Treacherous Witch
The Poisoned Goblet

“Pride is the opposite of humility. Pride leads to overconfidence, outspokenness, and ambition. A lady who speaks out of turn at court may be forgiven once, especially when young. But to do so twice is a grave faux pas that will not be forgotten.”

Lady Briony Bretton’s Guide to Court Etiquette for Promising Young Ladies

They couldn’t speak openly in front of Lady Ophelia. But later that afternoon, when Valerie returned to her quarters to get ready for dinner, she found Iora waiting for her there instead of Priska. Iora held out a small velvet pouch, which Valerie took with a raised eyebrow.

“A gift,” said Iora, “from Lady Ophelia.”

“Really?”

Iora smiled. “No. But it got me in here, didn’t it? We have a plan—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. “Is Lavinia safe? Did she make it out?”

She ushered Iora over to the seat by the bay window, where the golden harp stood untouched and she’d be able to easily see anyone else entering her quarters.

Iora clasped her hands. “Last I heard, she was on her way to Bolebund.”

“Is the Abbess still in charge of Bolebund?”

Iora nodded. “Why?”

Valerie passed on her information: everything Ophelia had told her that she deemed to be relevant, in particular the fact that Ophelia had been sent here to marry a lord of Bolebund and end the war.

“Marriage? Who in Bolebund would convert to the Drakonians’ barbaric church?”

“I don’t know,” said Valerie. “She said she has several suitors. Who’s the commander?”

“The Abbess’s brother.”

“Then they must be planning a coup,” said Valerie, thinking quickly. “This could be the Empire’s response to failing to capture Bakra. If they find a Maskamery man power-hungry enough to topple the Abbess...”

“They’d have to kill her first.”

Valerie nodded. “Tell the Abbess. If there is a lord of Bolebund coming to visit us in Jairah, he’s your traitor.”

Iora shook her head. “I can’t believe anyone would do that. First Quintus, now this... We’re never going to get our freedom back if Maskamery keep colluding with the enemy.”

“They’re colluding with the enemy because the enemy is offering them a better deal. A new lord of Bolebund wouldn’t have to share power with the Abbess. He’d rule the city himself.”

“Under the thumb of the Empire.”

“Just as they were under the thumb of the royal family. What difference does it make if you see an opportunity for wealth and power?”

Iora looked disgusted, but it was, she thought, a practical matter. This was the problem with the resistance. They believed in their own ideals and couldn’t see why anyone else would need a motivation to join beyond that. Prince Bakra believed himself the rightful ruler of the queendom. Iora believed in the cause, in fighting for the spirit of the nation. Markus did too. But most people were just trying to survive. People like Flavia taking care of her sick mother, the Maskamery soldiers who needed to put food on the table. And if those in charge benefited from the new world, why go back to the old one?

And the losers, she thought, well, they can’t do anything about it anyway.

“Iora,” she said. “Did you ask Bakra about the temple? The door?”

Iora hesitated. “I asked.”

“And?”

“You mustn’t open it. That’s his command, he was very clear about that.”

She bit back a familiar irritation. “Why not? What’s in there?”

“He didn’t say. Just don’t open it, that’s all he said.”

“Why? Why should I stay here and risk my life if he won’t even tell me what’s at stake?”

“Val...” Iora shook her head. “I’m sorry. I did ask, I promise, but...”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m frustrated at him. There’s something going on here, some kind of secret the royal family doesn’t want us to know. How did you get into the palace?”

Iora frowned. “What?”

Ophelia had introduced Iora as her lady-in-waiting, specially selected from the maidservants in the palace. She hadn’t wanted to raise suspicion by asking about it, but Iora hadn’t been on the roster of palace servants before Ophelia arrived. Valerie had worried before that the Salver family was compromised anyway. Lord Avon had told her himself that Koel had given away information on places she frequented, like the apothecary, and that had given him a lead on the resistance...

It had probably led him to Quintus. But wouldn’t Iora’s family also have fallen under suspicion?

“The palace,” she said. “We both know you never worked here. How did you get into Ophelia’s entourage?”

“I was recommended.”

“By who?”

“I can’t—”

“You can’t say.” She sucked in a breath. “There’s a traitor. Someone else in the palace is helping you. Has it occurred to you that I could do my job better if we worked together?”

Iora was trying to help, she knew that. But she hated the way they were going about this.

“It doesn’t matter.” Iora leaned forward, taking her hands. “We have a plan. At the dinner, tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“The pouch.”

Valerie looked down at the pouch on her lap. A sudden feeling of unease stirred her. She opened it and drew out a vial made of frosted glass. It looked like a perfume bottle, but when she twisted the golden stopper, she found a thin glass tube designed to administer liquid in doses, like ear drops. Or...

She looked up at Iora and whispered the word, her mouth dry. “Poison.”

The palace was livelier than she’d ever seen it. More visitors arrived throughout the day: Lord Dryden and a small contingent from Enyr, Maskamery men and women dressed like Drakonian lords and ladies, and others she didn’t recognise. Lady Melody was only too happy to name check each and every visitor as they passed through the entrance hall. So even before they were seated for dinner, Valerie had already identified Lord Kreios Silver of Bolebund, a tall angular man with the strong eyebrows of the northern Maskamery—like herself—and one of several suitors introduced to Lady Ophelia.

Ophelia received her suitors’ tokens with the air of an excitable girl on her birthday. Valerie watched as Kreios kissed Ophelia’s hand and presented her with a beautiful necklace decorated with a tiny silvertree.

“An emblem from my people to yours,” he said.

Valerie hated him immediately.

Lord Avon took her arm, nodded graciously at the guests, and led the way into the dining hall. The plates had already been set at the long table, a dazzling array of silverware, along with thirty or forty bottles of red and white wine. It was all rather splendid, but Valerie’s eyes darted over the servants lining up by the wall—she caught Iora’s eye...

Avon pulled out her chair for her, a perfect Drakonian gentleman. She took it with a murmured thank you as the other guests filed in. Ophelia entered the hall with Lady Rose and Master Pedram on her arm, but as soon as she spotted Valerie, she beamed and came over, her petticoats fluttering with every step.

“Lady Valerie! Are we to sit together?”

Valerie forced a smile. “Of course.”

Avon had a personal taster who tried his food and drink in advance to check for poison. This courtesy was available to the other lords and ladies if they wished it, but most of them didn’t bother. She’d never considered it herself. And the resistance had never tried poison as a tactic before, which perhaps explained their complacency.

Still, they weren’t able to poison Avon’s food in advance. Her task was to distract him and give Iora an opening to do it, after the taster had already deemed his drink safe.

Easier said than done.

Avon took the high seat at the head of the table, as was his right as Chancellor. To his left: Lord Dryden and Master Pedram. To his right: Lord Gideon and Lady Melody. She had inconveniently been placed at the centre of the table, next to Lady Ophelia and surrounded by Maskamery suitors. As the first drinks were poured, the starting course was served: smoked salmon, prawns, cream cheese, and coriander. Servants flitted in and out as cheery laughter filled the air.

Kreios and Ophelia were already deep in conversation. She laughed at something he said, then turned to Valerie.

“Valerie, have you ever been to Bolebund? Lord Silver says it’s the most wondrous city in Maskamere.”

“Well, it is right now,” she said, “because it’s the only city that still has a silvertree.”

There was a short silence. Kreios gave Valerie an appraising look.

“Lady Valerie, is it?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “Of the Crescent family. You’re Silver? Who is your mother?”

This question, perfectly acceptable at a Maskamery gathering, was absurd at a Drakonian dinner, and they all knew it. Melody glared at her, and Dryden looked up from his salmon. Kreios flushed.

“Silver, yes,” he answered shortly.

“Does your family know you’re planning to convert to the church?”

Ophelia blinked, open-mouthed.

“My family wishes for peace in Bolebund,” said Kreios. “Building a church would be a symbolic gesture, and my artisans can help.”

“You’re a family of artisans?” Ophelia asked.

This was a safer topic of conversation. Kreios turned to answer her, ignoring Valerie. The dinner moved on. By the time dessert was served, she’d lost her appetite. She kept glancing up at Avon, picturing what she had to do...

Finally, Avon stood up, as imposing as ever, and raised his glass. The hall fell silent.

“A toast,” he said, “to my dear sister, Lady Ophelia.”

As the guests cheered, as they drained their goblets and Ophelia beamed, she thought: Do I really want him dead?

Weeks ago, days ago even, she would have done it in a heartbeat. To doubt it now was absurd. And yet here she was, doubting.

Why?

“Drinks all round!” said Avon to hearty cheers. “I’ll not have my wine wasted.”

The atmosphere around the dinner table was now considerably more relaxed, guests getting up and intermingling. A couple of lords and their courtesans had already snuck off.

Her heart thundering, Valerie made a beeline for Avon. He was leaning back in his chair, looking up at Lord Gideon, Lord Sandford and Lord Warren, all vying for his attention.

“My lord.”

Without any preamble, she climbed into his lap. Avon’s eyebrows shot into his hair.

“Are you drunk?”

“Lady Ophelia’s suitors are all hideous and not good enough for her. I thought you should know.”

She was blocking Avon from reaching the table. In the corner of her vision, she sensed Iora moving over to top up his goblet... No one noticed; all eyes were on her. Avon’s hand reached around the small of her back, and he looked up at the other lords with a wry smile.

“A word of warning for any of you courting a Maskamery woman: they don’t lack for opinions.”

“Nor modesty,” Gideon sneered, and the lords chuckled.

Oh, she’d happily poison him.

“No, Valerie has never been modest,” said Avon, his cool tone surprising her. “I rather prefer her that way.”

He nudged her and she took the hint, scrabbling out of his way as Avon stood up. Truthfully, she was a little flushed. Then Ophelia bounced over, arm-in-arm with Kreios, and snatched up Avon’s goblet from the table.

“A toast!” she said. “Brother, may we?”

“Lord Silver,” said Avon, inclining his head.

Iora had retreated from the scene, but she’d done it, she must have... The pang in her stomach became a pit as Ophelia handed the goblet to Kreios, as he lifted it—

“To new beginnings,” he said.

Valerie trembled, caught between the urge to knock over his goblet and to leave him to it. He was, after all, a traitor. And if she did something, they’d ask questions. She’d have to explain what she’d done.

Kreios sipped from the goblet. Then he handed it back to Ophelia, and she raised it in triumph.

“To peace.”

Ophelia!

Valerie lunged forward and knocked the goblet out of Ophelia’s hand.

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