C H A P T E R T E N
ing Artos was all sympathy and kindness, and Thea could hardly stand it. His apologies soundedK sincere and the magic that surrounded her was warm and comforting, but apologies were not what she’d dreamt of all these years. Her vision blurred as her future crashed around her. ‘I do hope you stay for the feast after your long journey,’ the king was saying. ‘You are welcome at my table. Do not think your current role in Thezmarr is not one of honour as well.’ ‘Thank you,’ she croaked out and with a final hurried bow, she rushed from the throne room.
For a moment, it was as though time had stopped and the king’s words spun over and over in Thea’s mind. ‘For a woman to hold a blade in that place, was to risk peace in our realms. The prophecy spoke, the law was changed. And thus it must remain so.’ Thea’s hands shook as she blinked back tears. ‘And thus it must remain so.’ All she wanted was to be one of them, to give what little of her life remained some purpose. To become… something more. She wasn’t usually one to cry, but this… This hurt in a way she hadn’t dared to imagine. ‘Well?’ Hawthorne leaned against the shining tiled wall outside the doors, his arms folded over his chest.
She didn’t allow her tears to fall. ‘Well, what?’ ‘What did they say?’ the Warsword pressed. ‘They said no,’ she told him coldly. ‘Just as you hoped.’ She made to push past him. Gods, the last thing she wanted was to be in his presence right now, to deal with his smugness, his satisfaction at her
failure. ‘I see.’ ‘See? You see nothing.’ All her rage surged forth, vibrating through her like a furious current, a worthy outlet in her sights. It was all Thea could do not to snatch her dagger from his belt and put it to his throat. ‘How could you possibly see? As if you’d know what this is like, what this means.’ Her dreams had been within her grasp after years of secrecy and dreaming, only to be wrenched away by
some stupid prophecy and law. ‘Did they say anything else?’ Of course he wouldn’t acknowledge her fury, the injustice of it all. ‘No.’ ‘Nothing?’
Thea bit back an array of profanities. ‘Only that I should stay for the feast. That I was welcome at King Artos’ table.’ Hawthorne blinked. ‘So we must find accommodations for the night.’ ‘What? I’m not going. The last thing I want to do is sit and dine with a bunch of people who —’ ‘If the king invites you to sit at his table, you sit at his table.’ Hawthorne’s gaze locked on hers, no compromise there.
Infuriated anew, Thea realised he was right. It would be an insult to not attend at the king’s invitation, but she looked down at her filthy appearance. ‘I can’t go like this. It’s one thing to address the king in muddied clothes, but to sit and dine with nobles when you smell like a sweaty horse…?’ ‘You may have a point.’ Thea threw her hands up. ‘Well, what can I do? Do you know somewhere I can —’ she gestured down her front dramatically, words no longer powerful enough to express her anguish.
Hawthorne gave a frustrated sigh. ‘There’s a place a few streets away. You can fix yourself up there.’
In the damp washroom of a boarding house, Thea scrubbed angrily at her skin with a rough cloth.
Judging from the way the matron had batted her eyelashes at Hawthorne and used any excuse to touch his muscular arms, Thea wasn’t sure she wanted to know how he’d discovered this place.
She stood naked and shivering as she sloshed the cold water over her body and washed her hair, praying that her efforts would make her even a modicum more respectable than before.
A fist pounded the door and she jumped. ‘You done in there?’ came Hawthorne’s deep voice. ‘No!’ she half-shouted, leaping to grab the threadbare towel the matron had given her to cover herself.
Acutely aware of her bare skin, Thea rushed to pull on her undergarments and trousers, only to grimace at the state of her shirt. It was grubby, to say the least… with a giant stain down the left side - when did that happen? Her spare was worse.
The door creaked open and Thea’s hands flew to cover her breasts, her heart seizing.
A tattooed hand slid between the crack, holding out a fresh, white linen shirt. ‘Here,’ said the muffled, gruff voice of the Warsword.
Trembling, from the cold or from anticipation, Thea took it, her icy fingers brushing the warmth of Hawthorne’s hand. The shock of contact sent a bolt of lightning through her and a rush of goosebumps across her bare skin. She shoved the sensation aside.
Pity, that’s what this was from him. After all his insults and bickering, the Warsword pitied her.
But who was she to complain? A nobody. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and the door closed once more.
The shirt was crisp and clean and it felt amazing after days of wearing damp and dirty garments.
Thea slipped her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it.
It was enormous.
His shirt, she realised. He’d given her his last clean shirt… She did her best to tuck the billowing material into her belt before working her hair into a quick side braid, the end still dripping. She shoved her soiled clothes into her satchel and threw the door open.
Hawthorne stood there with his arms folded over his sculpted chest and surveyed her, his gaze
lingering on the wet trail of her hair and the seemingly endless yards of fabric. ‘Hmm,’ he grunted. ‘You’re not even using words now? Do I not look alright?’ To her surprise, Hawthorne laughed, the sound rich and deep. ‘Here.’ He reached for her sleeves.
Against her better judgement, Thea leaned in.
She stared as the Warsword bent down and gently rolled the material to each of her elbows, his fingers brushing her skin ever so lightly, sending a delicious rush of warmth through her.
He caught his lower lip between his teeth in concentration while he secured the fabric in place with a tight tuck, before stepping back to scan her up and down once more, his eyes at last meeting
hers. ‘That’s better.’ Thea exhaled. ‘Thank you.’ The Warsword shrugged. ‘You represent Thezmarr, we can’t have you looking…’ The tingling sensation that had started to build within Thea dissipated. ‘Like shit?’ she supplied. ‘Not what I was going to say.’ Thea forced her voice into a casual tone. ‘Doesn’t matter. Thanks for the shirt.’ Hawthorne hesitated for a second, but then he turned towards the exit. ‘You need to get back to the palace.’ Upon her return to the Heart of Harenth, Thea and Hawthorne were shown to where the feast had begun. The Great Hall was resplendent in draped silks, hundreds of candles, ribbons and flowers, while two hundred or more nobles sat at long tables covered in elegant linens. The ache in Thea’s chest would not relent, nor did the shame burning her cheeks as she moved further into the hall. She would return to Thezmarr as she’d left it: an alchemist and nothing more. What would become of her then? Her spying and secret training days were over, and she wasn’t fool enough to think that they would be sufficient for her now anyway. Not after the time spent in a Warsword’s company, however prickly it had been. Was she destined to mix potions and grind herbs until her fate caught up with her at the ripe old age of twenty-seven?
Hawthorne broke away from her, taking up a post by the far wall, watching the festivities like a hawk. Her Warsword escort; everything she’d now never be. The man who had been against her from the start of this cursed venture. But… He’d held her in his sleep… He’d given her his shirt… The man might be an arrogant bastard, but… there was an element of humanity in there… wasn’t there?
Tucking her fate stone down the front of the billowing shirt, Thea started towards the king’s table.
King Artos sat beside King Leiko of Tver, with the Queen of Aveum opposite him. Their magic once more roiled towards her and she wished she could understand it, wished she could see it take their individual forms, untangled and free.
But that was not the most pressing matter at hand. Gods, she hated being so unsure of the correct etiquette and the warring emotions within. Did she truly have to acknowledge the man who, in a handful of sentences, had brought her dream crashing down around her, all the while forcing her to attend a party she had no interest in? Did she thank him for the invitation? Should she approach him at all? In Thezmarr she knew where she stood and what was expected of her, and what rules she wanted to break, but here… This was a new world.
However, she needn’t have worried, King Artos spotted her and motioned for her to approach.
Gratitude surged, there was a thoughtfulness to the monarch that she hadn’t anticipated. ‘Ah, Althea…’ he greeted her with a broad smile. ‘I’m pleased you accepted my invitation,’ he said, smiling. ‘Of course, Sire,’ Thea bowed. ‘You honour me.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ he replied. ‘My daughter, Princess Jasira, is eager to meet you. Your boldness impressed her today.’ He motioned for a servant to make room a few seats down on the opposite side.
Thea couldn’t find the words, so she said none as she tried not to glance in the Warsword’s direction. ‘The Guild Master’s letter mentioned you were an alchemist of sorts. I thought you might like to share some of your tales with my daughter. She has always been fascinated by all manner of teachings.’ Thea’s cheeks flushed. ‘It would be a pleasure to speak with her, Your Majesty.’ And that was how Thea found herself seated next to the Crown Princess of Harenth. The young woman was Wren’s age or a little younger, and her gaze was bright as it landed on Thea.
Thea bowed her head. ‘Your Highness.’ The princess gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sure this isn’t where you had hoped to end up this evening.’ Thea blanched. ‘It’s a great priv —’ ‘Don’t worry yourself.’ Princess Jasira sipped from her goblet. ‘If I had any choice in the matter, I’d be elsewhere as well.’ A servant placed a plate before Thea, the food upon it piled high. Thea murmured her thanks but the server was already gone. ‘I would ask you of your work for the guild, but judging from your earlier request, I’d guess it interests you little?’ Princess Jasira asked. ‘I’d happily speak of it with you, Your Highness.’ ‘Not if you’re going to harp on with formalities all evening. Please, call me Jasi, the titles are tedious.’ Thea chewed the inside of her cheek, unable to quite believe she was addressing the Princess of Harenth. ‘Alright… Jasi.’ The princess seemed pleased. ‘So tell me of your work for the guild. What is it you do there?’ ‘I work in the alchemy workshop mostly, Your — Jasi.’ Thea corrected herself. ‘Though I also transcribe texts from time to time, too.’ ‘And you dislike such work?’ ‘My sister is the true master of alchemy,’ Thea admitted, glancing down at the burns on her hands. ‘I specialised in the same at her insistence, though I suspect she only did so to keep a closer eye on me.’ ‘Those scars are from your work?’ Princess Jasira asked, following Thea’s gaze. ‘Some are from work. Most are from my own carelessness.’ To Thea’s surprise, the princess laughed. It was a beautiful, light sound. ‘So your sister does not wish to be a shieldbearer as you do?’ Thea shook her head, sifting through the options of what she could possibly ask a princess without impropriety.
Princess Jasira saved her the effort. ‘What is it you alchemists do then?’ ‘We make tinctures for the healers and potions for various uses; the more skilled carry out
experiments and such.’ ‘Fascinating,’ Jasira said. ‘You sound like my sister,’ Thea laughed.
Jasira offered a genuine smile. ‘I shall take that as a compliment then.’ ‘You should, Highness — Jasi.’ Thea’s attention wandered back to the kings and queen, finding
herself leaning into the magic that pulsed around them. ‘It’s incredible,’ she murmured, more to herself than to the princess.
But Princess Jasira heard her, her brows furrowed. ‘What is?’
‘Their magic,’ Thea replied in wonder.
Jasira gave her an odd look then. ‘My apologies, Highness,’ Thea bowed her head. ‘I’m unsure of the… etiquette when it comes to such things. Is it best not spoken of?’ The princess seemed to have masked her expression. ‘It’s quite alright. I… I suppose I’m used to it, I hardly notice it.’ ‘Then, do you have magic yet? It’s something you are born with as a Fairmoore royal isn’t it?’ ‘It is…’ Jasira said carefully. ‘Though I admit, my abilities are not at full strength yet. Father says they will come through.’ ‘I’m sure he’s right,’ Thea replied. If anyone were to know about magic, it would be King Artos.
The crease between the princess’ brows deepened as she looked from Thea to the rulers of the midrealms. ‘So, you’re telling me you can feel —’ ‘A toast!’ someone shouted. ‘To the late Queen Maelyn, may she rest well with Enovius!’ The princess stiffened in her seat and Thea felt a pang of sympathy for her. She knew the feast was in celebration of the king’s mourning period ending, and she couldn’t recall how long ago the Queen of Harenth had passed, but queen or no, she had been Princess Jasira’s mother. She doubted very much that the pain ceased because a feast dictated so.
‘To the late queen!’ the hall echoed.
The princess flinched.
Without thinking, Thea leaned closer to her, forgetting royal etiquette. ‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ she whispered.
Princess Jasira’s gaze was on the king, who was sniffing his wine. ‘Thank you,’ she replied.
Wine sloshed over King Artos’ goblet as he swirled the drink within, inhaling the aroma appreciatively. ‘I do say, this vintage has a hint of lilac to it… Wouldn’t you agree, King Elkan?’ Thea watched the exchange, her own nose tickling with another scent lingering in the air… Was it ash she could smell? It was not the ash of a hearth fire, but something far subtler, with a tinge of sweetness to it… King Elkan seemed surprised to be called upon, but dutifully sniffed his own goblet. ‘I must have an underdeveloped nose for these things, Artos. It smells like wine to me.’ King Artos laughed. ‘Yes, yes, of course. But there are subtleties to each barrel.’ he sniffed again. ‘Yes, I do detect lilac…’ Thea’s skin prickled and she sat up a little straighter in her seat, searching for her Warsword escort. He was where she had left him, on the outskirts of the hall, watching everything with that discerning scowl of his.
Someone called out from further down the table, snatching her attention back. ‘Marise the merchant says that often a wine can take on the smells of whatever is planted around it. Your Majesty must have a very keen nose indeed.’ Something wasn’t right. Thea knew lilacs weren’t native to Harenth. Of course, the wine could have come from anywhere but… The added hint of strange ash in the air made her uneasy. She scanned the table, for what she didn’t know.
Until she saw it.
Traces of a fine blue powder by the king’s personal decanter.
King Artos at last raised his goblet to his lips — ‘Stop!’ Without thinking, Thea launched her knife.
It speared towards the king.
Shouts rang out down the table and then the wider hall.
Thea’s knife hit King Artos’ goblet and it fell, crashing to the floor, crimson wine spilling across the marble like blood.
Guards were on her in an instant, hauling her from her seat, roughly wrenching her arms behind her back. ‘It was poison!’ she shouted, kicking against the guards. ‘It would have killed him.’ The king was on his feet, his face flushed as he looked from his wine soaked silk sleeve to Thea, shocked. ‘Your Majesty, please,’ she implored. ‘It was poison.’ The guards started to haul her away, their grips bruising.
Thea’s heart hammered. Was she to be executed then and there? No, that was impossible, given the stone that rested against her heaving breast.
Audra’s words echoed in her mind then. ‘You will come to learn that most things to be feared exist in life, not in death…’ Bile rose in Thea’s throat. She wouldn’t die. Not until she was twenty-seven, but… There were worse fates than death. Years of torture. Imprisonment… She’d hurled a knife at the king for gods’ sake. They’d think she was an assassin. But there hadn’t been time – she’d used whatever she had to save him.
The guards were brutal, yanking her arms back so hard they nearly tore from their sockets — ‘Wait,’ the king commanded.
The guards froze in place, but did not loosen their hold on her.
The king motioned to a wiry man who had been lingering near the curtains behind him. ‘Did you try the wine?’ the king asked, his voice deadly soft.
The king’s cupbearer, Thea realised with a start. She hadn’t even considered that there would be someone to test the king’s food and drink. She’d made a mistake.
‘Yes, of course, Your Majesty.’
‘When?’ the king asked. ‘When the wine was served, Your Grace.’ Thea’s heart sank. The fate that awaited her now was not one that had been carved in stone, but one borne of her rash actions, her recklessness. ‘Try it again.’ The king’s voice was hard. ‘Sire?’ The cupbearer blinked, wide-eyed at the monarch. ‘Try it again.’ Thea tensed, watching the cupbearer’s trembling hands reach for the decanter. ‘Use my goblet,’ King Artos instructed.
Face paling, the cupbearer bent down to retrieve it from the floor. With all eyes upon him, he poured the rich, garnet liquid into the goblet, his lips moving in prayer as he did. He looked to the
king a final time.
King Artos merely waited.
The cupbearer took a deep breath and closed his eyes, raising the goblet to his lips. He drank deeply, as was required.
The entire hall was transfixed, Thea almost forgotten amidst the theatrics, though her arms
throbbed from where the guards gripped her.
The cupbearer lowered the goblet, his shoulders sagging with relief.
A silent cry caught in Thea’s throat, her heart seizing as she realised that she’d made a harrowing mistake, she’d condemned herself — The cupbearer spluttered, his brow furrowing in confusion as he clapped a hand over his mouth,
embarrassed.
Thea didn’t dare move. ‘I apologise, my king —’ He coughed again, a ragged rasping sound before he swayed on his feet, his eyes red-rimmed.
The cupbearer staggered, clenching the table linens in his fists as he choked, spittle foaming at the swollen corners of his mouth.
He vomited blood, collapsing face-first onto the king’s table.
More guards rushed forward, surrounding the king, while others hauled the cupbearer back to examine him, recoiling at what they found.
His parted lips were blue.
And he was dead.
