CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
T he next day, Daiyu comes to see me in my room. Maybe I’ve been allowed visitors again after telling the prince what he wants to hear.
A kitchen attendant, one I’ve never seen before, has just brought a tray of tea, with walnut pastries, melon jelly, and some sugared fruit. Someone must have told Cook Feng how many I’d eaten the day before when I was trying to distract myself. I push the dish away, my stomach roiling at the sight.
“You have the best food.” Daiyu smiles as she sits by the table, fingering the thin iron chain around her neck.
“Cook Feng is generous.”
“Only to those he favors.” She takes a grape and eats it, wiping the grains of sugar on a handkerchief. “I should visit you more often, especially during meals.”
I laugh. “I’d be glad for the company.”
“Are you happy to be back?” she asks. “Or did you prefer the trees of the Amber Forest to our courtyards? The company of the handsome advisor from Thorn Valley?” She grins as she says the last.
I don’t hesitate. “Of course, I’m glad. There is no place like the Palace of Nine Hills.” While I like Daiyu, while she’s been kind to me, I’m taking no chances. Betrayal isn’t always rooted in malice; it could be a slip of the tongue, an unthinking comment.
“Were you afraid to travel with the Thorn Valley soldiers? They appear brutish and uncouth—except for the advisor.”
“They kept to themselves most of the time,” I reply. “There wasn’t much opportunity for conversation, we had to travel at a quick pace.”
“I don’t envy Princess Chunlei’s fate, to be married off there. And what if some of us must follow her to Thorn Valley?” Daiyu asks with a shudder.
I sense the princess wouldn’t want to be pitied, nor would she force anyone to accompany her. She left the moment the banquet ended yesterday, her head held high. “It’s not been decided yet. Maybe Lord Chao will decline or His Highness will change his mind.”
“Why would Lord Chao refuse? It is a great honor to be offered our future king’s only sister as a bride. Moreover, Her Highness is beautiful, kind, and gracious.”
“His Highness should find another suitor that the princess would like more. Someone closer to home,” I suggest.
“Marriage has always been a tool for the royals. Prince Zixin must think of what is best for his kingdom.”
“Yet His Highness can marry who he chooses.” I speak lightly to blunt my words.
“Because he will be king. Even then, he will also marry to strengthen our kingdom.” Her eyes flick to me, curious and questioning. “There was a lot of gossip after you left.”
“Why?” I feign surprise. “What did they say?”
She picks up a wedge of mandarin and chews it slowly. “Some believe your leaving was a ploy to make His Highness desire you more. Others imagine it was to elevate your own position, to secure one from His Highness.”
It rankles how no one conceived the truth, that I didn’t want to marry the prince. But the gossip is useful for me to weave my lies into.
As Daiyu bites into a candied apricot, more sugar scatters on the table. I sweep it aside with my hands from habit—but then a sudden whimper slips from her throat. She sways where she sits, her face dotted with sweat, her radiance faded like sun-worn silk.
“What’s the matter? Are you sick?” I ask urgently.
“So cold,” she rasps, clawing her throat like it’s an effort to speak.
Panic grips me as I call for the guards. “Summon a physician! Miss Daiyu is ill!”
My fingers are stinging as I frantically untie the pouch that hangs from my sash, the one from Dian. I pull out the herb for stomach discomfort and slip it between Daiyu’s lips. But she retches, hoarse racking sounds, her arms clutching her body. Foam beads on her lips, her skin ice cold.
I pull Daiyu’s arm over my shoulder to help her to my bed. “The physician will be here soon,” I assure her, trying to calm myself.
Her legs buckle as she collapses to the ground, dragging me with her. Violet welts creep over her hands, her neck, across her face. As her lips tremble, I lower my head to her ear.
“Poison.” Her voice is so faint I can barely make out the word.
My fingers are burning, thin welts forming—like those on Daiyu’s—streaked through the flecks of sugar. I rush to the table, emptying a cup of warm tea over my hand. The discomfort subsides, though marks remain like the outline of a bruise. Daiyu is right; someone poisoned the fruit.
She is shivering, tears spilling from her eyes. “It hurts. Don’t let me die.”
“I won’t,” I promise rashly. The poison was meant for me; someone noticed me eating the sweets yesterday and sent this dish to my room. Fear writhes in my gut. Who would do such a vicious thing? That’s the peril of being in the palace, surrounded by strangers; you forget how dangerous they can be.
I rummage through the herbs again—strangled gasps breaking from Daiyu. She thrashes on the floor, her skin a sickly ash, a tattered shadow of her former self. She is dying… if only I could help her, if only I knew how.
A thought darts through my mind, something my sister told me: A kiss from a flower spirit can cure any poison.
I stare at Daiyu, doubt rising, but as her eyes close and her body goes limp—I don’t think anymore.
I bend to shift her face to mine, then press my lips to hers.
They are cold and soft, coated with a cloying sweetness like the juice of overripe fruit.
She doesn’t struggle, her eyes fluttering—
Footsteps thud outside, a rush of them. At once, I straighten, moving away.
Prince Zixin stalks into the room, his eyes sliding from me to Daiyu, then taking in the chaos of the chamber.
Attendants rush in after him, followed by an older man in a brown robe clutching a small bag—the royal physician.
He kneels by Daiyu’s side, taking her hand to feel her pulse, then checks the whites of her eyes.
“What happened?” Prince Zixin demands.
“Daiyu ate some sugared fruit and became sick. I think… she was poisoned.” I sound breathless, yet he doesn’t seem to notice. ”The dish was brought to my room.”
“Who would dare?” His voice is guttural with wrath.
The royal physician gestures for the dish to be brought to him. He sets Daiyu’s hand down and sniffs the fruit, inspecting it carefully. “Serpentroot,” he says gravely. “There is no known cure. The best we can do is to make her last moments comfortable.”
“Send guards to the kitchen. Search for any trace of foul play,” Prince Zixin commands. “Once we find the culprit, they will be punished.”
“Your Highness, what about Daiyu?” I ask.
“If the royal physician can’t cure her, no one can.”
Daiyu turns on her side, retching violently.
Yet some color stains her face now, no longer that sickly ash.
Hope surges as the physician takes her hand, listening to her pulse again, his head bent.
Finally, he pulls out a medicinal ball the size of my thumbnail and pushes it into her mouth, giving her a drink of water to wash it down.
Her throat convulses as she swallows, her breathing gradually calming.
The physician points at the dish of fruit. “Are you sure she ate this?”
I nod. “Will she be all right?”
“I believe so,” he says slowly. “Her vitals are improving. This is most unexpected; serpentroot is fatal, one of the most potent poisons.”
“She only ate a little.” I’m eager to douse the suspicion in the physician’s keen gaze, even as I recall the sugar scattered over the table, the pieces she’d consumed. But she’s safe; it had worked. I’d cured her.
“We must find out who is behind this despicable act,” Prince Zixin says harshly. “How dare they target those under my protection?”
“The fruit was brought here by an unknown attendant. Was the poison meant for me?” Now that Daiyu is better, my mind shifts to opportunity, a way to stir Prince Zixin’s protectiveness. Yet fear still flickers, that someone wants me dead.
“They will regret it. I won’t let them hurt you,” he assures me.
I slump as though overcome by shock. When Prince Zixin’s arm goes around my shoulder, I make myself lean against him like I crave his support, his strength to keep me safe.
As he strokes my hair, a tremor runs through me.
I tell myself I hate this, a despicable farce—necessary, to win back his trust. I can’t simply hope things will fall into place; fate is fickle and fleeting…
and not my ally. For many like me, victory is never yielded as a gift—any triumph must be planted, harvested, then seized.