The Kinder Poison

by Natalie Mae

  “Please just come,” Elin says. Her free hand clutches her brush, ready to mark Jet with an Obedience spell if she has to.

  “Don’t cross this line.” Jet’s eyes plead with his brother as Elin pulls him forward. “This isn’t you. Think about what you’re doing. Think about her.”

  “Shut him up,” Kasta says. He blocks my view of Jet now, but Elin must have marked him with silence, because the scuff of their feet down the stairs is the last I hear of him.

  And then I am alone with Kasta. A boy who said it was within his right to harm me.

  In none of the travelers’ tales has the rescuer ever failed.

  Kasta exhales, arms behind his back as he strolls the perimeter of the bedroom. He’s changed since the party, his tunic traded for a white tergus belted in leather, the deep olive of his chest painted with gods’ symbols in real liquid gold. A tattooed scorpion raises its deadly tail up the back of his neck: the symbol for Oka, the god of judgment.

  I have a feeling admitting who I am is not going to go as well as I’d hoped.

  “You can relax,” Kasta says. “My threats were for him, not you. Sometimes the promise of something is more powerful than the act.”

  He turns, the torches casting shadows across his muscled torso, and I can’t help but feel his reassurance is its own kind of threat. It’s too generous of him to pardon me for what Jet and I tried to do. For what it looked like we were doing.

  “Jet has always thought himself above me,” Kasta says. He continues his stroll past the balcony, past the bed. Surveying his territory. “Since we were young, his sole motivation has been to best me. Whatever passion I took to, he made it his mission to beat me at it. Mathematics. Hunting. Swordplay. He has dedicated his life to making mine as miserable as possible.” He pauses, his eyes wandering down my dress, lingering on my stomach. I resist the urge to cover it. “If you were wondering why I’m not surprised, or upset, to see him in your room.”

  Like he’d read my mind. An explanation I might have found reasonable if he hadn’t looked so happy to catch us together. Fara says good men do not enjoy causing pain, even to their enemies.

  “He fears you chose me for the wrong reasons,” I say, circling the table as Kasta draws nearer.

  “Is that his defense now?” He stops near the bath, eyes as blue as the sapphires glittering around its edge. “He humiliates and slanders me for my own good?”

  I swallow. The open doorway waits to my side, and I glance at it, at how close and far I am from freedom.

  “Don’t,” Kasta says, rushing forward. I jerk back in surprise, but he grabs my shoulders, and I’m not sure if I’m more confused by how careful his hands are or the pain in his face. “Don’t believe what he’s told you. You don’t need to fear me. He has turned everyone I love against me.” He looks sincere. Desperate. The heat of his body is like a fire. “This is my chance to start over. I will prove to you, to my father, that I am not the monster Jet makes me out to be. From this moment forward, you and I are partners. Equals. Anything you desire before we leave, name it, and you will have it.”

  For a moment, I can’t breathe. That . . . was not at all what he was supposed to say. He’s supposed to be furious. He’s supposed to be throwing me out the door and calling the guards. He’s supposed to do any of a million things that end with me going home or to jail, and he’s certainly not supposed to say we’re partners, as if I could be anything equal to a prince.

  He’s not supposed to look at me the way he is now, with such surety and conviction that I wonder if anyone has truly seen me before this, and it takes reminding myself that he thinks I’m someone worthy of that praise to shake myself from his spell. I’m not who he thinks I am, and those words aren’t for me.

  “Anything I desire?” I whisper. I’m no longer as worried that he’ll hurt me, but I still need a way out. Maybe I can make him admit he made a rash choice and it’s in both our interests to let me go.

  “Name it,” he says.

  “I want to know why you chose me.”

  The prince’s jaw tightens. He looks at his hands on my shoulders, releases me, and walks toward the door. Torchlight shadows the ridge of an old scar between his ribs. It looks like it was made by a blade.

  “Because I knew it would hurt him,” he says.

  Another answer I wasn’t expecting. “That contradicts everything you just told me.”

  “I’m trying,” he says, turning, “to be better. I have lived my life having to react to my brother’s successes. Trying to prove myself to a father who favors a whore’s son over his queen’s!” He shoves the nearby chair, and the screech of it against the floor makes me jump. “I knew . . .” He inhales, relaxing his fists. “I knew if you’d caught his attention, that you were extraordinary. I may despise my brother, but Jet’s intuition is rarely wrong.”

  My heart squeezes, guilt fastening like a rope around my throat. He’s so sure. He’s so certain I’m the answer to his prayers, and I know this will be the moment that haunts me long after I’m home, the moment I crushed a real person’s hopes and dreams because I wanted to live one day in a fantasy world.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” I say, miserable. “I’m a Whisperer. I snuck into the palace under a false name. My real name is Zahru, and I work at a stable.”

  I brace myself for his face to change. For the anger to come; for the guards to be called.

  He only looks at me like I’m the one who doesn’t understand.

  “I know,” he says. “Elin told me.” He offers his hand, and I’m so shocked by the answer, that everything he said pertains to me, that I take it. “But that’s why this will work. You’re an unexpected choice; an underappreciated talent. So much so that Jet is threatened by it.” His lip twitches. “You’ll see. My father will award me the advantage for choosing you, and together we’ll win the crown. You are the key.”

  Underappreciated. Unexpected. Equals . . . My mind reels trying to make sense of what he’s saying. He knows what I am. He knows, and still he would tell me I’m extraordinary, that I could be more. Where tradition says I’m not, where most of the nobility would dismiss me without a second glance, he sees something else.

  And I can’t deny that, as his fingers curl around mine and his beautiful eyes burn with my reflection, something within me flares in response. Maybe I’ve listened to the wrong brother. Maybe Jet did intend to choose me and now finds me a threat. It’s an absurd thought. But Kasta’s faith is infectious. I suddenly want nothing more than to impress him, to prove him right.

  In the back of my mind, a rational voice is pleading with me to wake up.

  Remember what Jet said. Remember you have duties at home! But the voice sounds like Gallus, and I shove it aside.

  I swallow, and dare to keep my gaze on Kasta’s. Like equals.

  “All right,” I say.

  His smile sends a shiver down my spine.

  Every step forward draws the heat from my skin. We move down marbled stairs, between towering statues of the gods, past more indoor pools and a room wrought in gold. The prince is urgent and quiet at my side. Servants move wordlessly out of our way, and with every step, I assure myself that the feeling churning through my chest is not panic, but excitement for what I’m about to prove. If a prince believes I can survive the desert, then surely I can. Maybe this is even what the gods intended for me all along: a chance to see I don’t have to be born with earth-tipping magic to be worth as much as Gallus.

  By the time we step into the throne room, I’m shivering. If Kasta notices, he says nothing.

  The throne room should have been a place that took my breath away. I mean, it technically still does, but I’m not sure if it’s a stressed gasp or fervent awe. The ceiling stretches as high as the sky. At least twenty massive columns support it, their bases painted deep hues of red and gold, blue and green. A marble floor gleams around us l
ike poured milk, interrupted only by the freshly cut palm leaves that pave our way to the thrones.

  The Mestrah and his queen wait at the end like statues. The queen in a flowing white gown that flatters her ivory complexion, her chestnut hair shining beneath a wreath of ivy and pearls, and the Mestrah in his ceremonial leather armor, trielle spells glistening along his deep olive skin. A blue cape encircles his neck. A thick crown, its tines the curled tails of scorpions, sits atop his black hair. An ornamental staff rests in his fist, its metal falcon wings glinting in the room’s many torches.

  His jaw tightens as we advance, and I feel myself shrinking with every step.

  It’s enough to be in the presence of a true god. Elevated to divinity upon his crowning, the Mestrah will not be as worshipped in death as the eleven primary gods we honor at our temples, but in life he is our bridge between the mortal world and theirs. It is their will he acts on, and their laws he upholds. It’s why his family, and especially his children who might go on to rule, are born with the rarest powers of our world. His ability to read minds is proof of the gods’ favor, and his wisdom is confirmation. Fara always speaks of him with respect. He provides our food, our home, our protection. His people love him, and his enemies fear him.

  I can only pray falsifying my name hasn’t put me in the latter category.

  “Valeed,” Kasta says. The formal word for father tugs my heart even more. The separation between them is physical as well, the stone stairs raising the thrones above us. “My decision is made.” He raises my hand in his and bows, and I quickly do the same.

  The Mestrah doesn’t speak. He clutches the arms of his golden throne, frowning, and evaluates me with eyes the same cold, deep blue as Kasta’s.

  “I told you to come alone,” he says, his voice weaker than I’d imagined. Jet said he was unwell, but I thought surely he, being an actual god, would sound commanding and otherworldly. His skin does seem to glow more, though I suspect it’s a reflection from the throne. “But as you insist on doing things your way over mine, then so be it.”

  “You needed to see her,” Kasta says.

  “I will determine what it is I need,” the Mestrah snaps. He coughs twice, swallows, and shifts his gaze to me. “Elin told us about the girl. That you’ve not only pardoned her, but chosen her as yours.” His knuckles tense on the throne. “Your decisions continue to appall me.”

  A stone drops in my stomach. Away from Kasta’s arresting gaze, it’s getting harder to remember why I agreed to this. The Mestrah’s words snap me back to reality. Of course I’m a terrible decision. I even told myself that before we came, and I have a sinking feeling I’m going to be reminded of every reason why.

  Kasta lowers our hands, his grip on me tightening. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s the problem,” the Mestrah says, rising. “You never take the time to understand. Of all the fine magicians I sent for, you choose an uneducated Whisperer? What use could her magic possibly serve? What will you do if a sandstorm threatens the horizon, or it’s been days since you’ve eaten? What if you’re attacked by bandits who’d rather hold you for ransom than see you crowned? How will she save you if the most she can do is insult their horses?”

  I bite my cheek with each point but keep my eyes down and remind myself this is for the best. The prince will have to listen to his father. And then he’ll have to let me go.

  “Your priests let her through,” Kasta says. “This is outrageous. How is it possible to please you when—”

  “Perhaps by using your brain!” says the Mestrah. “When we present you with a choice of escort, perhaps you could consider who might be able to calm storms and build shelters, or who might excel in matters of combat, not who you’d first like to see naked!”

  That the king thinks that’s the reason Kasta chose me makes my blood heat, but though I expected as much, I can’t believe this is what I’m being reduced to. I’ll agree I’m not the best choice magic-wise, but it’s entirely unfair to assume that’s all I have to offer. I could be a master hunter or navigator. Or know about a secret oasis along the route.

  Luckily the queen seems to realize this is too far. She touches a manicured hand to the king’s arm.

  “I saw the others,” she says. “I don’t think that’s why.”

  Oh. Ouch.

  “No,” Kasta says, finally releasing me. “You cannot disapprove of her. She caught Jet’s eye at the party. He has already come to her room to try to steal her away. If it was he standing in my place, you would rush down and kiss our cheeks!”

  “You and Jet are very different,” the Mestrah says, and the regret in his face is far crueler than anything he could speak. “He has mastered many skills that will aid him in the race, and his needs are not yours. How many times have I told you to forget him? To concentrate on what it is you say you want?”

  “Because what I want is impossible! Everything I do is a disappointment to you. I could turn dust into fruit and you would still find some way I’d done it wrong. Some way Jet would do it better!”

  I have a feeling Kasta is no longer talking about the throne, and my heart cracks a little more.

  “Because. You. Do. Not. Listen,” the Mestrah says, punching each word into his palm with a finger. Sweat glistens on his brow despite the coolness of the room. “You do not ask questions. You do not take advisement. You do what you wish.”

  “Because I—”

  “Kasta,” the queen says softly.

  “I do not award the advantage to this match,” the Mestrah says, and a new cough rakes through him, so harsh he has to sink back on the throne. The queen touches his arm, and a boy-servant rushes over with a glass of tonic. The Mestrah takes a drink with a shaky hand. His voice is little more than a whisper when he adds, “And I will not be naming you dõmmel this night.”

  I cover my mouth with my hands to hold back the “Oh.” The title of crown prince or princess is usually given to the Mestrah’s eldest by the time they’re thirteen. It wouldn’t do Kasta much good now that the Crossing’s been invoked, but it’s a symbol of approval and expectation, and if something happened and none of the heirs could complete the race, he’d be crowned by default. He can still win, of course, but I imagine the whole point of this—everything Kasta desperately wants—revolves around hearing the words from his father’s mouth.

  The prince has changed. The anger on his face has faded to something unreadable, something disturbingly calm.

  “Valeed,” he says, bowing to the thrones before grabbing my arm. I flinch at his roughness but don’t dare protest, eager to leave the court. The Mestrah’s coughs fill the air as we go.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m relieved the king spoke sense. As much as I wanted what Kasta said to be true, this really is the best for both of us. Once he calms down, I’ll remind him I wasn’t a valid choice anyway. He should be able to hold another banquet. Choose a true First. Appeal to his father and at least gain the king’s approval, if not a second chance at the advantage.

  Kasta says nothing in reply, just tows me forward, a gathering storm beside me. It’s not until we’ve left the throne room and are walking through a hallway singing with little fountains that I realize we’re not going back to my room.

  “Please!” I say, fearing we’re headed to the whipping posts. “Don’t give me to the enforcers. I was honest with you. I told you I was only a Whisperer.” It no longer seems wise to mention I’m my father’s only heir, or that he’d be eager to have me back.

  “You think I’m letting you go?” Kasta chuckles and shakes his head. “No, Zahru. Our time together has only just begun.”

  And with that he shoves me over a threshold, slams a golden door behind us, and locks it with a bar of wood.

  VII

  I catch my balance on an ebony dresser. A huge room stretches into darkness before me, its corners hidden in shadow, where the silver-
blue glow of the torches cannot reach. The weak light casts the thin-legged couches, the tall bookshelves, the massive bed—curtained by thick sheets of velvet—in an icy, eerie haze.

  A royal bed.

  Kasta’s room.

  Gods, I should have flown off that balcony with Jet. I should have begged Kasta to see reason before he presented me to the Mestrah. I should have stayed home with Fara, because it’s looking less and less like I’ll have any chance of seeing him again. I don’t know what Kasta intends for me, but I have a sinking feeling this is the turning point Jet warned me about.

  He was telling the truth. Kasta may want to be better, but Jet sees him for what he is. What was it that Kasta even admitted? Jet’s intuition is rarely wrong.

  Besides the door, the windows on the far side are the only exit.

  “Bravo,” Kasta says, clapping. I turn, backing away as he comes closer. “My brother has truly outdone himself this time. To make me think I was ahead of him . . .” The light glitters over the paint on his chest. “Did he promise you a station here? A house?” His eyes flash. “More?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  He grins like we’re sharing a joke. “Of course not.”

  I circle around a couch clothed in white leather. He follows, unrushed.

  “He said he had no interest in observing who I chose,” he says. “That we’d be lucky if he showed up to his own Choosing. But he only told me that so I’d notice when he arrived, and observe whom he was talking to. That’s why you came under a false name: he planted you. He knew I would select you to vex him, and I took the bait. When I caught you two speaking in the room . . .” He thinks for a moment and nods. “You were solidifying your plans. Going over what you’d say, how you’d win my trust by appearing honest. But it was all part of the act.”

  “What?” I say. “There is no act. I’m from the town of Atera. This is my first visit to the palace. Jet came to warn me—”