Oredison Palace, Gazda.
Malcolm passed out as soon as they reached their suite. He collapsed on the sitting room couch where he stayed until morning. Viera barely slept for fear that he would wake and decide he wanted to consummate their marriage. She was terrified of that—of him.
The royal suite was large, with a private sitting room, spacious bedroom, double balcony, small music room, separate dressing rooms, and a double bathing room. And yet, she had never felt more trapped, more alone. And she was surrounded. There were guards stationed at the door and in pairs down the hallway outside.
If she were to scream for help, would any of them come to her aid?
She didn't know.
They hadn't before—back when she was just a goddess-touched girl and not queen of all Erydia. Viera couldn't look at her new husband without remembering the way he'd beaten her. He had kicked her and whipped her. Deprived her of help. Now he had the marital right to touch her whenever he pleased.
Let him try.
Malcolm had assembled his personal guard with ease, transitioning most of his previous guards up with little more than a few signatures. Meanwhile, Viera struggled to choose even one sentinel she found trustworthy. Most of them had known Malcolm since he was a boy, some having grown up with him. Even the ones who weren't in his official guard were loyal to him. They would follow his orders over Viera's—which was far from comforting.
Days passed and, when she still hadn't finalized her court, the Synod put Malcolm in charge of assigning her guards. No one even told her—she just awoke one morning and had five new bodyguards. She had argued it, fought the new assignments, but the Synod had insisted that the men where good soldiers, all with good marks and strong military pasts. She would be safe with them.
Viera had scars on her back that told her she would not be safe—not with these men. Not if they served Malcolm. He'd once ordered guards like them to hold her down while he beat her—and they had listened. But no one listened when she spoke. Compared to Malcolm, who demanded and reigned with an iron fist, Viera was soft and timid.
She might have been queen, but he had discredited her enough within the past few weeks that it became normal for the Synod to work around her.
They would get her decision and then see if Malcolm approved—which he never did—and then they would do whatever the king wanted. She didn't know how to make anyone listen, not when they thought she was crazy, deranged. Not when she so often felt like she was going crazy.
The only bright spot in her life was that Malcolm was often absent from their suite. She didn't know where he went or where he slept, but it was rarely in Viera's bed and when it was, he was careful not to touch her. The maids talked. She knew that Malcolm had found solace in the arms of a young woman—someone by the name Penelope. According to the rumors circulating the palace, which could neither be canceled out or believed entirely, Malcolm and Penelope had been lovers for some time.
Viera didn't care. If he wanted to sleep with another woman, let him. She just didn't want him in her bed. Every minute he was away was a minute Viera could breathe easier. It was time she could spend pretending that this was not real—that she was not locked in a palace surrounded by unknown enemies.
Days turned to weeks.
It was palace custom for the queen, king, the Synod, and any visiting courtiers or dignitaries to take their evening meal together. This provided a relaxed environment for treaties and friendships to develop. Or at least, it used to be a relaxed environment. Now it was just uncomfortable. This was probably why Malcolm had insisted it continue, despite everything that had happened.
It was one of his many games.
He liked to get to the dining room early and fill everyone's ears with the tale of how Viera had ruthlessly killed everyone in her Culling and the royal family—his family. While Viera didn't know exactly what he said to the visiting nobles, by the time she arrived to the dining room things were usually unnervingly quiet. Of course, he told everyone that having dinner together every night was her idea—a way for her to remind him what she'd done and make sure he didn't forget what she could still do.
It was a lie, but what was the point in even trying to argue against him. She was the villain and he was the victim. After she was deemed a wicked murderess, all other details became null. What had actually happened—what was currently happening—didn't matter in the face of what she'd done.
That night, when Viera arrived at dinner, the only person waiting for her in the splendidly decorated dining room was Malcolm. He smiled when he saw her. She barely had time to register that they were alone before he was waving her guards away. A footman stepped forward and ushered her to her seat, the same intricately carved chair that the previous queen had sat in.
From her spot at the head of the table, Viera watched her husband. He didn't say a word to her, didn't acknowledge that they were alone, only asked for the food to be served. There were two-dozen empty chairs separating them and it still felt like they were too close. She had to force herself not to visibly flinch every time he moved.
He downed a glass of red wine and then poured himself another, then another. He watched her over the rim of his glass, letting his eyes devour her in slow, steady blinks. She wondered how long he'd been drinking.
Malcolm's cheeks were already flushed and the smile on his face was relaxed. He wore alcohol comfortably, like it was an accessory to who he already was. Sometimes, it showed itself in his erratic anger—other times it made him relaxed, unworried. It was too soon to tell which version of Malcolm sat with her that night.
She watched him and he watched her.
Usually the dining room was full and they didn't have to even look at each other. The two ends of the table might as well have been separate rooms. But that night, Malcolm didn't take his eyes off Viera. That crooked smile etched into his handsome features grew as the waiters served the dinner, laying tray after tray of steaming food on the large stretch of table between them.
It was more food than either of them could possibly eat. This was enough food for a feast—it was the exact menu that had been used for the welcome dinner. Viera recognize it as soon as she saw the meat and vegetable stew. She stiffened at the realization and let her eyes run across the patchwork blanket of dishes.
No, this was different from the food they'd eaten that night. This was all very obviously poisoned. Each dish was laced with something else, a toxin strong enough to kill within a few bites. The power in her seemed to smile, lift its head to look closer.
Viera glanced up at Malcolm, who still watched her with a sort of predatory calm.
The last dish was added to the table with a soft clink of china and then the room was silent. The footmen retreated into the adjoining servant's hall and the two royals were alone together. Malcolm didn't move to touch the food.
Viera waited, her mind running circles around this, trying to figure out the game. Surely, he couldn't mean to try and poison her. Malcolm was arrogant but he wasn't stupid.
Viera leaned forward and began to serve herself. Perhaps it was a silly power move and perhaps she was playing directly into his hands—but she wasn't going to just sit there and wait for him to toy with her. The sooner she ate, the sooner she could leave. So, she filled her plate with sautéed potatoes, honeyed ham, creamy casseroles, seasoned meats and berry salad. All of it fresh, all of it poisoned.
Malcolm reclined in his seat, leaning heavily on the arms of his chair as he watched her take a bite and then another. He smiled. She barely noticed over the rushing in her ears. The poison in her veins basked in the new warmth of the food, tasting each hint of toxin. Viera cataloged the different poisons, let those dark invisible hands reach out and touch them.
"Is it good?"
Her eyes darted to Malcolm then back to the food on her plate. The scrape of her fork against the plate filled the room. She shot him a blithe smile. "Why don't you try it for yourself and tell me?"
He shook his head, downed what remained in his wine glass, and said, "No, I don't think I will."
There was another stretch of silence in which Viera tasted arsenic, death cap, belladonna, and cheap rat poison. She didn't mind the first few, but the last left an odd tang in her mouth. She reached for a cheddar roll but paused when Malcolm spoke again—
"Do you know what day it is?"
She dropped her hand and leaned back in her chair, preparing herself for whatever the hell he had in store. "Thursday."
He rolled his eyes. "Come now, my love, play along."
She frowned. "You're drunk."
"And you're a bitch. What's new?"
Viera sighed. "Please just say whatever it is you wish to say."
"You killed my parents and sister a month ago today."
Viera pursed her lips. Perhaps she should feel guilty, but she had heard about it so many times, had it thrown in her face so many times, that there was no regret left in her. She felt numb, which was perhaps a more frightening thing. This numbness felt familiar—just a shade from being how she'd felt when she'd first walked into this dining room exactly a month earlier.
When she didn't say anything in response, Malcolm cleared his throat and tapped his knuckle against the top of the table. "We've been married for a few weeks now and I felt like it was time we talked of our future together."
Her stomach churned. "Our future?"
He nodded. Waited.
"I—I don't want to be your wife."
He laughed. "It's a little too late for that, Viera darling."
"Malcolm, please get on with it."
He blinked at her innocently. "Get on with what?"
Viera's fist hit the top of the table with enough force to rattle the dishes. "Whatever this is." She nodded to the food, to the expanse of poison laid before her. She couldn't do this—couldn't sit and wait patiently for him to hurt her. It was driving her mad. "Just spit it out."
"My father died in this very chair. My mother—" his voice broke "My mother suffered for hours, so did poor Juliana. And all because of you, you let them writhe in agony and—"
"I didn't—"
"Shut the hell up."
She tensed at the sharpness in his tone.
"You," he continued, "You managed to take everything from me. My family. My throne. My happiness. This," he used his empty glass to gesture around the room, "This isn't how things are supposed to be. I shouldn't have to spend the rest of my life with you—a monster."
"I'm sorry about your family."
She wasn't.
Maybe she should have been sorry, but she just wasn't anymore. Not just then, not when the power in her blood stretched and began whispering things to her—began telling her all the ways she could use the poison on that table.
Of all the people who had died that night, Malcolm Warwick still managed to sit untouched. She didn't know why. Maybe the goddess protected him that day. Maybe Viera was really as cursed as she'd always thought. It didn't matter, not really. A deep, dark part of Viera still wanted him dead.
He started to pour himself another serving of wine but Viera interrupted him. "So how will you make me pay?"
Malcolm's grin widened as he tilted the bottle of wine, let the last few ounces splatter into the bottom of his glass. He set the bottle down with enough force to dent the table. "Oh, I've already made you pay. You—" he toasted Viera with his glass, "You just don't know it yet."
Her blood ran cold. "What did you do?"
"My sources tell me you've been asking around about your friend. Did you learn anything?"
She swallowed, hard. "Where is Leighton?"
He tsked. "Don't get ahead of me. First, you'll answer my question. What have you learned?"
"He's in the palace somewhere. In the cells, I think." Viera chewed her bottom lip and admitted, "But I don't know where that is and no one would tell me."
"What makes you think he's in the palace?"
"I checked the transport records and spoke to the guards at the gate. No one left the palace that night, and there have been no prisoner transfers since. The executioner was never called and no similar orders have been given since before that night." She didn't know why she told him, she could easily have lied, but she was so afraid, so terrified, that the words just came out.
He was quiet for a very long time.
"Malcolm. Please."
He sipped from his glass and sighed. "Suddenly, you have very good manners."
Her throat burned as she asked, "Where is he?"
"He's been in the cells for a month. I've spent a lot of time trying to decide what I wanted to do with him. I just couldn't decide. Beheading seemed too quick, too painless. Same thing for a hanging—I wanted something more. So, I fiddled with the idea of fire. But we haven't burned anyone at the stake in years and I honestly didn't think that was symbolic enough. Not for him—not for you."
"Please." She was begging—for Leighton, for an answer, to get it all over with.
He smiled as he said, "Your food is getting cold. All that lovely poison, going to waste."
That thread within her, the dark room in her body where that power dwelled, locked and chained, began to quake. "What have you done?"
"Don't you want to eat the food I've had prepare for you? Don't you like it?"
She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. "Malcolm, please—"
"He liked it. Of course, he hadn't had anything to eat in days. I don't think he thought twice about the stew and bread and water. Naturally, it wasn't as nice as all of this." He waved a hand to the table as he said, "But, it was equally as...toxic." Malcolm smirked, "I thought it might remind him of you. Honestly, I thought the whole idea of it was very romantic. Tragic, even. You probably could have saved him. I wonder if he thought of you—in his darkest hours, when the fever was at its worst. Pity he couldn't speak. He might have called for you. That would have been the icing on the cake."
The air wouldn't enter her lungs and the room was spinning, pirouetting like a dancer. It was spinning, reckless and uncaring, the way Leighton had spun her in the city dance halls. She wanted to go back to that moment in time, when she was falling for him and they were safe and the Culling was merely a dark shadow on the distant horizon.
Malcolm sighed. "I admit, I'm disappointed. I expected a bit more from you. I tell you your lover is dead and you just stare at me?" He laughed and drained the last of the wine from his glass. "And to think I went through all of this trouble to make you this fine dinner and surprise you—"
Viera stood up on shaking legs. He was clean, not an ounce of poison in him. She knew that, she knew that of all the poison in that room—Malcolm had ingested none of it. But that trembling in her bones was so strong, the pain in her chest so unbearably painful, that she had to move, had to do something.
Malcolm's smile faded as she crossed the room in a few easy strides. She braced herself on the table, leaned over him where he still sat, his eyes wide and dilated from the drink. Up close, she could tell he'd been crying.
Viera leaned close, so close that her lips almost brushed his skin. The king inhaled a shaky breath in fear or anticipating—perhaps both. He swallowed, his voice soft, almost boy-like, as he asked, "Are you going to kill me, Viera?"
No. No, he didn't deserve to die. Malcolm didn't deserve to die because that would be too easy—that, she thought, would give him what he wanted. No, Malcolm Warwick would live a long life and she would torment him for every single second of it.
Viera inhaled a shaky breath and forced herself to calm—to sooth the horror trying to strangle her. Leighton was dead. He had been poisoned. He had died because of her.
Dead.
Gone forever.
She felt herself slipping, freefalling into that dark abyss and she did not fight it. The power in her seemed to beckon, promise numb simplicity and she let it overtake her, let it dig its talons into the soft flesh of her heart. This was easier. Not being herself—being The Queen—was easier.
"I—I will end you." The words tasted right as they left her tongue. She pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes. "Not today, not tomorrow—but I will do it. I will tear you apart piece by piece. I will wreck you in every single way possible. This," her throat tightened but she forced herself to speak the words, to seal her pledge to him. "What you have done is unforgivable and you will pay for it. Over and over again you will pay." She leaned down and brushed her lips against his forehead in a feather-light kiss. She let that dark power caress his skin. She let her mouth graze his ear as she breathed, "I'm going take everything from you. I will take your country, your throne, your crown—and then, when I am sure you have nothing left, I will take your life."