Page 69 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

That the same magick threading death into the king's blood has begun to thread into mine.

Chapter 21

Seravyn

It’s less than a week later that I realize something is amiss.

I’ve continued to deliver a careful administration to Aldric, but once I noticed his health was making a rebound, I increased the dosage. Two drops in his wine instead of one. Yet he’s resilient, as if he’s pulling strength and remedy from some unknown source—and it has me questioning every other time my draughts failed on him.

It has me questioning myself, my capabilities. My mother’s recipe.

Because today, Aldric is as vital as ever—crueler, more ravenous, prowling the halls and his queen with the same restless appetite. If anything, he seems stronger. And as I watch him across the great hall, his energy undimmed, a cold suspicion uncoils in my belly.

The dwale that should have dropped him at the feastonly made him brazen. Same as the one I fed him on our wedding night. And now my own poison, the most patient and reliable preparation in the whole of the Thorn Court’s dark arsenal, is no longer taking root.

It’s simply not possible. Not by any natural means.

As I walk the hall, I think about the way Aldric drinks from no cup he hasn’t watched poured. The way there’s a particular servant who attends him each morning, a stooped old woman I’ve glimpsed only in passing, who carries a covered cup into his chambers every morning. I’d assumed it was a tonic for his head, a hangover cure, or some vanity.

But what if it’s something else…a defense?

What if Aldric Vaelstrom, who has made enemies of half the realms and bled the other half dry, has his own dark practitioner somewhere in the bowels of this palace—a witch, a brewer, a hedge-sorcerer—feeding him something that arms his blood against any attack.

Beneath this unease is something colder and more curious, because if he has a counter-brew, then there’s a recipe, which means there’s a weakness.

One I need to discover if Ren and I are to be free.

My gaze finds the jester across the hall where he leans against a pillar in his motley, and for one stolen second his eyes meet mine, and the whole loaded, dangerous weight of everything we are passes between us in a single breath.

He gives me the smallest nod, a summons to meet him soon in our place.

I breathe it in, letting it rekindle my efforts as Icontinue to follow the king, hunting this elusive defense of his. For days I’ve watched his chambers. I’ve shadowed the old servant down to the dim cellars. I’ve spoken with Isolde, seeking some answer from her knowledge of the old workings. And now?—

Now, I crave a moment’s peace, to lose myself in his arms, not have to think and worry for a few brief moments.

When I see Aldric heading off in the direction of his war chamber, I escape Isolde and hurry to the north wing.

Once we’re sealed inside the secret library, his mouth finds mine, kissing me with a passion like he hasn’t tasted me in ages.

I push his tunic up to press my mouth to his warm skin, and my heart stills. Scattered across his collarbone, spreading down his inner arm, are bruises. Mottled yellow and green of old hurt layered under blooming new purple, and spreading.

Fear grips me in a vise. Because I know… Suddenly, I know there is no witch in the cellars. No counter-brew recipe for Aldric’s strange immunity. It’s not in Aldric’s blood at all.

It’s in Ren’s.

“Goddess divine,” I whisper as my fingers gingerly ghost over his skin.

“Sera…?” Ren breathes my name, and suddenly, terribly, I also hear how shallow that breath is.

I swallow, my fingers traveling over the bruises along his collarbone. “Whendid these come?”

He glances down. Shrugs, and the shrug costs him something—I see it, the small wince. “I don’t know. I bruise easy these days. Clumsy fool, I guess.” He tries for a crooked smile. “Occupational hazard.”

“Nonsense.” My voice comes out harsher than I intend. “You’re a thief. An especially good one. Thieves are not clumsy.” I press my palm flat to his chest, and beneath it his heart catches with a sick, familiar lurch.

The same lurch I felt when I laid my hand on Aldric’s to check that he still breathes.

No.