The Poison Queen

Three lords at the east table. One hidden blade. Two cups already poisoned... not by me.

Amateur work. The sweetroot they used turns wine cloudy if you know what to look for. Lord Valdren's man, probably. He's been buying from the market apothecary, thinking himself clever.

I sip from my own goblet. The familiar bitterness of my morning antidote still coats my tongue, mixing with the vintage. Twenty years of building immunity. Twenty years of tasting death and teaching my body to ignore it.

The court watches me drink. They always watch.

Waiting.

"Your Majesty." My steward bows at my elbow. "Lord Corvane requests an audience regarding the border tariffs."

"He requested an audience last week." I don't look away from the east table. "My answer hasn't changed."

"He's quite insistent..."

"Then he can be quite disappointed."

The steward retreats. They always do. I've cultivated that reaction carefully, the slight flinch, the quick withdrawal. Fear is more reliable than loyalty. Loyalty changes hands with the highest purse. Fear costs nothing.

I leave the goblet on the arm of the throne and rise. White marble stretches in every direction, veined with gray like the map of a kingdom long at war with itself. The architects designed this room to intimidate. Nowhere to hide. Every whisper carries.

It works better for me than it ever did for the kings before me.

Three kings. Three cups of wine. Three very different poisons.

The first was quick. Foxglove in his evening brandy. He deserved worse, but I was sixteen and terrified and his hands were already on my dress when I offered him the drink. He died thinking I was being dutiful. The perfect servant girl, fetching refreshment for her king.

I stepped over his body and walked out of his chambers. No one stopped me. No one stops a servant carrying empty glasses.

The second took longer. His brother, come to claim the throne and the "traitor servant girl" everyone suspected but couldn't prove. I gave him a year of slow agony, something I'd synthesized myself by then, drops in his morning tea that built and built until his organs gave out. The physicians called it a wasting sickness. I called it justice.

The third was almost boring. A tyrant who planned to sell me to an assassin's guild as payment for a contract gone wrong. I poisoned his entire dinner party. Eleven lords and their king, all dead before dessert. The only survivors were the servants, I'd warned them not to eat.

After that, no one else wanted the throne. Funny how that works.

I descend the dais steps slowly, letting my skirts trail. Black silk tonight, embroidered with silver thread that catches the candlelight. The seamstress hid six vials in the boning of the bodice. Another two in the cuffs. One in the heel of each shoe.

A queen should always be prepared.

"Lady Ashmark." I pause before a woman whose smile could curdle milk. "Your husband sends his regards, I trust?"

"He regrets he could not attend, Your Majesty. The gout..."

"The gout." I taste the word. Copper and overripe fruit. A lie. "How unfortunate. Do give him my sympathies."

Her smile tightens. She knows I know. I know she knows I know. The court is an endless mirror of suspicion, and I've learned to see my reflection in every polished surface.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

I move on. Lord Thornhill next, military man, proud spine, gaze tracking me like I'm a target on a training field. He doesn't bow low enough. He never does.

"Lord Thornhill."

"Majesty."

One word. Clipped. He doesn't add the 'Your.' These small rebellions accumulate, and he thinks I don't notice. I notice everything. It's how I've stayed alive.

"I hear your troops performed admirably in the southern exercises."

"They're well-trained."

"Mmm." I let my gaze drift to his cup. Full. He hasn't drunk. "You're not enjoying the wine?"

"I prefer to keep my wits about me."

"Wise." I smile, showing teeth. "So few do, these days."

I leave him sweating and continue my circuit of the room. Thirty-seven people tonight. Twelve I trust as far as I can throw the throne. Twenty-five who would kill me given the chance and the certainty they wouldn't be caught.

The remaining zero are my allies.

I don't have allies. I have leverage, information, and twenty years of learning to kill without leaving evidence. Allies require trust. Trust is just another word for vulnerability.

The great doors open. My captain of the guard, Aldric, enters with purpose in his stride. He's one of the twelve, not because he's loyal, but because I pay him enough that betrayal would cost more than it's worth.

"Your Majesty." He bows properly. "A word, in private."

I raise an eyebrow. "The hall is quite private enough."

He hesitates. "It concerns a... delicate matter."

So. They've finally done it.

I keep my expression smooth. "Very well. Attend me."

I sweep toward the smaller audience chamber, aware of every eye following. Let them wonder. Speculation is its own form of control, the unknown is its own kind of poison.

The chamber door closes behind us. Aldric's face has gone pale beneath his soldier's tan.

"Speak."

"We intercepted a message, Your Majesty. From the noble houses, all five of them, acting in concert."

"They've been conspiring for months. That's hardly news."

"They've hired the Shadow Hand."

I go still.

The Shadow Hand. The guild's most valuable asset. Forty-three confirmed kills, if the rumors are accurate, and the rumors about assassins tend to understate. He's taken down princes, generals, a high priest of the old religion. He doesn't fail.

His fee would drain five noble treasuries. The houses must have emptied their coffers. Every vault scraped to the stone.

"When?" My voice doesn't waver. I trained that out of myself years ago.

"He's already in the capital. Has been for three days, according to our sources."

Three days. I've eaten seventeen meals since then. Attended two council sessions and a religious ceremony. Slept, though never deeply, in my chambers with only a locked door between me and the corridors.

Three days, and I haven't tasted anything wrong. Haven't seen anything unusual. Haven't felt the familiar prickle of being watched.

Either he's very good, or he's waiting for something.

"Triple my guard rotation. No one enters my chambers who hasn't been searched. All food prepared only by Marta, and she tastes everything first." Poor Marta. She knew the risks when she took the position.

"Already done, Your Majesty."

Good man. Twelve out of thirty-seven might be low odds, but at least those twelve earn their keep.

I turn to the window. The capital sprawls below, torchlight picking out streets and alleys like veins of gold. Somewhere down there, a man is planning my death. He's probably very good at it.

I'm better.

"Anything else?"

"We don't have a description. No one sees the Shadow Hand before he strikes."

"No one who survives." I consider the darkness beyond the glass. "Leave me."

Aldric hesitates. "Your Majesty, I strongly advise..."

"Leave. Me."

He goes.

I stand at the window for a long moment, watching my city breathe. Twenty years since I first walked into this palace as a servant. Ten years since I killed my way to the throne. Five years since anyone seriously challenged my rule.

The noble houses think they're clever. They think hiring an assassin will solve their problem, the upstart queen who doesn't know her place, who won't marry one of their sons and give them access to power, who rules alone and answers to no one.

They don't understand. I've survived three kings, two poisoning attempts, one siege, and my own government's treachery. I've built an immunity that should be impossible. I've created toxins that the finest alchemists in seven kingdoms can't identify.

One assassin won't stop me.

But he might be interesting.

I smile, the expression feeling strange on my face. It's been a long time since anyone posed a real challenge. The court games are tedious. The assassination attempts are amateur. Even the conspiracy took months to organize and was about as subtle as a battering ram.

The Shadow Hand, though. He's an artist. If the stories are true, his work is almost beautiful, clean, efficient, leaving no trace. He's killed people in locked rooms, in the middle of crowded festivals, in guarded fortresses where no one could possibly reach.

If I were going to die, I'd want it to be someone worthy.

I return to the feast, my steps lighter than before. The court doesn't notice, I've trained them not to look too closely. But inside, the weight has lifted.

The boredom that's been weighing on me for months has lifted. The endless calculations, the constant vigilance, the exhausting performance of being queen, all of it suddenly feels worthwhile again.

Someone interesting is finally coming for me.

I settle back onto my throne and survey my kingdom of vipers and fools. Lord Valdren's man has switched to poisoning the water carafes now, really, the predictability is insulting. Lady Ashmark is whispering to Lady Savayne, probably about me. Lord Thornhill keeps glancing at the guards, counting them, assessing.

Let them plot. Let them scheme. Let them think their hired killer will succeed where so many others have failed.

I raise my goblet in a silent toast to the shadow watching from somewhere I can't see.

Welcome to my court, assassin. Do try to make it entertaining.

The wine tastes like victory. Or maybe that's just the anticipation.

Either way, I drink deep.