“Say no more, Bettlan. We don’t know who; we’re not accusing elves or humans yet, and it would be dangerous to guess wrongly. But we know whatever it is began long ago and old malice is still active. The king’s escaped by the skin of his teeth again and again. His first wife and children were lost because of it. And now this—it cannot be coincidence.”
“You’ll be wanting to know if Perin ate anything the queen ate … and if anyone else did … you’ll be wanting a friend in the kitchen, milady. My tasks aren’t there, but my brother married an undercook.”
“Not yet,” Estil said. “Let me talk to Perin and Maris first. It may be there’s another connection besides food. Food is just the most obvious and easiest.”
Bettlan nodded without saying anything and walked on, Estil following.
Perin, wrapped in a knitted coverlet, was lying in the front room of the cottage, turning the heel of a sock. She looked pale but said she merely felt weak. Sure enough, when Estil mentioned the miscarriage, Perin began to cry.
“An’ they just tol’ me this mornin’ ’bout the queen’s losin’ hers. Makes us sisters of a kind, not that I’m claiming that.” Her sobbing intensified.
Estil asked her questions, the sort any Sier’s wife with long experience of births and deaths might ask, and Perin calmed. Finally, she asked what Perin ate and drank in the last tendays of her pregnancy, from Midwinter Feast on.
“Midwinter Feast … it was truly that, milady.” Perin smiled. “Same food for all and plenty of it. I was run off my feet, just about, carrying out the trays to the big tables. We took turns eating, same as the others.”
“And did the king and queen—?”
“Only a few bites—they had to make their way through the city, you know. And they started late—some kerfluffle about the king and the ossuary. How he found mud in there I have no idea, but everything started a turn of the glass late. They each grabbed a pastry or two, and then they were off.”
“I don’t suppose you remember which pastries.”
“Indeed I do, for I made sure I had some of those. Eating the king’s food on Midwinter’s good luck. Ham and mushroom and then a jam-filled one. I think the queen had two of those.”
So. Quite possibly it had started that far back, unless—“Perin, do the servants usually have the same food as the king’s table?”
She nodded. “Some of it. Not if the cook makes something special, you know, just for him. When the Pargunese were here, he might come in later than mealtimes and the cook would fix a small portion. But usually we had at least some of what the high table ate.”
Estil repressed a shudder. How many other babies might die? And who would be so callous?
“Perin, how many other women are expecting, do you know?”
“No, milady, I don’t. I know Maris—but not who else might be.”
Estil went next to the kitchen gardens. The taig had warmed them for the wedding, she knew, and though the plants were small, rows of them were ready. She spoke to the head gardener, explained that the queen needed fresh greens, and picked a small bundle. She dug into the soil for a bit of briar-root, hacking it off with her belt-knife, and then went back into the palace through the kitchens to borrow a few pans. There she met the head cook, Tilgar, energetic and commanding; the kitchens were as clean as her own, shelves tidy and organized, workspaces not in use scrubbed and clear for the next task.
“It’s ill-wishing,” Tilgar said. “Some evil person’s ill-wished this house. Perin, Maris, Dolin—”
“And Tilith, Cook,” one of the undercooks said. “In the stables. M’sister Ranny told me this morning.”
“Must be a tippin hid somewhere about,” Tilgar said. “Probably some visitor brought it. I’d be looking for a Pargunese. If they’ll burn forest, they’ll kill childer.”
“Your kitchens are so clean,” Estil said. She got no further.
“Someone said it was food? From my kitchens?” Tilgar scowled. “There’s no tippin here, I’ll be bound. Scrubbed to the walls before we started on the wedding feasts, every shelf and cranny. And my own staff put away all the gifts of food; they’d have shown me anything strange that could be a tippin. If you think that I—”
“No, of course not,” Estil said. She had not meant to bring it up so soon, but Tilgar’s defensiveness had attracted the undercooks, all now staring wide-eyed at the two of them. “Nor your assistants. But someone could have put something in a food gift, couldn’t they? And so far as we know, only those who ate the food here have lost their babies.”
Tilgar was silent a long moment. “I don’t see how,” she said slowly. “Gifts … a lot of food did come in. There were a few things we threw out—damaged on the way here, it seemed. I wouldn’t use anything bruised or touched with mold, of course, for a wedding feast. It’s true we’ve used bruised fruit other times to make preserves—no harm there, as I’m sure milady knows.”
“Indeed,” Estil said. “I cut off the worst bits and put them in the kettle with the rest. A soft apple’s not poison.”
“But not for a wedding feast,” Tilgar said again. “Everything must be perfect, is what I learned and what I do. Anything doubtful went out to the hen yard or sties.” She shook her head. “I’ll stand surety for my staff to the king himself. I trained them; I know them; they’d not poison a beggar, let alone the king and queen. If it is—if it’s proven it came from my kitchens—then I want to know how, because I’m sure as sure that it wasn’t any of my people.”
“I believe you,” Estil said. “But in the meantime, I told the king I would oversee Arian’s meals myself. Would you lend me a few pots and pans?”
“You will watch us wash them, clean as they are,” Tilgar said. “That way you will know they’re not tainted.”
“Thank you,” Estil said.
Arian was awake when Estil returned to the queen’s chambers; she looked pale and miserable but was able to keep down the infusion Estil prepared for her. Kieri, seated now beside the bed, looked almost as haggard.
“Whom do you trust, Kieri?” Estil asked. “And you, Arian?”
“I did trust them all,” Arian said. “But Kieri says you think it was poison intended to kill the child.”
“Other women in the palace have had miscarriages in the past day and night,” Estil said. “All fed from the king’s table. No one has reported any such deaths in Chaya.”
“We cannot trust anyone, then. Anyone in the kitchen, any who serve at table—”
“More likely someone who supplied foods for the feast days than your staff, Kieri,” Estil said. “I’ve talked to your head cook; I am sure she is not guilty and that she would have noticed anything obvious in her kitchens. As a precaution, though, Arian should eat and drink only those things grown here and prepared by a few she can trust. I picked these leaves and roots from the garden myself, carried them in myself, prepared them myself. I can stay for a while but not permanently. What about your Squires? Surely some among them you know well enough.”
“Yes,” Arian said. “I have several friends I know would not do something like this.”
“They can help me, then,” Estil said.
“Can you tell what kind of poison?” Kieri asked.
“No. I’m not even sure when it was done. The most likely time, I would think, is in preparation of the wedding feasts. I suspect that something was brought in, either regular tribute or as a gift, and used in those dishes. That means some of your wedding guests could be poisoned as well, and one of them could have brought in the poison. Or the poison could have been brought in earlier, some time after the betrothal.”
“I continued my duties as Squire—including trips away—until half-Evener,” Arian said. “Could I have eaten poison then? Somewhere else?”
“Not with the women here having the same symptoms within a day of your loss,” Estil said. “You and they must have had poison on the same day. Maybe several different times. There are such poisons … each harmless by itself but dangerous
in combination. Or it might have been just one.”
“So—any day she wasn’t here, she wasn’t poisoned?”
“Very likely.”
“Garris will have a record of that; he tracks all the Squires’ movements.”
“And your steward, I presume, will know what days the palace had visitors and who they were, as well as foods supplied.”
Arian, Estil noticed, was crying silently, tears running down her face. Kieri followed Estil’s glance and took Arian into his arms.
“There, love. We will yet have children, you and I, and now that we know someone is willing to poison not only you but others, we will find out who and why and end that cruelty.”
“He was so small …”
“I know.” He kissed her hair. “But you must rest and recover. Do what Estil tells you, will you. I must go and start the inquiries. I will come back often to tell you what I’ve learned.”
She nodded and released his hand. Kieri stood slowly, stroking her head one last time, and then strode from the room.
Estil called in the Queen’s Squires Arian had named and explained what she thought had happened. “And I need you to bring me the ingredients I ask for, fresh from the garden.”
“What about flour?” Suriya asked.
“I’ll send you to Sier Halveric’s house with a note,” Estil said. “I doubt the flour and meal and so on are contaminated, but we must take no chances. I know the Halveric cook; she’s very careful at market, and there’s been no trouble there I know of. You can ask.”
“I’ll pick whatever you like,” Binir said. “The palace has its own dairy and poultry houses—what about butter and eggs? Those are strengthening.”
“Gather the eggs yourself; eggs can be pricked. Here’s what I need for supper.” Estil wrote quickly, a list for Binir and another for Suriya, with a note to Remmis, Sier Halveric’s cook. As she wrote, she said, “Notice if anyone asks too much or spreads rumors or the like. It’s unlikely, but possible, that you will meet someone who is part of this.”
Arian slept again; Kieri came and went, not waking her. By the time Arian woke, Estil had a broth simmering on the fire and bread from Halveric House to eat with it. Arian had an appetite, and her color improved as she ate.
“What have you learned?” she asked.
“That two more women in the palace lost a child—one yesterday and another while you slept. That makes six, counting you. It must be you were poisoned at the same time or times.”
“And you still think it was by food …?”
“It seems the most likely. It is the one thing you all had in common. And from Garris’s information it is mostly likely that it happened at either Midwinter Feast or the feasts around the wedding. Or possibly both.”
“Someone would have had more time to plan for the wedding,” Arian said.
“True, but didn’t you tell people here that you would announce your formal betrothal at Midwinter? That would give some time.”
“Will it—will the poison stay? Will it kill the next child? Every child?”
“Surely not,” Estil said. “I never heard of such … I do know if someone’s used birthbane, she must not conceive again for two cycles.”
“I want children,” Arian said. Tears marked her cheeks again, but she did not sob. “And Kieri—”
“I believe you will have children, healthy children, but first you must recover from this. You must be completely healthy.”
“I’m being childish,” Arian said.
“No, that you are not. You are a woman of character and courage, but no one loses a child easily.”
Tracing the food seemed at first to be impossible. Gifts of food—always common at feastings—had been accepted without question, and those suitable for use in the coming feast had been used.
“I know who brought food,” the steward said. “But many sent the same things—onions and redroots, grain, dried fruits, apples, pears, honey in the comb, mushrooms—and all were stored with like kind and no regard to who sent them. Of course the cooks looked to see if anything seemed to be spoiled or if any of the wild foods brought in were of poisonous varieties, but beyond that, we have no way to know, for things in bulk storage, which came from where. So much, in preparation for the wedding—we put things where we could.” The steward shook his head. “It’s evil, is what it is, sir king. Poisoning anyone, but the queen? And then any other woman who might be with child and had a taste of the same food? And not just our own people, our guests. Evil. I thought the Pargunese were bad, but this—”
“It is indeed evil,” Kieri said. He had not thought of the guests—and he should have. “We’ll have to tell people.” All those guests—how many had been pregnant? Had celebrated the happy day that night and then eaten more of the feast the next day, as he and Arian had?
“If only we had a way of identifying which foods were contaminated,” the steward said. “Then we could throw those out and check everything coming in.”
“Hmmm,” Kieri said. “I wonder if strong taig-sense could do that … Foods were once alive.”
Physically, Arian felt perfectly healthy, as strong as before the miscarriage. Her sense of the taig returned, as Estil had promised it would. Emotionally … she wanted to flinch from every glance, jump at every noise. She was the queen, she should be comforting the others … and as soon as she’d been able to walk that far, she’d gone to visit the other women in the palace who had lost their babies. Those had been such painful meetings that she felt exhausted after each and lay abed, unsleeping, the night after.
Her planned visit to Tsaia’s court had been put off, of course. Duke Mahieran, who was supposed to be her escort, had stayed, sending his kirgan back to explain the delay to the king. Dorrin Verrakai had also stayed, with Beclan. While Beclan was in the salle for a workout, Arian and Dorrin sat in the rose garden; the roses had leafed out, and a few early ones showed buds. One bud had opened, adding its fragrance to that of the violets that nestled under the rosebushes along one wall.
Before Arian could ask, Dorrin explained her perspective on the situation with Beclan. “I’m sure you noticed how awkward it was, but in the end, it’s for the best,” she finished.
Arian nodded. “I did not think it fair, but if you do—that’s what matters.”
Dorrin stretched her long legs to the spring sun. “Arian, has your taig-sense helped you discover what poison they used?”
Arian said, “No. Nor Kieri’s, either. We don’t know if it’s because the poison is in us still, though I can still feel the taig at large. Nor have the elves been able to tell us anything.”
“From what Kieri said, he does not entirely trust the elves.”
“That’s so. But you have magery—can you tell?”
“May I touch you?”
Arian stared, then realized that she had not seen Dorrin touch anyone without permission other than shaking hands with Kieri, a warrior’s gesture. “Yes,” she said, and held out her hands. Dorrin took them; Arian could feel nothing unusual. Then Dorrin opened her own hands and sighed.
“I have been able to heal some things,” Dorrin said. “But I felt something in my hands when I did. I felt nothing this time except a kind of heaviness. If the elves can’t help you, have you considered a Kuakgan?”
“A Kuakgan! Elves don’t—we don’t have them here.”
“I would have thought, with the taig—Paks asked a Kuakgan to raise the taig for her—”
“Elves say they’re bad. You know about the old quarrel, the Severance.”
“Yes. The elves’ side of it, which I think does them no credit. Why should it keep you from seeking help wherever it might be?”
“Kieri did tell me that when the war started and the elves did not come to aid, he thought of calling in a Kuakgan.”
“Did he?”
“No—I think he would have, but the dragon took me to free the elves from underground.”
Dorrin’s brows rose. “There’s a story I want to hear
someday. But for now—what about a Kuakgan? They know the plant world—wouldn’t this likely be a plant poison? Mushrooms or something like that?”
“I don’t know any Kuakkgani. They do pass through sometimes, but—”
“You do know that back before Midwinter, one healed my youngest squire, Daryan?”
“Yes, Kieri told me.”
“I met him, worked with him a little, and I have also met one with a settled Grove, Master Oakhallow. I could send word to him—but as they are sensitive to the taig, perhaps we could use that—”
“We should be able to,” Arian said. “Has Kieri met either of them?”
“Oakhallow, yes—last year, when he was coming to Lyonya, but very briefly,” Dorrin said. “You and I might do better than Kieri would. Let me have your hand again. You are better at contacting the taig than I am, but I think I can find the Kuakkgani more easily.”
Arian reached out to the taig, pushing her awareness westward; she felt Dorrin within that contact as a bright thread. She could not tell the outcome. Dorrin suddenly pulled her hands away, shaking them.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know—maybe nothing. Didn’t you feel it, like a sting?”
“No.”
“Another mystery. You taught me to feel the taig, but we do not feel it the same. I wish I knew more about how magery works, human and elven.”
Arian felt chilled; the sun had moved, and the palace shadowed the rose garden. When she looked up, clouds were moving across the blue and the air felt damper.
“Rain coming,” Dorrin said. “Let’s go inside.”
Next morning, the gentle spring rain that had begun in the night continued. Arian looked out at the courtyard and saw a cloaked and hooded figure walking toward the palace entrance. She could see nothing of the face, for the hood hid it, only one hand, holding a plain staff with the bark still on it and booted feet. Then the head tilted, and the hood fell back, revealing dark hair, a man’s bearded face—and eyes that focused on her … She knew at once it was a tree-shepherd, a Kuakgan.
Echoes of Betrayal Page 49
