The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [126]
Yet the witches are scheming something around Teravian—there can be no doubt about that, not after what Ivalaine said the other night in the garden.
Only in the several days since, Aryn had not been able to get anywhere close to Ivalaine.
“Can I see him, Lord Farvel?”
“Of course, Your Highness,” the seneschal said, taking her left arm in a frail hand. “You must be frightfully worried about your husband-to-be.”
Aryn winced. She had been thinking about questioning Teravian rather than asking after his well-being, but that was horrible of her.
“Yes,” she said, “I am worried about him.” And the words were true enough, though it was not necessarily his health that troubled her.
Farvel led her past the gathered warriors to the doors.
“Do not concern yourself, Your Highness,” Lord Petryen said, laying a hand on her shoulder. Petryen was the duke from Eredane who had been among the first to arrive in answer to Boreas's call to war. “An attack on the king's son is an attack on all of us. We will not stand for this.”
“Surely the prince is blessed by Vathris,” said the man who stood next to Petryen. He was one of the men who came from Al-Amún, and Aryn had learned his name was Sai'el Ajhir. To the best of her understanding, Sai'el was a noble title, something akin to duke or baron. Gold gleamed against his dark skin.
Aryn gave Ajhir a sharp look. “Someone tried to kill Teravian. How can you say he is blessed?”
“Because he is, Sai'ana Aryn. The poison was without taste or odor. It would have stolen the life of any other man who drank of that wine. Yet somehow the prince stopped after just one sip. It was as if Vathris himself had warned him there was death in that cup.”
Poison—so that was how the attempt on his life was made. However, Aryn doubted it was the bull god who had helped Teravian avoid the fatal brew. He had sensed it with the Touch. Poison was a witch's craft, and as a witch he was able to detect it.
But then what witch had placed the poison in his cup?
You don't know it was a witch at all, Aryn. Anyone could have bought the potion from some hag or hedgewife.
Farvel led her through the doors. The great hall was empty save for several figures gathered below the high table, on the steps of the dais. Teravian sat on the lowest step, Lirith and Sareth beside him. Boreas stood above, glowering, while several guardsmen—swords drawn—encircled the dais. Aryn broke away from Lord Farvel's grasp and hurried forward.
“Your Highness, are you well?”
Teravian glared up at her, his eyebrows knitted into a single dark line. “Of course, I always enjoy a nice cup of poison for breakfast.”
Aryn didn't flinch at his caustic tone. Instead, genuine concern rose within her. The prince's face had a greenish cast to it, and he clutched a hand to his stomach. She knelt on the step before him, reached out, and took his free hand. He started to pull back, but she held it tight.
“Is there something we must do?” she said, looking at Lirith.
The dark-eyed witch shook her head. “No, I think it is best at this point to let his body expel the poison on its own. Thank Sia, he did no more than touch the cup to his lips.”
The prince shivered, though he was sweating. “I could see it. It was as if the cup was filled with shadows.”
Aryn met Lirith's eyes, and the other witch nodded. So they had both had the same thought. Aryn looked again at Teravian. “What do you mean when you say you saw the poison?”
Boreas waved an annoyed hand. “That's enough of that talk. The only question now is who committed this deed.”
“It was a subtle concoction,” Lirith said. “Brewing it would take great skill with herbs, else the brewer himself might be poisoned simply inhaling the fumes.”
Sareth looked at her. “Who would have that kind of craft?”
Aryn bit her lip. Perhaps the witches truly did want Teravian dead. Perhaps they believed killing the king's son would