The Poison Throne (6 page)

He’s a thief
, she thought with a shock.

“I’m not a criminal,” he muttered, as if reading her thoughts, and she could tell that he was used to people jumping to that conclusion. A natural enough one, this being the punishment for theft in the North. But she’d never seen it done so viciously, with such awful scarring, and never to both hands. She gazed at the terrible wounds as if expecting them to speak, or transfigure.

He had fine, strong, white hands, the fingers slim and nimble looking.
Yes
, she thought, without satisfaction,
a musician, God help him, and it’s obvious
. But the middle finger of each hand was missing. The one on his right was a relatively clean amputation, the finger chopped from its socket, although the mess of shallow scars and runnels up the back of his hand told her that he must have fought madly. The knife had skipped and slid about, mutilating the surrounding flesh and the other fingers around it as the blade dug out his finger. The wound on his left was truly awful, because it spoke of such tremendous brutality. Only a small, gnarled stump of the finger remained, and that was badly crooked, as though the perpetrator had attempted literally to twist the finger from its socket. A long, pale ribbon of scar ran down the back of his hand and disappeared into his cuff, clean and surgical, as if someone had drawn an infection, releasing the pressure on an abscess.

Wynter couldn’t help it – her first thoughts were,
he has the advantage on me now, anything I say will make me look an ignorant brute
. And then, no more to her credit than the first thought,
you seem to have a talent for annoying folk, Christopher Garron. Whoever did this really wanted to hurt you
.

She looked up into his face, expecting triumph, and waited for him to press home his advantage. He had all the weaponry he needed now to make her look small in front of Razi. But there was only a shy kind of apology in his smile, and her heart jolted in her chest like an abrupt bang on a drum:
My God, you really have no idea how to play the game, do you?

He remained standing there, this slim, pale young man with fine black hair and slanting grey eyes, shyly holding out his mutilated hand, unaware of her ungracious thoughts. She must have stared at him for a long moment because eventually he said, “Do you still want to shake my hand?”

Oh Christopher
, she thought, with a sudden surge of sympathy,
this life will eat you up. It may well choke on you in the process, but you won’t survive it
. And then, with much colder intent, she thought,
I’m not letting you take Razi down when you go
.

She stood smoothly and smiled and took his hand. He accepted her handshake with no further self-consciousness, looking her in the eye and nodding a smile at her, the dimples back in force. “I’m Wynter,” she said, “Well met, Christopher Garron. God bless you and your path.”

And Razi grinned with delight.

Under the King’s Eye

“H
ow is Lorcan? Does he fare well?” Razi slid his eyes
sideways to her, judging her reaction. Here was one of those oblique questions that meant everything or nothing, depending on how you responded to them. The course the conversation took after such an inquiry was up to the one giving the answer.
Does he fare well?
Could be inferred as,
is he alive? Has he maintained his pride? His sanity? His health?
She could deflect all those subtexts with a simple
he’s fine
, and with anyone but Razi a simple
he’s fine
would be what she’d give.

But this
was
Razi and she said, “My father is unwell, brother. I fear for his life.”

Razi turned to her, concern written in broad strokes across his handsome face. The three of them were making their way up the back stairs, Christopher and Razi having decided that they needed to show Wynter their beloved horses. She had indicated her consent with a tired shrug; maybe they would become absorbed and she could lie down on a haystack and close her eyes for a while. Christopher had walked on ahead of them, giving them space.
Not so dense then
, she thought, as he had casually let the distance between them grow.

“Would your father allow me to examine him? Or would it be imprudent to bring it up?”

“Oh God,” she groaned, “don’t bring it up, Razi, please. He’s mortal afraid of seeming vulnerable.”

“I don’t blame him in the least,” muttered her friend, his brown eyes darkening. “Where is he now? Maybe I can sneak a look at him, judge his humours from afar.”

Wynter sighed and ran her hand over her burning eyes. Razi took her by the elbow and leaned in as they continued up the steps. “Wyn? You need to lie down, you’re all worn thin. Why don’t we accompany you to your chambers, and let you bathe and rest? I’m being selfish…”

She laughed and shook her head and held a hand up to silence him.

“Razi, even had I a chamber to retire to, I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from you so soon. I’ll lay my head on a bag of hay and let yourself and that fellow play with the horses, all right?”

He smiled and nodded.

“My father is with Heron,” she continued, “I assume they went to the King.”

Razi gave a bitter little laugh. “So, the wily old bird got to him first, eh?
There’s
no surprise.”

Wynter paused, the bitterness in Razi’s voice chilling her, and she put out her hand to stay her friend. On the steps above them, Christopher stopped immediately and turned to wait for them, slouching patiently against the wall.

“Razi, is Her—” Wynter glanced up at Christopher who was listening without even pretending not to. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Is Heron no longer our friend?”

Razi bit his lip, whether in impatience or uncertainty, Wynter couldn’t tell. Then he gave her a very pointed look, and when he spoke, his low voice carried, clear and sure, and intentionally up the stone steps to the pale young man above them. “Little sister, I am only certain of having two friends in this castle, and both of them are standing on these stairs with me now. Do you understand?”

Christopher turned and quietly mounted the steps. Wynter watched him until he rounded the corner out of sight. His expression hadn’t changed in the slightest at Razi’s words, and she had no idea if he even understood the responsibility that Razi had just lain at his feet. Lain at
our
feet, she reminded herself.

“Court life will kill that fellow,” she said, then looked Razi straight in the eye and knew at once that he already understood this. “He’s not suited for it, Razi. He’s too direct. It will destroy him.”

Razi shifted uncomfortably and dropped his gaze. “I don’t intend to be here long enough for that to happen, sis. I’m moving on.”

She almost buckled when he said that. She had to physically restrain herself from grabbing onto him and screaming his name. She swallowed her heart back down into her chest, where it lay like a brick of lead, leaching poison into her system. She shook her head in denial.

“I intend to leave as soon as I can,” he said, looking earnestly down at her. “I’m going to Padua, to teach at the university. They have granted me a fellowship. I will be able to continue my research, is that not wonderful? And, Wyn, I would very much like to set up a household there. I want Christopher to breed my horses for me and I will be needing to build a house… I was going to ask—”

“Razi!” Christopher came running back around the corner, hissing as he raced down the stairs towards them. He jerked to a halt when they turned to him, Razi growling in frustration, Wynter dashing tears from her eyes and gritting her teeth. He held his hand up and retreated a step or two, his face apologetic, but urgent. “The Victuallor is coming, and there’s a man with him, a big, red-haired fellow.”

“Dad!” Wynter pushed her way past Christopher, and ran up the stairs to her father. Moving fast, making distance, just for something to do with all the violent energy she suddenly had bottled up inside her.

Heron and her father came around the bend at a pace, and drew up short at the sight of the youths scattered on the steps below them. Their three faces must have screamed
tension
because the two older men paused in identical poses of uncertainty, and both said “umm” simultaneously in embarrassed surprise.

Wynter wanted to fling herself into her father’s arms. She wanted to scream,
Razi is leaving! He’s leaving already!
Instead she came to a decorous halt a few steps below him and bowed stiffly, her tears dry on her face.

“Well met, good Father, Victuallor Heron. How fares the King, good sirs?”

Heron looked past her and jerked his chin at Razi. “His Majesty wishes your presence now, my Lord. He would consult with yourself and the Protector Lord Moorehawke in his chambers.”

Razi stalked obediently up the steps, but Wynter made a small sound of protest and exclaimed, “Father! Are you not to eat? Have you not rested at all?”

Lorcan made an impatient shushing gesture at her, but Razi paused, took a good long look at her father’s face and then turned to Heron, his expression hard. “You have not been able to find me yet, Victuallor. While you are searching, the Protector Lord shall go to the kitchen and have himself a meal.”

Heron stared at Razi for a moment and Wynter saw something dawning in the old man’s face. He turned slowly and looked at her father, really scrutinising him, really
inspecting
him. Wynter swallowed.

Lorcan narrowed his eyes at his old friend, his face cold, then he turned imperiously away and addressed Razi, “I am most grateful for my Lord’s benevolence, but I do not yet need to pause. Please, if you are ready, let us continue to our Majesty’s presence.” He gave Wynter a fleeting glance and spoke to her even as he was turning to leave. “I shall return when I am released by the King, child. Go bathe and change and rest; there is to be a banquet tonight at sundown.”

Then he was off up the steps without another word, his riding boots clattering on the stone, his plait swinging heavily behind him. The smell of horse and campfire and hard travel lingered long after he’d turned the corner and gone from sight.

Heron raised his eyebrow impatiently at Razi who gave Wynter a helpless look. As he turned to go, Razi glanced at Christopher and tilted his head meaningfully as he did,
look after her
. Christopher nodded, and Wynter fought the urge to push him down the steps. Look after her, indeed! Look after
Christopher
more like.
He
was the one most likely to get his throat slit on his way to the privy.

Heron lingered a moment, already half-turned to go. “Garron,” he said, “the Protector Lady Wynter and Protector Lord Moorehawke are quartered next to your master’s rooms. Ensure the Protector Lady is settled comfortably.”

Christopher lifted his chin in response and Heron’s eyes flashed at him.
You’re meant to bow, you imbecile
, thought Wynter. But the Victuallor didn’t bother to comment, he just sneered and padded up the steps after Razi and her father, disappearing quickly from view and leaving the two of them alone.

Wynter retrieved her tools from Marni’s care and stalked to the stables without a word. Christopher strode along beside her, surprisingly quiet. She had expected irritating chatter, attempts to draw her out, flirting. But he just kept pace, his grey eyes thoughtful.

When they got to the stables, he disappeared for a moment and returned with two page boys, organising them with admirable efficiency and good humour so that, fairly soon, Wynter’s and her father’s things were gathered up and transported to their new chambers and she once again had somewhere permanent to lay her head. As permanent as court life could allow, at any rate.

She stood in the middle of their receiving room and looked around her with a heavy heart. It was an excellent suite, a large receiving room with two big shuttered windows looking down onto the orange trees, brightly painted and with cheery tapestries on loan from the King’s collection. Off this was a small retiring room and, off that, two spacious and airy bedrooms, both filled with the glorious light of what was now evening. Wynter was pleased to see that the King had furnished the rooms with all the old furniture of their previous accommodation: her pine bed, with its pretty insect-netting and curtains. The wash stand, her blanket box that her father had carved. All of Lorcan’s bedroom furniture was here, and in the receiving room, the four rounded armchairs, filled with the cushions that Wynter’s mother had embroidered whilst in her confinement. All so familiar and lovely.

But why here?
she thought. Why not in their beloved old cottage in the grounds, under the shade of the walnut trees, down by the trout brook at the foot of the meadow? Where they had been blissfully far away from the intricacy of court, and out from under the eye of the King. Where Wynter had been able to get out of bed in the morning and fish for breakfast in the river, still barefoot and wearing her long johns. Where the smell of her father’s workshop had kept the air spicy with wood shavings and resin all day long. Now everything would be protocol, politics and etiquette every minute of every hour of every day. Obviously the King wanted them near, he wanted them
observed
. He didn’t trust them.

“Do you not like your rooms?”

She was startled out of her reverie by Christopher’s quiet voice, and turned quicker than she should have, staggering a little as her head swam. He was leaning by the hall door, and had the sense to ignore her loss of balance.

“They’re beautiful,” she said as she found her footing, hoping that she sounded sincere. “Very fine.”

He didn’t seem that impressed. “Huh,” he said, and then, looking very directly at her, “Razi said you would hate them. He said you wouldn’t like being confined. He tried very hard to get your cottage back for you, you know. The pretty one? By the stream?”

That was too much – Razi’s attempted gesture of love and understanding. Suddenly her eyes were filled with tears that she couldn’t contain, and she put her hands to her face with a high breathy sob and began weeping.