Chapter Fifty #2
The smells of roast meat, butter, and spices are overwhelming. Namreth hasn’t lost his taste for Alarician delicacies even in this parched desert.
The kitchen is the most packed area I’ve seen yet, and the most silent. No one speaks. Everyone moves as if they are puppets on strings, revolving around one another in a coordinated dance. No one looks at us as we enter.
How many of them are in on the plan?
Aren guides me to the pantry, where she fetches her supplies—including the special seasoning she requested. My eyes go to the knives in woodblocks on the counters. I count six right there. But I must be patient.
By this time, the others will have made their way to their positions, too. All I can do is focus on my assigned tasks and think about how I will kill the king when the time comes.
Aren does most of the work making the pies, while I act as her assistant, handing her anything she asks for. She macerates the fruit, folds the crusts, cuts the pastry. It’s a delicate process, and in any other circumstance, I would have loved to watch her work.
“Hey,” she whispers, quiet enough to not be heard over the clanging of pots. I look at her. She tips her head toward a knife that’s just been cleaned, sitting on the edge of the sink. It’s a carving knife, the blade hardly wider than two fingers, but it’s sharp.
I turn so my back is to the knife. I grab the handle and hand it off to her, swift and silent. She tucks in her waistband. No one notices. If they do, no one says a word.
One down. Many more to go.
…
When I pull the last pie out of the oven, time is up.
The sun set hours ago, and the party in the grand ballroom of the castle is in full swing.
There is a constant rotation of servants moving food out of the kitchen, and it hardly lets up, even now.
All in all, Aren has armed the entire kitchen staff plus some designated servers who have passed through to bring food to the ballroom.
The special pies are stacked on a large cart, still steaming and ready to be served, but some guards stationed in the kitchen are growing impatient to get on with it.
“You there. Bring that here!” a guard shouts at me. He is already rosy-cheeked from wine and glares at me with beady eyes.
The perfect combination: drunk and mean.
I stare, baffled that anyone would talk to me. I glance in Aren’s direction, and she nods. I bring the pie toward the guard.
“Set it down,” the guard orders.
I do as I’m told, placing the still-hot pie on the counter. I step away, hands tucked behind my back like I’ve seen so many other servants do at my father’s table.
Unceremoniously, the guard sticks his finger into the pie. “What’s this?” the guard asks, his voice low and teasing.
He watches me expectantly, waiting for an answer with his finger still deep in the pie’s crust. It must be hot, but the guard just stares at me with a wide, hungry smile.
“Rhubarb,” Aren says, coming up to my side, and then adds, “sir.”
The guard’s eyes turn hungry as he looks at Aren, and I bristle. The guard slowly pulls his finger out of the pie and licks it clean.
“Delicious,” he says, leering at Aren.
“Thank you, sir,” Aren says. “May we deliver it to the king now?”
The guard waves her on, and I set the pie on the cart with the others. Together, we push it into the hall and toward the throne room, all while the guard watches Aren with a salacious smile.
The desire for revenge boils inside me, waking the Rings.
The Rings have been quiet for so long. They grow more agitated with every step I take, their familiar hum coming to life.
Not yet, not yet, I think, hoping to control them.
Blood rushes in my ears, making it difficult to hear anything as we walk.
The closer we get to the throne room, the worse it gets.
The throne room is the heart of the party. The music is loud, the roar of voices even louder. Guests are sprawled all over the hall on pillows and couches, slowing our progress as we navigate the cart to the table.
Everywhere, there are people gulping bottles of wine and soldiers having their way with masked, half-naked men and women. It is a last night of debauchery before they march off across the Waste.
I hear the cracking of whips, cries of pleasure or pain indistinguishable from one another, the sound of flesh pounding flesh. Bodies are draped across the floor, some so still it’s hard to tell if they are alive. All I want to do is cover my ears and close my eyes.
Suddenly I’m back in the dungeon. Cold, alone, hurt. The world closes in on me, and I fold into myself again, feeling small and helpless and weak—
Aren grips my hand, and I jolt back to the moment. I’d forgotten where I was, but her touch brings me back to myself. She lets go and looks at me from behind her fox mask, her eyes glittering with sympathy.
I can’t break now. I just need to survive a few more minutes.
We are almost there.
Servants are already tending to the table, laying out more of the cakes and pastries Aren had made, which the guests pounce on like ravenous dogs. Good.
Namreth watches this all from his golden throne at the end of the table, his hands folded in front of him, smiling at the scene around him. The table is piled high with food and drink, with more and more coming.
Servants swarm the throne room, darting in and out. I spot a cat-masked servant with a limp. Jared. My blood roars louder. Marcus must be close by even though I can’t see him. It won’t be long now.
My heart stops when Namreth calls to Aren, “You! Bring me one of those!”
Stay away from her, you prick. Don’t you fucking dare—
Aren sets down one of the special pies, but Namreth pays her no attention. He’s busy laughing at one of his generals dancing with a drunk girl in his arms.
Aren slips away, giving me one final look before disappearing into the sea of bodies.
Cackling laughter splits the air somewhere to my right. There’s a groan of pleasure from the back of the room. In my ears, my heartbeat thunders as I push the pie cart toward Namreth.
This will never end.
Namreth will never stop. He will keep hurting people, bleeding Estyrion dry, and haunting me forever. I can never rest again. Not unless I kill him.
Right now.
I slip my hand into the back of my waistband, feel the handle of the knife, and grip it—
The drunken general spots the pie on the table and drops his now-unconscious dance partner to the floor. He digs his grubby hands into it, thrusting fistfuls of crust and filling into his mouth. After several gulps, he stops, dead in his tracks. He breath falters, eyes bulging.
Well, good to know the poison works. Except everyone was supposed to have some, and it wasn’t supposed to work this quickly.
The general drops to the floor next to his dance partner, convulsing and foaming from the mouth. As the behemoth goes down, he knocks over a servant with another dessert cart. Plates and glass shatter, bringing all music in the throne room to a whining stop.
A lone cleaver skitters from the waistband of the servant’s uniform—all eyes on the knife.
We’re fucked.