The Kinder Poison

by Natalie Mae

  Marcus places four pitas wrapped in palm leaves into the fire, and the rods glow red.

  “Meat pie,” he says, grinning.

  I won’t lie that I’m as excited to taste meat pie as I am to be sleeping, which is considerable. But as the sky lightens, and a lone jackal peers down at us from a rocky hill, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder. Jet sits a stone’s throw away, on a slight rise where he can see the coming sunrise. He’s removed his armor and balances a scroll on his knee, though I don’t think he’s reading it.

  “So, Zahru,” Marcus says, pulling his crossbow into his lap. “Where is home for you?”

  “Atera,” I say, watching the careful way his fingers slip over the barrel. The weapon is a handsome thing, a dark red wood inlaid with gold, with a sinewy string resting in the mouth of a sliding lion head. The lion’s shining body forms the back of the bow, its haunches and tail the shoulder rest. “If I ever get back there.”

  “Ah, don’t let them get to you.” He nods at the tent. “They may bicker like a married couple, but we’ll sort it out. I’ve led reconnaissance missions in Wyrim. I think I can secure you safe passage home.”

  He winks and starts polishing the weapon with a soft white cloth. The rectangular stones at the front glow red at his touch. I remember Fara talking with a traveler once about the similarities between Grekan Enchanters and our own trielle, how the magic shows up and skips generations in a similar way, except Enchanters can only imbue their will into stone. They’re also limited to elemental spells, unlike our trielle, who can call on most types of magic. But also unlike trielle magic, Grekan enchantments never wear off.

  “Do you like her?” Marcus asks, lifting the crossbow.

  “It’s . . . she’s nice,” I say. “My father would want to know everything about her.”

  “You can tell him she’s ironwood and gold, with Etherstone enhancements. Means her bolts fly true even in high winds and water. If I can aim at it, she can hit it.”

  “And you don’t have to charge her?”

  “Nah. She uses me for an energy source.” His grin turns mischievous. “Just like her namesake, actually.”

  I’d heard of soldiers naming their weapons in tribute to loved ones. “Oh? Who is she named for?”

  “I call her Adoni, after my grandmother. Meanest and sharpest woman I know.”

  I snicker, picturing him at the mercy of a tiny, wrinkly old lady who wears too many cloaks. “Wow. I hope someday I’m memorable enough for my grandson to name a crossbow after me.”

  “Just get on his case about marrying his boyfriend already and chase off a horse thief with a pitchfork. You’ll be halfway there.”

  I laugh. “She chased off a thief with a pitchfork?”

  “And a few well-aimed rocks. You don’t mess with my grandmother.” He smiles, his gaze fond as he cleans sand from the arrow groove. “I take it yours are tamer?”

  “Oh. Mine are dead.” Marcus blanches, and I rush to explain. “No, it’s fine. I mean, obviously I’d prefer if they were alive, but all my grandparents passed when I was really young. I didn’t really know them.”

  “Ah. I’m still sorry to hear it.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve started adopting random townsfolk as my grandparents now.”

  Marcus snorts. “If you’re looking for more, I’d be happy to send you my grandfather. He’s gotten considerably mouthier these past few years, but he can out-cook any palace chef.”

  I smile, imagining a fifth setting at our dinner table, with Marcus’s grandfather assisting Hen and me in heckling Fara and Mora about what “just good friends” really means. “I’ll take him.”

  Marcus laughs, a loud, welcome sound that booms around the little camp. It draws Melia from the tent, her long braids falling over her shoulder as she emerges.

  “What have you got him on about?” she asks.

  “He’s going to send me his grandfather,” I say.

  Melia shoots Marcus a strange look as she settles next to me.

  “Zahru’s grandparents passed when she was far too young,” Marcus says. “Do you have an extra you can spare?”

  “Ha! You can have two of mine,” she says, throwing up her hands. “My stefar snores like a falling mountain, and my mam thinks I’m a demon.”

  “A demon?” I say.

  “She believes magic belongs to the gods only, and anyone who has it does so not because we are the gods’ children, but because we are cursed.” She sucks on her lower lip. “It is the way of the elders. They are not my beliefs, clearly.”

  A memory returns to me of a traveling family from Pe, the mountainous kingdom that borders Orkena’s southwestern side, and the uncomfortable way they watched me when I spoke to their camels. Magic is such a normal part of my life, I’ve never considered what it would be like to grow up without it. A terrible part of me wonders if that means I could have been anything in her world, if I could have gone to school and chosen any number of futures besides the one I was born into, and I chide myself for thinking it. Fara says our magic indeed marks our lineage to the gods, and we must honor the life they’ve set for us.

  Even so, I believe years of being looked down on by people like Gallus have prepared me for a grandmother just like this one. “Does she make good sweets?”

  Melia frowns. “Yes, actually.”

  “Would she sing me to sleep at night?”

  A smile. “She is a very good singer.”

  “Good. Then she’s in, too.”

  Now Melia laughs. “Listen to this girl! Such simple, honest needs.” She smiles. “Maybe I’m understanding why Jet could not leave you to that fate.”

  She points to the scar on my wrist, and I rub it with my thumb, suddenly self-conscious. A few moments sober with these two, and I’m already picturing their families at my table, laughing like there’s not a doubt in my mind they mean what they say. Hen would tell me I’m not being nearly suspicious enough, but I miss her, and I’m so far out of my comfort zone I can’t help but try to replace the bits of normalcy I used to have: people to trust, friends to laugh with. Maybe it’s not a smart strategy, but it’s what I know how to do.

  I shake my hand out and scoot closer to the fire. “But you . . .” I hesitate, then decide I have to know the answer. “You still think Jet should try to win.”

  It’s not just Melia who nods.

  “Yes,” Melia says, with a look at Marcus. “But not the way you think. Centuries ago, when Mestrah Adit was the first to refuse to hold a Crossing, it was revolutionary. Her legacy began the custom of naming firstborns as heir, the first of many revolutionary changes she would make for Orkena. We believe Jet could do the same. Prove he is resourceful enough to finish first but compassionate enough to show you mercy.”

  “He’s already proven far more forgiving than I would be,” Marcus grumbles.

  “Ah, Kasta.” Melia tsks. “How far he has fallen.”

  A heavy silence drapes us. Marcus leans over his crossbow and reaches into the fire, the rods automatically extinguishing. He presses the top of a wrapped pita before drawing back.

  “Almost ready,” he says, grinning.

  “Have you known Jet long?” I ask.

  “A few years,” Marcus says, his smile turning smug. “I taught him everything useful he knows how to do with a sword.”

  “You did not,” Jet calls.

  “All right, all right,” Marcus replies, snickering. “He taught me a few things, too. We trained together under a haggard old wasp named Jana who makes Kasta seem like a delight.”

  “And I have patched them up from those sessions more times than I care to count,” Melia says, rubbing a smear of dust from her silver armor. “Still, this past day has revealed much I did not know. I thought this would be an easy journey to Nadessa, and then I would return to my parents.” She frowns. “But now I find my ener
gy desires a new focus.”

  “You believe in him so truly?” I ask.

  “Yes. But I will also yield to his wishes, if that is not where his heart lies.” She sighs. “I will not be quiet about it, but I will respect it.”

  Marcus grunts in agreement, and from the corner of my eye, I see Jet look over.

  “Here,” Melia says, sliding a warm wrapped pie into my hands. “Eat and take a few hours’ rest. We need to keep moving if we hope to stay ahead of the others.”

  She rises to take a pie to Jet, but I touch her hand. If I’m going to decide to trust Jet again, I need more answers. “Can I take it?”

  Melia nods. I slip the second pie over mine and move slowly for the edge of camp, toward the confusing boy who both betrayed and saved me; the boy who everyone seems to believe in, except for Jet himself.

  “Dinner,” I say, handing a pie over his shoulder. Jet looks up, eyes widening when he sees it’s me. He takes it as I settle next to him.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  He looks very different with his armor off. The deep blue of his tunic and his silver bracelets still leave no doubt of his rank, but under a layer of sand they look faded and older, and at a glance he could be any number of boys in Atera. The farmer’s nephew, who brings us baled grass each week. Or the shy apothecaries’ son, who ties wildflowers around the necks of the tonics I pick up. Someone approachable. Someone normal.

  “I’m sorry again,” he says, thumbing the wrapping of his pie. “I’m not sure I can say it enough to make it up to you, but I’m going to try.”

  I let a small smile onto my lips. “You’re definitely going to have to say it more than that.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry?”

  “Getting there.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “New rule: you can’t do them all at once, either.”

  “All right.” His smile is sly. “Sorry.”

  I shoot him a look, but the smell of fresh bread and spiced meat wafts up from the pie, and I let his cheekiness slide as my fingers slip under the steaming leaves. The first bite is so hot it burns my tongue, but I can’t even care as I chew through thick, savory beef and peppered cabbage. Jet only holds on to his, watching me with what might be thoughtfulness or concern.

  “This is really good,” I say through a mouthful. “This makes up for a few of those sorries.”

  His grin widens. He peels back his own leaves, and I notice the scroll he’d been studying earlier half-open at his feet. The smaller size of the parchment and the polished redwood roller look very familiar.

  “Sakira?” I guess, nodding to it.

  “Yes, and she’s not very happy with me.” He sighs. “Well, she’s very happy about the sword. But she says she’d better win the restart, or she’s going to turn my desertion into an actual death.”

  I swallow in alarm. “Would she?”

  He snorts. “She’s being dramatic.” He hesitates. “Mostly.”

  “At least you know she’s safe,” I say. “What will she do until the race defaults?”

  “She should head to the first checkpoint and wait there. That’s where our father will send the boats that will take her home.”

  He takes a small bite of meat pie, and I know all too well the doubtful look on his face.

  “But we both know she’s not going to do that,” I say, feeling extremely posh I know a royal so well.

  “No, she’s not going to do that,” he agrees. “She’ll wait until she hears of the default, and in the meantime she’ll continue to ‘see the countryside,’ as she called your expedition yesterday.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Not until she told me she’d set a hill on fire, and would I please help her to get back on route from the northern barracks?” He scoffs and wipes his mouth with a knuckle. “Luckily I can still worry every hour of my life about what she’s doing, even from hundreds of kilometers away.”

  I smile and take another bite, but I can see the sadness in his eyes. He will miss Sakira’s antics as much as she will miss his warnings.

  Which reminds me there’s a second scroll that should be here but isn’t.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, setting the pie in my lap. “You and Sakira seem so close. What happened with Kasta? If firstborns are supposed to rule, how did this even start?”

  “That,” he says, breaking off a burnt corner of palm wrapping, “is the golden question. Most of it is my fault, though Sakira blames her mother.”

  “The queen?” This I didn’t expect. “Why would she want you challenging her son?”

  “No, she didn’t want that, but . . .” Jet grunts bitterly. “You realize what my existence means?”

  Heat flushes my cheeks. “Oh.”

  “We’ll just say the queen didn’t like my mother before she became a general, and she outright hated her after I was born. A sentiment she was happy to share with anyone who’d listen. Especially her son.”

  My heart pulls at the thought of what it must have been like for Jet growing up. “That must have been awful.”

  He shrugs. “I just avoided her and her friends as much as possible. My father made it clear early on that I was a prince, nothing less, so most were wise enough to leave me alone. But you can imagine what Kasta thought of me when he was old enough to understand.” Jet rubs his fingers along his chin, his eyes distant. “Though honestly, at the beginning, I don’t know if he cared. Gods, that feels like a thousand years ago.”

  “He was different then.”

  “Very. Maybe because he never thought I’d be a threat . . .” Jet winces. “I don’t know. He used to like me, I think. He would help me with my schoolwork, and I’d bring him food when I knew he’d been working all day.” A glance at me. “He was always tinkering with something or other. Some magical theory; some tonic he hoped could ease the effects of magic on the body. For instance, he didn’t like that Healers had to give their lives for their magic. He said he was going to fix it.” He draws his hand across his brow. “I thought he was brilliant.”

  “Huh,” I say, trying to work this inquisitive image of Kasta over the one with the shadows in his eyes. “And then . . . you got competitive?”

  Jet looks over, torment pulling the lines of his frown. “That’s the thing. We were that close, and I still don’t know what happened. I know our father was putting pressure on him to focus on war and economics, but one day I walked into Kasta’s rooms, and his laboratory was trashed. All his experiments, all his tonics, ruined. And he was just sitting there in the mess, crying.” Jet swallows. “I can’t imagine my father doing that, but they’d been fighting more, and Kasta must have been ignoring his other studies. I only know that when I started to pick up, Kasta shouted at me to leave. And when I didn’t, he threw his last beaker into the wall beside me.”

  I hear the echo of it shattering as Jet’s eyes turn to the sunrise. The first break in the rope that once tied them, and it was made by exactly who I suspected: their father. What a horrible way to discipline a son. I realize the Mestrah wanted Kasta to focus, and to learn early on that a king is not allowed his own passions over the needs of his country, but Kasta was researching a need, even if it had nothing to do with treaties or civil order. And poor Kasta. To lose all that work at the hands of the man who’s supposed to support him.

  “And that was it.” Jet sighs. “From that day on, he wouldn’t see me. And I . . .” He grimaces. “I just wanted back what we had. I thought—if I was stronger, if I trained hard enough to reach his level . . . he’d have to spend time with me again.”

  Understanding creeps like beetles’ legs up my neck. “So you made it your mission to outdo him.”

  Jet lets out a long breath, and I finger the last bite of meat pie. What terrible years those must have been for the brothers, each chasing the approval of someone
who would never give it. But even if Kasta couldn’t see past his own hurt, Jet seems to have forgotten he did, when he realized how far apart they’d split. And looking at him now, shame darkening his face and his barely eaten pita in his fingers, I just see a sad boy who lost his brother far too young; a boy capable of forgiveness even after that brother tried to kill him.

  And I have a feeling it’s this boy, not the one who’s the best swordsman in Orkena, that the Mestrah saw when he asked him to rule.

  “Jet,” I say.

  “I know. It was petty, it was horrible, and I should have just let it go, but—”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  He shakes his head sharply. “It is. If I hadn’t gotten so defensive about it . . .” He bites his lip, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I know things can’t go back to what they were. But I’d always hoped that he’d forgive me.”

  The pain in those words aches in my bones. I don’t think he’d tell me this if he was planning to face off with Kasta at the caves, and I feel myself starting to trust him again, just a little.

  “You realize whatever changed Kasta happened before your rivalry,” I say.

  Jet shrugs.

  “You just wanted back the friend you’d lost. Kasta wouldn’t talk to you, so you tried something, and yes, it went wrong, but only because other things were going on that you couldn’t control. Like your father.” I say this with more disdain than I owe the god who runs our country, but I can’t help it. In my mind, he’s just as responsible for my being here as Kasta. “Kasta could have seen the change in you, or cared he was hurting you, but he didn’t. Whatever happened, you’d already lost him.” I hug my knees to my chest and gaze out at the dawn. “We all wish we could change how someone reacted in the past,” I say, thinking of Gallus’s sad smile. “Or that we could have seen it coming. It’s not our fault for hoping things would turn out differently.”

  They’re Fara’s words, said to me when Gallus left, and my heart pinches to repeat them. He’ll be waking soon. The sun will fill the little windows of the feed room and spill over our cots, and when he opens his eyes, the first thing he’ll see is my empty bed.