Brilliant. Kazimir now suspects I am here to either moon over the king or kill him. While I’d like to steer him toward the former, as embarrassing as that is, it won’t help the king any.
“I am the only one here who will go out of his way to arrange a private audience for you, Gracen. Consider that.”
There’s no use sitting on this information. I do another scan for nearby ears, but I doubt anyone would even know I’m here, hidden behind this warrior’s frame. “I think I know who tried to poison the king.”
He stares down at me. He’s waiting for me to elaborate.
I swallow. “The future queen.”
His expression turns hard, but no shock touches it, I note. “That is exceptional, and quite the accusation, one that could end your life. Do you have proof?”
“Yes … no? … Honestly, I don’t know what I have.” The confession of an impish little boy. “But I do know she had a vial of the poison.”
“And where is it now?”
“In the latrine.”
Pulling himself to his full height, he smooths his thumb over the pommel of his sword as he steps back and does a cursory glance around. The captain has six weapons on him that I can count, and who knows how many more hidden. “Go about your evening as you would, and I will seek you out when it’s time. And Gracen?” He levels me with a hard gaze. “Speak about this at your own peril.”
By the time I reach the kitchen, my hands are shaking.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ATTICUS
“Why would Saoirse try to poison me before the wedding?” From the balcony of my chamber, I study a couple strolling into the castle’s lush gardens. “After? I fully expect it and will plan accordingly, but if I’m dead before, she does not become queen. Not without a fierce battle, anyway. Do you think the mortal speaks the truth?”
“I do.” Kazimir leans against the stone rail next to me, sharing my view. “And to answer your other question, to strike fear.”
“Say more.”
“Adley came to you in the sparring court, looking to move up the wedding and Presenting Day. He used the recent attack on you as an excuse, but I don’t think he was merely seizing an opportunity. I think he orchestrated it. He knew you would never feed without a guard sampling your tributary first, so the risk would be worth it.”
“Never is a strong word.” If that guard hadn’t been so stoic to his duty—or fearful of Boaz’s reprimand—he might have allowed me to brush him aside. “Perhaps you are right.”
“I told you already, I’ve caught whispers. Of lords and ladies who wish for a change of rule beyond the boundaries of your bloodline.”
“Yes, I expect as much. They’ve always been there, even when my father was king.” They’ve been circling like vultures since my parents were murdered.
“Those whispers come with urgency now. They suspect you did not plan for this ascension to the throne, and they do not want to give you too much time to gain a stronghold. Adley is not blind or deaf to these schemes. If I were him, I would try to control the outcome before he can’t.”
“How?”
“By courting the usurpers with the might of Kettling in his pocket while ensuring he gains the throne for his daughter.”
Kazimir can be cynical at times and turn an innocent exchange into a multifaceted conspiracy theory. But he’s always right when it matters most. “So you’re saying I seized my brother’s crown to keep the kingdom out of enemy hands, and yet I might have made it easier for new ones to claim it.”
“You’ve proven it can be done. The throne has not been taken since King Rhionn executed his father for tempting Malachi that last time. It’s been two thousand years.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, this lingering headache unwilling to abate. If anything, it’s worse.
Kazimir sighs. “You aren’t trained to suffer through withdrawal for weeks, Atticus. You are not a legionary.”
“I knew my gluttony would come back to haunt me one day.”
“You are a greedy pig,” he mocks, but his tone shifts to seriousness. “You need to feed. You are long past due.”
“And what? Ask another guard to risk their life for me?” I can’t shake the bloodcurdling screams that echoed in my chamber when the Islorian fell to the floor in agonizing pain, as Sabrina realized she was the source.
The staff did a commendable job, scrubbing the blood from the carpet where I speared him with my blade, putting him out of his misery, and yet every time I look at that spot, I still see a fresh pool of crimson. It doesn’t make sense. I’ve battled, I’ve bled, I’ve killed. Why does this weigh so heavily on me now?