Prince of Traitors

Owin

The blacksmith is snoring in his bed one morning when I wake early. I press an ear to the door of his room, listening for the deep cadence of his breaths. He does not stir, and I pad silently into the forge.

He keeps his earnings from the shop in a small chest under a table. In it is a large coin purse, filled to bursting with crowns. It'll do for my purpose.

The ball was nearly two weeks ago.

Barnard had slept for a day, still drunk from the wine, and continued with his work like nothing had happened, barking orders at me like before. I could hardly look at the bastard as I worked. Every time I did, his stinking breath and the pressure of his hands on me came rushing back. My ribs ache still, the tear between my legs not completely healed.

Kneeling before the table in the shop, I slip the coin purse into the blacksmith's satchel, slinging the thing over my shoulder as I close the door behind me. I try to hide my limp; my teeth grind together against the pain.

The buildings cast long shadows over the streets as the sun slowly rises higher in the sky. I follow the maze of streets until I come to the large market square. The shops are just opening, their keepers yawning as they set out chalkboard signs and throw open their windows. I find a shop with a sign above the door carved with a mortar and pestle.

Inside, the apothecary smells spicy and floral. The wizened woman at the counter has the same sliced right tip of her ear and shabby slave's dress as I do. I wonder how long she has been here, what she could have done to have been given this fate. I approach, digging out Barnard's coin purse.

"I'm looking for a healing salve," I say. I know my hair only partially obscures the scrape on my cheek. "Willow bark and calendula, preferably." The woman nods.

"Of course," she says. She hobbles out from behind the counter, selecting a small jar from a shelf. It contains a rust-colored paste, the ingredients ground and mixed together to create the salve. Once applied, it will relieve the pain in my ribs and soothe my wounds.

The woman sets the jar on the counter. "Anything else?"

"My master has a pest problem," I say. The lie comes out smoothly. "You wouldn't happen to sell hemlock, would you? He says it's the favorite of the rats."

"I do," the woman says. She goes and gets it from a shelf locked behind thin metal bars. The jar is spherical, with a flattened bottom and a small opening at the top sealed with wax. The clumpy flakes inside are bright white.

The woman tells me the price, and I hand her the amount from the coin purse with a smile. The coins clink together in her hand, engraved with the royal seal.

I grasp the strap of the satchel over my shoulder; the jars clink together inside. When I return to the forge, Barnard still has not stirred. I hear his snores through the door to his living quarters. I set the satchel down, pulling the jar of hemlock out. I pop off the wax seal with a nail.

I move silently into Barnard's bedroom, like a mountain cat stalking through the alpine trees in the mountains. My gaze stays pinned to the sleeping blacksmith, spread out on his mattress.

I ease onto his mattress, pinning his arms to its surface as I straddle his midsection—when he wakes I want him to see that I've trapped him. My silver hair cascades over my shoulders. I tip the jar of white flakes into his mouth. It falls into his throat, and I clamp my hands over his mouth. He startles awake, and sputters a cough. He struggles under my weight, tries to kick me off, but I have the advantage here. I've surprised him.

I look him in the eye—he can't help but swallow the powder, with my hands covering his mouth. I feel it move down his throat under my hands.

I wait a short while, biding my time as he wriggles under me. I cock my head to one side, watching him wordlessly. Finally, he goes still, twitching slightly. The hemlock paralyzes him completely, but his eyes stare up at me, so wide that I can see the whites all the way around the dark irises.

I release him, and swing my leg over him to step off the bed. His eyes twitch to and fro, attempting to follow my movements, but he is immobile.

His mind, however, is aware. He knows exactly what I've done to him.

"You're the savage," I hiss, baring teeth.

Within minutes, the whites of his eyes are red with burst blood vessels, and bubbling foam leaks from his mouth. Barnard and I watch each other as he dies, and I replace the stopper on the jar of hemlock, leaving the blacksmith for the rats.