Page 18 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

Before Daylight

Anya went to bed with the image of the gloves burned into her mind.

She lay rigid under the covers, her thoughts racing.

How could she prove her uncle’s guilt? She could try to corner him, hold him at knifepoint?

She could stage a play, about a second son murdering a king, and hope he confessed? No, that was ridiculous.

She felt that she had barely closed her eyes when she was shaken awake.

It was still dark; only an hour or two could have passed.

For one wonderful moment she thought the figure bending over her was her father; but then her eyes cleared, and she saw it was the chancellor, Rillian Gerund, holding a lamp of salamandric fire.

He was quivering in the hands and jaw, and his gray hair appeared to have turned grayer overnight.

“You must get up, child. You’re being sent to school,” said Chancellor Gerund. “A boarding school, on Lithia.”

“Boarding school?” Anya sat up, looking around for the gaganas. Gallia flew to her side and pressed close. “But I don’t want to—I have to stay here, with my father.”

“You can’t stay here. It’s not safe.” His voice creaked and wavered. “There are rumors of unrest in the city. And your father must go to trial. This will be no place for a child.”

“No! I can’t go! Chancellor, listen—”

She would tell Gerund all she knew—the gloves, and her uncle—but before she could speak, he said, “It will be best. His Highness the Regent is sure.”

“But you have your own power, don’t you? You don’t have to do what my uncle says! Why are you obeying him?”

Chancellor Gerund looked at her—or, no: he looked in her direction, but his eyes would not meet hers. Anya’s heart sank. It would be no good, she saw, telling him about the gloves.

“You have ten minutes to dress. Soldiers will escort you to the boat, where a teacher from the school will meet you. The ship sails in two hours.”

“I won’t go,” she said, but her voice shook.

“It is the command of the regent. You will do as you’re told.”

After he had gone, Anya sat, stunned, the gaganas around her. It is one thing to say you will not go; it is another thing entirely to resist.

“Better to go now, I reckon,” she said to Gallia, “to the school, and then run away as soon as we can, you and me, than to fight when we know they can force us.”

But Koo had to come with her. His eyes were still closed; he could not be left here, where gaganas were not loved. She touched his minute fluffy wings for courage. There was nothing in the world, she thought, as soft as a gagana chick.

Moving fast, she pulled on the blue silk dress she had worn the day before. She drank, deeply, from the tap, but the harsh burning in her throat remained; worse today than before.

She emptied out her tin of gagana gifts and jabbed holes in the lid. She took the socks and stockings from Koo’s nest by the fire, and cut a little of the wool from her coat, lined the tin with them, and put Koo inside. He peeped approvingly, his feathers so ruffled that he was entirely spherical.

She had two precious rascovnic stems left; she put them in the tin too, under the nest. “Don’t eat them,” she said to the bird. “I might need them.”

She tied string to the tin and slung it across her body like a satchel.

Under her coat, nobody would know it was there.

She found an apple on the windowsill, chewed it, spat it into her hand, and fed it to Koo.

“Delicious,” she said to him. “You like that, no?” She tried to keep her voice warm and happy as she put the lid on. She must not scare the tiny blind bird.

Chancellor Gerund came personally to take her to the castle gates, where three soldiers were waiting.

It was pitch-black, hours from dawn. Snow had begun to fall.

They were muffled against the cold. She recognized one; it was Roegan, the guard stationed outside her grandfather’s door.

He had a crossbow. The other two were unfamiliar, one short and heavy-jowled, one tall and self-sure.

Recently employed, fresh to the island, ruthless in the face.

They mounted horses, and the tallest—Samvel, he called himself—pulled her up behind him. She refused to hold on round his middle; she leaned backward, her hands on the flanks of the horse. Gerund waved a quaking goodbye. She did not return the salute.

She had expected them to ride out through the castle gates and onto the highway that led to the docks, toward the bright lights of the city, to the bustle and thrum of crowds and creatures.

But instead they took her to the left, toward the forest.

“The road to the dock is closed,” said Samvel. “We’ll need to go through the woodland and round.”

They rode into the forest. Each man had strung a lantern from his saddle, and the shadows they cast were flickering, dancing, strange.

They halted under the trees. “Dismount, Princess,” said Samvel.

“Why?” Her hackles rose immediately. There was nothing here to stop for.

“Need to check the saddle.”

Reluctantly, Anya slid down from the horse. The cold bite of the snow-laced air stung her nostrils.

Samvel nodded at the other two soldiers and reached into his satchel. He took out a traveling flask and a long, thin glass.

“Are you cold, Princess?”

She nodded.

“Have a drink. Warm you up.”

“What is it?”

It was strawberry cordial: the drink she loved most. But underneath the sweetness, there was something else. Anya smelled it clear and sharp. It was the same metallic smell as her grandfather’s collar. She was suddenly dizzy with shock, with understanding.

“No,” she said. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Drink it, Princess.”

“Why?” But she knew why. Her heart was thundering; she was going to be sick.

“Drink it!” The short soldier pulled a sword.

“No!” Samvel snapped. “He needs her corpse unharmed! It must look like her heart stopped. Like she tried to run back home to the forest, but the shock of the last days killed her.”

“Then hold her at knifepoint!” said Roegan.

The short soldier held his sword inches from her face. “Drink, Princess. We’re not offering you a choice.”

She was going to die. The flask was poisoned. They had been ordered to kill her.

In the forest, Gallia on her shoulder, the snow falling softly around her, Anya realized her stupidity.

Her grandfather’s death was not enough. Her father’s conviction would not be enough. When she turned eighteen, she would take the throne. She was the heir. She was in his way. Unless she was dead, her uncle would not be king.

He had chosen to clear the path. He needed all three of them dead: grandfather, father, child.

One, two, three, king.

Roegan caught hold of her, sword in his hand.

“Tie her up!” said Samvel. “We can untie her when it’s over. And kill that bird!”—for Gallia had made a sudden swoop at his face. The third soldier lunged at the gagana with his sword, and she was hit by the side of the blade. She struggled off the ground into the air and vanished into the forest.

Anya tried to shake Roegan off and run, but all three caught at her with thin rope in hand. They bound her ankles and hands and dropped her, kneeling, under the trees. Snow fell on her upturned face.

Bravery is an unpredictable beast. The human animal is often startled by its own unexpected, unsuspected cowardice. But once or twice in every lifetime, we are surprised by our own courage. The panicked bird of Anya’s heart slowed; became something slow, clear-sighted, leonine.

She looked up at them. Her eyes met Samvel’s. “Soldier,” she said. “Would you so easily execute a child?”

They stopped moving and stared at her.

“If my uncle has ordered my death, I know I have no chance of surviving.”

They looked, for the first time, panicked.

“But if I’m to die, let me do it myself.”

Samvel shook his head; Roegan gave a moan.

“It will take the guilt from your hands.”

They conferred, suddenly eager. Their voices rose. Then Samvel unbound her hands but left her feet tied.

“Help me up,” she said.

Roegan took her hands and helped her to her feet. He handed her the flask and the glass.

Before he could step back, she cracked the glass backward against her shoulder, against the thick reinforced leather, and in one movement smashed the jagged edge of it into his face.

He screamed and dropped to his knees. As he went down, she seized his sword from its scabbard and sliced it against the ropes that bound her feet.

She caught shoe leather and missed her own flesh by a hair’s breadth, but there was no time to flinch: the two other soldiers were coming at her over the snow.

Anya ran.