Page 11 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

The Most Magnificent Ball in Years

Anya, with Gallia on her shoulder, stood on tiptoe to look out of one of the high ornate windows at the front of the castle.

Outside the gates there was the thrum of arrivals: carriages, horses, a single half-wild pegasus put to graze in the orchard.

A saddled longma gave a guttural bray, calling for food.

“It looks like everyone on the whole island’s been invited,” said Anya.

“I’d like to know how your grandfather can afford it,” said Gallia. “Just a few years ago, there was no money for a new groom for the horses. And now all this. Gold wine goblets and soldiers everywhere.”

Anya was going to reply, but a cluster of soldiers in formal uniform was passing in the corridor, staring at her.

They made her think of Felin, and she glared.

She flicked her head at them and then up, which meant “yes,” and then an inch diagonally to the right, which meant “disgusting, horrible.” Gaganas have an entire language of head movement, and they had taught the language to Anya.

She could say a hundred things with a twist or nod of her head.

Only ninety-four of them were printable.

Anya approached the doors of the Amber Hall.

Here they held the great occasions: balls, crownings, funerals, weddings.

She walked, as she had been trained to walk, with her back straight, her chin raised, her mouth softly closed, her hands inside the silk pockets of her dress.

People were not supposed to see your hands.

“Hands reveal a great deal, Anya,” the king had told her.

“That’s why gaganas are so glad not to have them,” Gallia had said smugly. “Claws are enigmatic.”

The double doors were thrown open, and within, people were dancing.

Many of the women’s silken gowns had long trains that flew out behind them as they spun, like so many birds.

The colors of the dresses were glorious, Anya thought: topaz and carmine, jade green and azure blue, with gemstones at their necks and wrists.

The room was bedecked in flowers—early roses, lilies—and lit by a new chandelier, each sconce holding a ray of salamandric fire.

The light in the room glowed gold and lustrous.

The music drew to a close. The head footman cleared his throat, and a trumpeter let forth a blast. “Her Royal Highness Princess Anya Phoebe Cornelia Argen, Duchess of the Silver Mountains, Countess of the Winged Forests, and second in line to the throne.”

The people turned, a great mass of faces, of satin and silk, of feather and diamond, to look at her, standing framed in the doorway. The men bowed, and the women curtsied: a wave falling before her.

And Anya flinched. It was ridiculous, to care so much that people stared at her. They were supposed to stare. But each eye on her felt like a cigar put out on her skin. She felt a spurt of longing—for the forest, and her tall, loving father, and the mud on his sleeves and boots.

You would not have known it, though, to look at her. Anya Argen sank to the ground in a curtsy, as she had been taught. Then she lifted her small gloved hand, and the women rose, and the men unbent, and the music began again and the hum of conversation swelled.

Anya scanned the room. Her grandfather should have been seated at the far end of the room, in the carved oak throne; her father should have been next to him. She wanted to tell them about Felin. It was urgent. But neither was there.

The king was never late. She raised her hand to Gallia’s head, and the old bird nipped softly at her finger.

Her uncle Claude stood at the far end of the room, laughing at something a beautiful woman close by had said.

He saw Anya and crossed the room toward her in quick strides.

There was, she noticed with pleasure, a fleck of dirt and what looked like a spiderweb on his eyebrow.

That would annoy him when he discovered it, for he was always impeccably groomed.

His gloves and ties and jackets were famous for their gold embroidery, though he wore no gloves this evening.

“How are you, Anya? Are you being good?”

What could you say to that? What she wanted to say, always, was “Are you?” But before she could reply, the doors opened, and her father strode in.

The head footman announced him: “His Royal Highness Prince Argus Willum Argen, Earl of the Southmost Tarns, Great Steward of the Winged Forests, and Heir to the Throne.”

Every woman swept to the floor in a curtsy; every man bowed from the waist. He returned the bow and lifted his hand to raise them up, but it was perfunctory; he seemed harried.

It was moments before he could reach her; a diplomat from Caruta had to be greeted, and he had to bow to a major general. Then he crossed to Anya, laying a hand on her cheek. “I apologize for being late, Anya. Where’s your grandfather?”

“You’re lucky, Argus, that Father isn’t here,” said Claude. “But it’s good to see you.” He embraced his brother, a bear hug, and Argus laughed in surprise, then leaned into the hug.

“Sorry, Claude. I received a message calling me to the library in the East Wing. It was supposed to be important.”

“The library?” said Anya. It was next to her grandfather’s set of rooms, but it was closed and the lights turned out by six every evening. “Who sent it?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “When I arrived, no one was there. It’s probably nothing, but I should tell the king.” He looked around. “Where is he?”

A dance was in progress, the violins soaring high and sweet, and all around the edges of the room were clusters of people, dignitaries and scholars and seers and dukes, and three centaurs, their eyes on the heir to the throne.

Argus turned to a footman. “Please send a messenger to the king’s chamber. ”

The footman made for the doors—but he was not to reach them. There was a sudden commotion, a ripple of consternation as people turned to look at a bird dive-bombing through the air. It was Coren. He flew in through one of the high open windows, and in a shriek Anya would never forget, he cried out—

“Murder!”

The music stopped. The great doors burst open. The general of the guard and his deputy strode in. The general’s usually warm brown skin was flushed with something bitter—fear, or fury. He carried a drinking glass in his hand, containing some red liquid. They approached her father.

“My lord, the king is dead.”

Around the room there were screams, a terrible clamor of shouts and hisses. Anya felt the ground lurch sideways. Her father took her hand and drew her close to him.

“He has been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Her father looked desperately around, as if seeking sanity or sense. Then he gave an order: “Lock the castle gates. Make sure nobody can leave.”

“We have already done so.” The general looked sick, but his voice was steady. He had been trained for this. “With your permission, we will bring in the firebirds.”

“Of course. Do so immediately.”

“Be quick!” said Claude.

Anya whispered, “ Grandfather .” He couldn’t be dead—it was impossible. She tried to think of what she had last said to him. She hoped desperately it had been kind.

Argus put his arm around Anya. “Don’t worry, my love,” he whispered to her. “I’m here.”

The firebirds lived in the forests. Their feathers burned with constant flame. Their senses were sharp; they were able to detect the scent of a mushroom halfway across a forest, so acute was their sense of smell.

They were ferocious and unruly, but a long-ago king, anxious about rival states and rival lords, had trained them to detect the faintest whiff of poison. Now a flock was brought out to test wines sent by the governors of other islands. They were known as the Poison Flock.

“Ladies, gentlemen, we ask that you remain where you are,” said Argus. “We must carry out a search before anybody may leave. The firebirds will detect any trace of poison.”

The doors opened, and fifty red birds swept in, sparks flickering behind them.

They wheeled, cawing, around the high-ceilinged hall, and people screamed and ducked as burning embers fell on their skin.

Two men pushed against the soldiers blocking the door, struggling to get out. The soldiers drew their swords.

“Please remain calm!” called the general. “The innocent have nothing to fear.”

The birds flew from guest to guest, alighting on each for barely a second before they were gone again. Anya saw a woman sink to the floor with her head in her hands, and flinch as the hot sharp claws landed on her leg. The castle physician Dr. Ferrara crossed to the woman and knelt beside her.

The birds passed over Claude, ignoring him.

He watched, his eyes wide. But just as Anya was beginning to breathe again, just as the world began to spin less wildly, there was a great shrieking among the birds—a raging, raucous, sky-tearing sound—and a firebird swooped, ducked its beak into Argus’s pocket, and withdrew it, clamped around a vial of dark liquid.

The general’s face, previously stern and watchful, changed to horror. He unstoppered the vial. “Dr. Ferrara?” He held it out to the doctor, whose face turned livid with dismay.

“What is that?” Argus’s voice rose in panic, a sound Anya had never heard in him. “That’s not mine!”

Dr. Ferrara looked from the drinking glass to the vial and back again. “Prince Argus—this is the same liquid that is in the glass that killed your father.”

Claude stared at his brother. “Argus?”

“Claude, I have never seen that vial before in my life!”

“Brother, what have you done?”

“I’ve done nothing! It’s a lie!” He said it to Anya, to Claude, to the room, which had fallen into an ashen silence. “Tell me you believe me!”

“Father!” Anya unfroze. She launched herself at him, needing to embrace him, to hold his wrist, his face, but soldiers’ hands held her back. “I believe you! Father!”

The general approached. He had silver chains in his hands. “My lord Argus Argen. I am forced to arrest you for the murder of King Halam IV.”

A voice: a young waiter spoke, as if in reflex. “I saw him in the East Wing. I saw him! Near the king’s door.”

“Don’t let them take you!” Anya broke free of the soldiers and darted toward him, crying out, “Fight, Father! Run!”—but she was caught again, and lifted off her feet.

She felt their terrible strength as she kicked and spat and bit, trying to claw at their eyes, trying to get back to her father.

“Let me go! I order you! I’m the princess! I order you!”

But the crowd parted, and her father was led from the room.

He twisted to look at her. “Courage, Anya!”

The doors slammed behind him.