”

“Where is Felipe?”

“I don’t know.” She can’t bring herself to meet my gaze, and her maid’s cap has skewed forward. It bothers me that I can’t see her expression to read it.

So I reach forward and tip up her chin with my fingers. “When did you last see him?”

She swallows hard and blinks wet eyes. “I’m not sure. Maybe . . . just before we served? He said he needed wine to . . . to soak the pears. But . . . oh, God.”

“Oh, God, what?”

“Pears weren’t on the menu. I didn’t think . . . at the time . . . I was so busy. How could I know?” Her gaze is terrified and shaky but guileless. I find myself believing her.

Without breaking her gaze, I say, “Belén, please check the wine cellar.”

“At once, Your Majesty.”

I step back, clenching my hands into fists. This cannot go unpunished. What will happen when the city learns that poison entered my private dining room? They will see me as weak, unable to govern my own staff, much less a country. And they will be right.

I need a show of strength. Of wrath. Something memorable.

I pace, worrying my thumbnail with my teeth. I could dismiss them all, throw them out of the palace. That would certainly be memorable. But there can be no doubt that most of them—maybe all—are innocent. If had proof, I would not hesitate to have the poisoner beheaded.

I freeze in my tracks. Is this why General Luz-Manuel had Martín executed? Merely as a show of strength? Because it was politically prudent to cast the blame
somewhere
?

Belén appears in the stone archway leading to the cellar. “He is here,” he says, and I know from his grave expression that the news is not good.


“No one is to leave this kitchen,” I say, and receive a flurry of “Yes, Your Majesty”s in response. “Hector, Tristán, with me.”

Together we enter the cellar stair. It’s steep and cool and smells of wet wood and pitch. Alongside the stair is a smooth slope for rolling barrels.

Belén is at the bottom, standing over the body of another dead man. A boy, really. He lies on his side, his arm crooked beneath his torso in an unnatural position. Vomit soaks his shirt and puddles at the base of a wine barrel.

He clutches a scrap of leather.

Hector bends to pry it from his stiffening fingers. He spreads it open and says, “A note.”

“Read it.”

“‘Death to tyrants.’” Hector looks up. “That’s all it says.”

“Oh, God.”

With a cry of anguish, Tristán rushes forward and sends a hard kick into the boy’s flank. The body lurches; a dead arm flops hard against the ground, and something inside it cracks.

“Tristán, control yourself,” I say.

The conde whirls to face me, and for the first time, I notice the wet brownish stain on his linen blouse. “But . . . Iladro, my herald . . . he might . . . he could be . . .”

“I know. My own personal physician is attending him. We’ll do all we can.”

His shoulders shake with rage, but he nods. “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

“I’m not convinced,” Belén says in his quiet voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Did this Felipe know how to read and write? If so, is this his handwriting?”

“Belén is right,” Hector says, and the two share a look of accord. “It’s too convenient to find him with this note clutched in his hand.”

I put my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose. The note is not proof—not really. But maybe I have to pretend it is.

I say, “Hector, will you learn everything you can about this boy? Maybe his family knows something.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you. I need a demonstration. A show of strength. Tristán, what counsel would you offer me?”

His eyes narrow with the understanding that I’m testing him. “I suggest you have the kitchen staff flogged for negligence,” he says evenly. “I know it’s harsh, but it will do no lasting harm. You must send a clear message that you are not weak, and that you can retaliate quickly and effectively.”

I breathe deeply to steady myself. Yes, a flogging. It will be awful, but better than executions or dismissals. “Thank you, Your Grace. Why don’t you attend to your man now?”

He bows quickly and flees.

Hector studies me. “
Can
you?” he says gently. “I’ll give the order for you, if you like.”

I smother the instant feeling of relief. “No. I should order it myself. It’s a sign of strength, right?” Before I can change my mind, I hurry up the stairs, Hector and Belén following after.

My kitchen staff are still lined up against the wall, under the watch of my guards. Alentín sits on the edge of the hearth, praying. Lady Jada has returned from fetching Doctor Enzo. Her eyes are wide with excitement, no doubt anxious to relate these events to everyone she knows. I find I can’t bear to look at her.

I address the staff. “Felipe is dead, by his own hand. I believe he was the poisoner. I don’t know if any of you conspired with him. However, I do know that you were negligent in allowing the food to be served too soon after being tasted.”

I wait a few beats for it to sink in. Hopefully, they will fear the worst, and my punishment will seem mild by comparison.

“And so, tomorrow morning, you will be brought to the palace green.” Someone chokes out a sob. “There you will each be flogged, in sight of the entire court.” I see flashes of terror, but a few exhale relief.

I clench my hands into fists so no one can see how badly they shake. I have just ordered that innocent people be hurt, for my own political advantage. What kind of person does that? Someone like General Luz-Manuel, I guess.

A guard clears his throat. “Your Majesty, how many lashes are you ordering?”

Oh, God, lashes.
I don’t know anything about that. I need to hurt, not harm. How many is too many? Too few, and the punishment lacks weight.

Hector jumps in. “I suggest ten each, Your Majesty,” he says.

I could hug him. “Yes, of course. Ten each.” I’ll have to watch it happen. Display myself at the flogging. The space between my eyes stings with threatening tears.

I must leave this room before I lose control. I take another deep breath and lift my chin to address a guard. “Hold them in the prison tower until the flogging tomorrow. Everyone else is free to go.” And with that I stride from the kitchen and into the hallway.

Hector hurries to catch up. “Please allow me to accompany you,” he says.

“Of course,” I say wearily. “I just had to get away.”

“You did well.”

I don’t feel like I did well at all.

He says, “I’ll send Doctor Enzo to you when he has a prognosis on the conde’s man.”

“Thank you.”

Moments later, we arrive at the door to my suite. He looks down at me, not bothering to hide his concern. “Will you be all right?”

“I hate myself right now,” I admit.

He reaches out as if to touch me, hesitates, lets his arm drop. He says, “I know. But I don’t. Hate you, that is.” And then he’s gone.

Chapter 11

I
pace back and forth in my suite, awaiting word from Doctor Enzo. I pray as I pace, begging God to spare Iladro’s life. The Godstone suffuses me with warmth, but I know from long experience that the warmth is only an acknowledgment of my prayers, not an answer.

Mara paces right along with me, wringing her hands. “This would not have happened if I hadn’t injured myself,” she mutters. “If I had been the one cooking—”

Ximena has been calmly watching us. But now she grabs Mara’s shoulder and stops her midstride. “Injury aside, it isn’t right that the queen’s lady-in-waiting cooks for eight people. For the queen, occasionally. But you will
not
cook for state dinners. You’re a lady now, Mara. A noblewoman.”

I stare at my nurse. Why Ximena feels compelled to argue such a point at a time like this is beyond me.

Mara peers around her to give me a stricken look. “You could have died. The kitchen master’s taster is
dead
.”

“Yes,” I whisper. I hate this. My taster in Orovalle died too, when I was just a princess. Hundreds of my Malficio—my desert rebels—died because of the hope I gave them. Then Humberto. King Alejandro. The guard Martín. Will my continued existence carve a bloody path through the lives around me? Will my life’s greatest legacy be a wake of bodies?

I wish Hector were here. I need his solid presence, his sure-burning intelligence. Then I chide myself for weakness. My personal comfort is not as important as finding answers, and Hector is best where he is.

The rotten-pepper scent of vomit precedes Doctor Enzo, and I look up even as the guards announce his arrival.

“The herald?” I demand. “How is he?”

“He’ll live.”

My breath leaves me in a
whoosh
of relief as I collapse onto the bed.

“He may have stomach pain the rest of his life. He vomited blood, which means the poison ate into the lining—”

I hold up a hand to forestall further details. “What kind of poison?”

“Duerma berries, I think,” he says, and I gasp. “He’ll probably sleep a day or two.”

“I poisoned an animagus with duerma berries once,” I tell him. “It was nothing like what happened to Iladro. After digesting them, the animagus toppled over, passed out.”

“You used raw berries?”

I nod.

“They’re more toxic when dried and pounded into a powder. Mashed into flour, it would be almost tasteless. I suspect the powder mixed with alcohol is incredibly corrosive.”

“We had wine with our meal.”
All
of us.

“That would do it.”

“That’s why it didn’t take effect on the taster as quickly. No wine.”

“Rather ingenious, isn’t it?”

I don’t appreciate his admiring tone. “Thank you, Enzo. Good work tonight, as usual.” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand.

I resume pacing. Unlike the first attempt on my life, this one was clumsy and unfocused. Ill planned. Anyone could have eaten those pastries. Everyone in the dining room could have been poisoned. There is a clue here somewhere.
Think, Elisa!

Crickets begin their nightly serenade, and the sun disappears behind the distant palace wall so that only the faintest glow seeps through my balcony doors. Ximena lights the candles on my bedside table. Mara retrieves my nightgown and lays it out on the bed, then fetches a brush to start working on my hair.

But I’m not ready for our nightly routine. I’m about to assign them useless tasks, just to keep them occupied and out of my pacing range, when Hector returns. His face is grave.

“The assassin’s employer?” I ask.

“No sign. The family knew nothing.”

Disappointment is like a rock in my gut. I am desperate for answers.

“A stranger gave them gold yesterday,” he continues. “Tall, young, hair slicked back with olive oil. Said he owed Felipe a debt. They gave it up eagerly once they learned what had happened.”

My sweaty hands grip my skirt. “He was paid to do it!”

Hector nods. “The note was meant to scare you—if you survived.”

I force my hands to release the fabric, to relax. Without meeting his eye, I say, “Maybe the poison wasn’t meant for me. Maybe it was meant for someone else. The conde. Or even Alentín. He’s an ambassador now, you know.”

“
Honey-coconut scones,
Elisa. Distilled duerma poison, according to Enzo. It’s hard to come by in Brisadulce. You have to cross the desert to find it. Someone was making a statement.”

I rub at the headache forming at the bridge of my nose. “Someone who knew I poisoned the animagus with duerma plant.”

“You also poisoned half the Invierne army, remember?”

“Hector, if that poison was meant for me, then someone truly wants me dead. Not taken alive, like the Inviernos do.”

“That has occurred to me.”

“Which means I have more than one enemy.”

He says nothing, just presses his lips into a firm line. For the first time, I notice a shadow of stubble along his jaw. He is always clean shaven, as befits the commander of the Royal Guard. Either he hasn’t had time today, or he forgot. It makes him look darker, fiercer.

I jump when Ximena’s hand settles on my shoulder. “I wish we could get you away,” she mutters. “There are too many people in Brisadulce. Too many agendas, too many dark corners.”

I round on her. “No!”

She recoils, black eyes wide.

“I won’t run away again. You and Papá and Alodia sent me away to keep me safe, remember?” Anger I barely knew I was holding in check rises in my throat like bile. “You forced me to marry a man who didn’t love me, who hardly even acknowledged me. It didn’t work out very well, did it? He’s dead. And I’ve had more brushes with death than I can count. Running away just made . . .” I hesitate, realizing how shrill my voice is, how awful I sound. Like maybe I hate this place and this life.