Her husband didn’t react. Instead he put out his hand, the chalice gripped in his fingers. “Share in this with me, my lord,” he said. Torchlight gleamed on the cup and in the wine, shining a dim and syrupy red.
Konegin snorted, shoving his own cup back to his servant. The one in the reversed livery. His own man, Erida knew, feeling a wave of cold settle over her limbs.
“I’ve had my fill, Taristan,” he answered, still smiling with red teeth. “So have you.”
“Very well,” Taristan answered, knocking back the rest of the chalice, the wine running over his chin and chest, never blinking, never breaking his gaze on Konegin’s face.
Beneath his mustache, her cousin’s smile fell.
“What are you?” hissed from his mouth.
Erida leapt to her feet, the pieces snapping together in her head. Treason. Betrayal. Poison. She knocked the cup from her husband’s hands and pointed to her royal cousin, her fingers shaking. “Arrest him,” she blurted out, nearly a scream. “Take Lord Konegin into custody—put him in chains.”
The lord quivered, still watching Taristan, his face torn between confusion and dread. “What are you?” he said again, stepping off the dais.
“Arrest him!” Erida shouted, and the hall exploded into noise. “He has tried to poison the prince!”
Her knights surged, eager to obey, even if the orders bewildered them. Konegin was beloved by many, a potential king to a young, untested queen. He had supporters among the nobles, many in the hall. Many in the army. Erida felt her knees tremble as he plunged into the crowd, his own entourage following him quickly. Even his idiot son managed to flee, scurrying after his father as quickly as his legs would carry him.
Poison, she thought again, coming back to herself.
There was a warmth beneath her hand, another around her back. She tore herself from the disarray of the feasting hall to look down, to her own fingers flush against Taristan’s coat, pressing firmly into his chest. She blinked, dumbfounded. It was his arm around her waist, keeping her close.
He looked down at her, his lips and chin red. She imagined him like a beast, a predator feasting on prey.
“Poison,” she said aloud, raising a shaking finger.
He caught it before she could touch his lips, pushing her away.
“I am immune,” he ground out. “You are not.”
The Lionguard moved in pursuit, most of them charging after Konegin and his men. They disappeared through the doors at the far end of the hall, streaking for the courtyard and the gates of Castle Lotha. Erida wanted to gather her skirts and follow. To pin Konegin down herself and cut his throat for his treachery.
Instead she remained at the high table, a statue to all who saw her, though her bones were shaking.
I’ll need to explain, she thought idly, eyeing the room. Her loyal subjects were in a frenzy, too drunk to understand or too confused to do anything more than shout. Her remaining knights bristled at the base of the dais, pushing back any who attempted to pass.
All but Ronin.
They knew better than to cross the wizard.
He glowered, his body twitching in an odd manner, his face whiter than Erida could ever remember it being. Like fresh snow, like a corpse drained of blood. The whites of his eyes were lined with blood vessels, some broken.
Taristan wiped at his face with his sleeve, scrubbing the poison away. “What is it?” he snarled, looking down on his wizard.
Ronin dropped his head, his hands raised like a priest begging forgiveness. “We’ve lost Meer,” he murmured. “We’ve lost a Spindle.”
The chalice, made of pure silver, cracked apart in Taristan’s hands.
Erida felt his rage. It mirrored her own.
“Lost,” she breathed. As if someone has simply misplaced it. Blood roared in her ears and she met Taristan’s eye, catching his wrists before he could tear the table into pieces. “Lost,” she said again, snarling.
He glared, the fire burning in his eyes, a dull red edged in gold. Somewhere, Erida smelled smoke. “I’ll kill her,” he hissed.
“I’ll help you,” she answered.
If you loved Realm Breaker, don’t miss the first breath-taking instalment in Mare’s story, Red Queen.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing this novel has been a cathartic experience. It was a welcome escape from increasingly frustrating times, and I hope to pass that on to readers. But what became an escape began as a step backward, to the girl I was at thirteen, searching for myself in stories but never finding her. Everything I loved didn’t seem to love me back. I hope, as the years roll on, that sentiment becomes more and more rare, for all children.