The Kinder Poison

by Natalie Mae

  “I wasn’t pretending,” I mutter, though I may as well be speaking to the statues for how much difference it seems to make.

  “Kindness isn’t as quick as a sword, but it’s twice as effective. The merchant who found me fell for it easily enough. All I had to do was listen. Carry his bags. Help him with his camel, his tent. I accidentally woke him before I could slit his throat.” His brow creases. “He thought I was alerting him to a threat.”

  His eyes slide back to me, and I stifle a gasp, the feeling leaving my body from my shoulders out. This is all my fault. Every kind thing I did for Kasta, everything I told him, he thinks I did for my own gain. Now a man is dead because of it, and Alette—

  “You killed him,” Jet says, shaking his head. “Was it that easy?”

  Kasta swallows. The muscles in his jaw twitch, and despite the calm in his voice, I see the shake in his fingers. “I had to prove,” he says, finally looking away, “that I could do it.”

  That he could kill. That he could kill me. Maia said the day he went after the Shifter was the day he crossed the point of no return, but she was wrong.

  This will be the day he crosses it.

  “And Sakira?” Jet says.

  Kasta’s eyes flit to me. “I knew if I skipped the second checkpoint, I could head off the lead team before they reached the caves.” He lifts the scorpion by its tail. It wriggles in his fingers, but it can’t bend its body to pinch his hand. “But you weren’t there, Zahru. I didn’t understand. It was only with much convincing that Sakira confessed the reason.” He snaps the scorpion’s stinger from its tail. The rest of the creature he tosses aside. “And then everything aligned. The Speaker told her you’d arrive willingly at the caves, at Jet’s side. Just as I always knew you would.”

  “Because he chose me,” I snap, with more venom than I mean to. “Because that doesn’t matter to him at all.” I point to the altar.

  “I trusted you with everything.” Kasta’s blue gaze flashes, and an ache wraps my throat that threatens to choke me. “But at least you’ve made this easy.”

  “Stop this,” Jet says, stepping between us. “You’ve involved her enough. You’re a murderer and a disgrace, and your place is in chains, not on a throne. Yield the win.”

  “No.”

  “I will not hold back this time, Kasta,” Jet says, raising his blade. “You cannot win this, even if you take her life. You skipped a checkpoint. The priests will disqualify you.”

  “Ah, brother,” Kasta says, slowly drawing the Illesa from his belt. “But if you and Sakira are gone, what other choice will they have?”

  He rips the sword across the air. Jet tackles me as light bursts from the blade in a fiery arc, the magic slicing over us, blinding hot and crackling, and shoves me away just as the tip of Kasta’s sword slams the ground between us. Kasta stalks after him. Blades screech as Jet parries another attack, and I push to my knees and search the room, and it’s a terrible, terrible sort of déjà vu, except this time I have no protection runes, no conveniently abandoned stools. Think, Zahru, think—

  Jet curses. Light slams a mound of ash, spraying me and half the room, shaking the floor. I bolt for the exit, intent on running for Marcus, but Jet cries my name and I turn just in time to dive beneath another slice of light. The magic crashes into the tunnel before me, tipping the braziers at either side. Flames rush across the exit in a scalding whoosh. Horror twists my stomach as the fire licks higher, burning too hot and too high to be normal, and it’s then I notice the sparkle of burning powder across the exit, carefully hidden beneath a layer of sand. No. Kasta has already thought of this. Without a Water spell to counter it, none of us will be leaving.

  “Marcus!” I shout, though my voice is barely louder than the fire’s roar. I press closer, and the immense heat presses back. “Marc—”

  An explosive BOOM splinters the glass near me, showering me with shards and sending white cracks up the stone. I whip around, confused. There was no light before that attack. Jet can only cast me a panicked look before blocking another of Kasta’s strikes. He must have tried to use his Soundbending against Kasta—who used the bracelet to redirect it at me. The warning is clear. Jet won’t be able to use his magic at all.

  Gods, if I had even a little power, I could crack the wall and bring the ceiling in. Or turn their blades to straw. Or at least do something that would give Jet the upper hand so I wouldn’t have to wait here with my life on the edge of their swords, knowing that if the wrong prince wins, I’ll be dead in minutes. Helpless to change anything. Except perhaps to make it worse, like when I distracted Maia.

  I’m afraid to move.

  But Jet has already changed strategies. He stops attacking and dodges a blow that sets Kasta off-balance, and his blade finds Kasta’s ribs. Kasta gasps. His blood splatters the floor, and with a sickening lurch I realize what Jet meant about not holding back. If he wins, I’ll be spared, but he’ll still end up with blood on his hands. He’ll still have to sacrifice someone he was trying to protect; someone he lied for, someone he loved.

  Kasta squares himself and strikes again, but he strains his bleeding side and the blow falls short. Jet knocks his sword aside and kicks him where the blood runs heaviest. Kasta coughs, clenching the wound.

  “Yield,” Jet says.

  Kasta grits his teeth. He blocks Jet’s next strike and fires another bolt of light, but Jet ducks and slices his bicep. Kasta grunts and recovers, but he’s weakening. He misses the next block. Jet slices his leg.

  He’s winning, but with the Illesa’s stunning light, Kasta only needs one opening. I’m dreading the moment Jet falters. The moment he’s even a fraction too late.

  I can’t watch this.

  I turn away, my hand over my eyes. I think of anything else—of Hen at home, making dresses out of reeds. Of Fara stirring his morning tea. Of the river in Atera at night, as full of stars as the sky. Of holding Jet’s hand—

  Kasta shouts, shattering my escape. It’s a war cry, a death cry, and blades clang and a blinding flash of light explodes a mound of ash, splattering me with debris. The world trembles and then it’s silent—terribly, terribly silent—and I turn as slowly as I dare, praying Jet was merciful, praying it was quick.

  But it’s not Jet who stands leaning on his sword, using the blade like a cane.

  Kasta got his opening. Jet lies sprawled against a hill of ash on the far side, his eyes closed, his bloodstained sword loose in his hand. With his head tipped toward the ceiling, he almost looks peaceful. Kasta straightens, slowly.

  He limps toward his brother, gripping his side, his sword dragging against the floor.

  Oh gods. Oh gods oh gods oh gods—

  “Stop,” I say, but it’s a weak sound, and Kasta ignores it. He knows he’s won. He knows there’s nothing more anyone can do to him. Jet will never beat him at anything again. Jet will never sneak down from another balcony or ask about Nadessa or make me believe I’m worth crossing the desert for, or look at me like he did last night, and say I make him believe in the gods—

  “Stop!” I yell.

  Kasta doesn’t. I could scream at the unfairness of it all, that I have to be the one who has to watch this, that no decision I make will end this happily. Kasta’s ten steps away. Eight. He’s injured. Maybe if I tackled him, if I used a sleeping stinger before he could react—

  Something glints at the center of the room.

  And that’s when I realize I’ve been looking at this all wrong.

  All this time I’ve been pleading with the gods to rescue me. I thought each time I failed to escape was a sign I was worthless, that I was meant to die, that I’d landed here only because I wasn’t powerful enough not to. That I could never be enough, not for anyone else, and certainly not myself.

  But magic isn’t the only thing that holds power.

  And I’ve never been the one who needed rescue.
>
  Do you know why it’s important to face our fears?

  I’m the rescuer. Because what I have to offer is different. Because what I have to offer is far more potent than bringing the caves crashing to the ground or twisting rivers to my will. I can be a Whisperer, and I can convince runaway princes to take their place on the throne. I can be a simple girl from a simple town and still know exactly how to make Orkena’s most merciless royal yield without a sword. I don’t need stronger magic, because I take the time to listen. I take the time to care. I have people I’d die for, and people who’d die for me. And that . . .

  That is more powerful than any magic.

  I sprint for the altar. Atop the glass jut two small gold supports, upon which a beautiful, terrible knife lies, its edge rusty with old blood. Sabil’s balancing scales form the hilt. I look over my shoulder, at Kasta standing over Jet’s prone body, his blade raised.

  I lift the knife and turn.

  And lower the blade to my arm.

  * * *

  “Kasta,” I say, and this time it’s not a plea, but a command. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to drag this blade across my wrist, and you’ll never get your magic.”

  The Illesa quivers in midair. Kasta turns, finally acknowledging my presence, skepticism pulling at the shadows in his face. He doesn’t stab his brother, but he doesn’t lower the sword, either.

  “You won’t,” he says finally. “You’re afraid to die.”

  “Yes,” I confess, gripping the hilt. “But that’s going to happen either way. So you decide. You can kill your brother and get your vengeance, or you can have your magic.”

  I pray I haven’t misjudged him. That his hate for Jet is not so strong he’d make the trade. His good arm flexes on the sword. He looks down at Jet’s peaceful face, and a frustrated snarl escapes his lips as he lowers the blade and turns, blood oozing from his side.

  “You realize after you’re dead, I’ll kill him anyway,” he says.

  “No, you won’t. Because you’re going to give me your word that you’re never going to hurt him again, not physically or otherwise, and the same goes for Melia and Marcus. In case you’re considering a false promise, I’ll remind you of where we are. I wouldn’t push the gods any more than you already have.”

  His gaze shifts to the statues behind me, broken and shattered. He wavers, perhaps judging how serious I am, but his eyes lock on the knife.

  “Fine,” he says. “I promise it.”

  “Promise what?”

  “That I’ll bring them no further harm, if you give me that knife. Do you agree?”

  I shiver and bite my cheek. “I agree. But leave the sword there.”

  “No.”

  “You will,” I say, gritting my teeth as I push the blade harder against my skin, just enough to bring a bright line of blood to the surface.

  “Fine! Fine. Stop.” I’ve never seen him panicked. It’s a strange thing on his face, a strangely honest thing, and his weapon falls with a clang. His other hand presses hard against his bleeding side, and I ease the pressure on the knife.

  He starts toward me.

  It’s at this point I realize what I’ve done is something I won’t return from. I won’t get to say goodbye to Fara. I will never tell this story to Hen. It won’t matter how many clothes I memorized or types of food I learned, and fear pulls at the wildest threads in me, begging me to run, to use the knife against him. But I can’t lose control. If I break the agreement, Jet will suffer the consequences. This has to stop. I have to face the real reason I’m here, and I have to say what needs to be said.

  Kasta pauses just outside of striking range. He seems to consider, too, that I might use the knife against him, and his eyes search my face, looking for the lie.

  I haven’t lowered the blade from my wrist.

  “When you kill me,” I say, choking back my fear, “you will honor my memory by being the king I wanted you to be. You’ll help the Forsaken. You won’t hurt anyone ever again, not on purpose, and you will never, ever use kindness as a weapon as you did this week. You will look for the good in others, as I tried to. You will not use your suffering to make others suffer, but to save them from it. Do you agree?”

  He tenses, waiting for the strike. As though I am the greatest threat between us.

  “Do you?” I shout.

  His gaze flickers from the knife to my eyes. “I agree.”

  My fingers shake so badly I nearly cut myself deeper. I sob and swallow, refusing to be afraid, trying to find an ounce of the strength I felt moments ago. It doesn’t make this any easier. I want to protect Hen and Fara. I want Kasta to think on this moment when the war comes and show Orkena the mercy he couldn’t show me. But I’m still not ready to die. I don’t want it to hurt. I don’t want his face to be the last I see.

  I pull my wrist away from the knife.

  And offer him the handle.

  Hope, terrible and raw, breaks across his face. The darkness pulls back, smoothing the harsh planes of his cheeks, softening his eyes, until he’s just a boy standing before me, a boy who’s afraid, a boy who can’t believe this moment is real.

  He takes the knife from me as carefully as if it were made of glass.

  And watches me.

  I clench my fists and return his gaze, and I try not to tremble, I try not to shake. I try to be as strong as Fara would want me to be. Kasta steps closer and rests a bloody hand on my shoulder and the tip of the knife against my heart. He’s still waiting for the trick. Still tensing for me to poison him, to cut him with a hidden blade, to reveal my real motive. Even I think desperately of the sleeping stingers in my tunic, but I can’t risk failing. If I miss, it will be far more than me who suffers.

  He flexes to stab me—

  And hesitates.

  I gasp in frustration, in the wild hope that maybe he won’t, that finally this is enough. My head buzzes so loud I can see the noise in my vision, great dots of black and white, the world swimming behind them.

  The light is in his eyes, silver-blue; uncertain.

  “You can still choose me,” I say, reaching for that light, and I don’t mean in the same way as before, of course, but if he would give this up for me, if he could trust me . . . “Does it matter what your father thinks if I’m there? Let me help you. Whatever happens, you’d have me.” I shudder, trying to keep control of my voice. “You wouldn’t be alone.”

  His grip loosens, ever so slightly. I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. I don’t know how much longer I can go before I crumble entirely, but I can’t lose it now, not when he’s listening, not when the knife is moving slowly, infinitesimally, away from my chest.

  Kasta shivers, and the shadows in his face surge and ebb.

  “Choose me,” I whisper.

  His jaw clenches. The blade trembles. Indecision winces across his face and I swallow, waiting. He’s considering it. He’s considering it and gods, I might survive this, I might finally have made a difference—

  The knife steadies.

  But it’s the regret in his eyes, the pain, that frightens me more than his anger ever did.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I wish I could.”

  His hand tightens on my shoulder, and he drives the blade in.

  XXXI

  AT first it feels like nothing. The pressure of the hilt against my chest, of something wrong within my skin. Static builds in my core like a gathering of clouds.

  Then it explodes into my body.

  My strength rips from me in a single breath, my legs buckling, my chest screaming as I drown in the fire of it, the finality. The caves brighten as white as the sun and back to black. Kasta holds me against him, his flesh hot and slick, his hand gentle behind my head. Muttering something. Cradling me like I’m the dearest thing he has, the dearest thing he’ll ever lose.

  Until he rips
the blade back out.

  I scream as white-hot pain surges through my chest, crippling my muscles, sending me to the floor. Or I try to, but the sound is gurgled and confused. Blood pours beneath me in a rising pool. Red on black, mixing with the ash. There’s too much of it. I try to stop it, I try to move my hand to cover the wound, but my body won’t listen. The caves blur and tilt. My eyes want to close. I swallow and let them, and my fear fades with the minutes, until it’s almost pleasant to lie here, to give in.

  * * *

  The pain stops. All that remains is the heat, tempered to something comforting and warm. Light builds behind my eyelids. The lantern of Rie’s carriage, I hope, come to deliver me to Paradise. The souls of those already in his vessel chatter and argue. I’ve been told ghosts whose bodies haven’t been buried are often disagreeable, but it seems silly to be complaining already, especially since Rie’s carriage will be far more impressive than even the glass boat I took to the palace. I try to turn toward the voices, to call out that I’m here, but pressure keeps my head firmly in place. The voices grow closer.

  “I’m aware of how much blood this is,” a woman says.

  “She’s trying to move,” says a man. “That’s good, right? Is that good?”

  “Bodies twitch after they die,” she replies. “But I don’t think I’ve lost her yet.”

  “You have to go faster. Melia, you have to go faster.”

  “I know.”

  Melia? I choke trying to say her name, and at once the light fades. Melia leans over me, her weight on my chest, both hands bloody and pressed to my heart. Marcus paces behind her. I try to smile—

  The pain returns like a lightning strike.

  I gasp as it twists through me, a new knife splitting me in two. Melia calls to Marcus, who holds me steady, but Melia’s laughing and sobbing, wiping her cheeks on her arm as she says something in Amian. The pain ebbs to an ache, then a twinge.

  Then I’m lying there, Marcus’s hands on my shoulders and Melia weeping into her hands, impossibly alive.