Page 33 of The Cursed Crown

She knew before she reached his side. Poison. The sweet and tangy scent irked her nose, standing out against the rest. Elvenbane was a mixture of iron powder and rowan berries, blended with essence of enchanted apple, a winter fruit as rare as it was delicious. The senses of the faeries rarely caught elvenbane, overcome by the smell and taste of the fruit.

Rowan shrubs had been burned from Tenebris and Denarhelm centuries ago to curb the use of elvenbane. Iron and enchanted apple essence couldn’t be mixed homogenously without the sticky berry juice as a solvent. But a determined foe could purchase rowan berries from the mortal lands.

At first, Rissa couldn’t make sense of why one would bother to poisonhim. Lethal against small folk, elvenbane wasn’t truly harmful to a high fae. They might need a nap, and feel a little worse for wear for an hour or two. Why would anyone risk a painful death sentence to see the king inconvenienced for mere instants?

Then it hit her. Rydekar wasn’t a full-fledged high fae in the strictest sense. His blood was mixed with so many things—pixies, humans, and who knew what else. He might suffer more than a few hours of discomfort.

Though they’d pretended to resume their conversations, the court still observed her, thirsty for gossip. The handful of gentry closest to Rydekar didn’t even disguise their scrutiny, blatantly staring at her.

“Is my side of the hall more to your liking, Rissa dear?”

“Hardly.” Now she was put on the spot, she realized she couldn’t tell him about the poison—not here, with so many eyes and ears on them.

It would lead to the kind of talk a king couldn’t afford; her father never showed such weakness, and Rydekar was considerably more closed off than Titus Braer.

She attempted to reach his mind again, but earlier, she’d been moved by pure fury. Now, she felt no such thing. Just a rising alarm she couldn’t justify. She wanted to strangle him half the time. What if he was murdered at his own table? It shouldn’t have been any of her business.

Damn it to all hell. She snatched his drink and downed it all, delightful gulp after gulp, until there was not a dreg left.

His eyes had remained bright and amused until then, but they lost all warmth as they locked in on his gold-rimmed black leather goblet.

“Your drink is far better than mine, however.” And it was. Though it was but a drop of it, the enchanted apple had transformed the black wine into a galvanizing affair that enlightened all her senses.

Everything looked brighter, more beautiful. She felt so very hot. Perhaps she should remove a layer or two. Perhaps she should shed all her clothing and jump into the icy lake.

She shook her head, willing herself to remain sane and conscious. “Pleasant as this gathering is, I do have a trip to plan.” Her voice sounded all wrong. A purr. A caress. An invitation. “Lords, ladies, Your Grace. I take my leave.”

Leaving the goblet behind, she walked out as fast as she could without running. Hot flashes started to pulse under her skin.

Where was that damn tower again?

The King’s Bed

Rydekar brought his spoon to his mouth in a mechanical movement, barely tasting a thing as the food crossed his lips. He repeated the slow, careful move again, though every ounce of his mind and body rebelled against it. He needed to get up and follow Rissanow. Something was wrong.

Khal's agitation was hardly helping matters. Rydekar's cousin had the sense to remain seated at the table, but he was trying to catch his eye, and kept glancing at the goblet Rissa had all but snatched from his grasp. He hadn't failed to notice the slight tremor in her finger when she drank it, or the alarm in her eyes. Reading the situation had been easy enough; someone had attempted to poison him. They'd dared, right here in the open. And they might just have gotten away with it, too. Rydekar's had been completely focused on Rissa.

The move reeked of haste and impulsiveness. Whoever was behind this assassination attempt was so desperate that they'd risked their life to take his.

It was someone in this very room. Someone who'd been closed to him moments ago. Likely a servant—or a fae disguised as one.

Rydekar's desire to get to the bottom of this situation was second only to his need to maintain an appearance of normalcy, in the eye of the unseelie court. A high king could not show anything akin to weakness. Admitting that something bothered him, that someone could have taken his life, was no wiser than slicing his arm open in a pool of sharks.

Havryll lifted his goblet to his lips, though he rarely drank wine."The seelie queen's to leave the Old Keep soon, I understand?"

Rydekar held his friend's gaze, eyes narrowing. His advisor was many things. A conversationalist wasn't one of them, and this sounded an awful lot like small talk.

"Soon enough," he replied, eating another spoon full of goulash.

"Isn't that unadvisable in times of war?" Rofrakan, a warrior as long as he was large, with callused claret skin and horns curving backward, was one of the last of the ifrit, an ancient breed of fire warriors who served the Court of Ash.

In a time when that court had dishonored the high unseelie crown, they'd vowed their loyalty to Rydekar's great-grandmother. Rofrakan was the chief of their regiment, and sat on Rydekar's council. His appetite for war was almost as endless as his love for petit fours.

"And if your land was under attack, pray tell, where would you be?" Rydekar asked lightly.

The ifrit stared at his king open-mouthed, half offended by the question. "At the front, naturally." He cleared his throat. "But my blood is far less valuable. She's the last of the seelie line, and has borne no descendants."

"What good are the descendants of a kingdom in ruins? Let us see that Denarhelm remains in fae hands. Then, we'll think of bearing heirs."

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