The setting Sun signaled Hadrian Castle to throw open its heavy gates. In the vast courtyard, rowdy farmers and craftsmen drank to their hearts' fill while their wives gossiped, and their wee children ran on the grass. Young lovers danced arm-in-arm as minstrels belted tune after tune on their various instruments.
In the Great Hall, lords and ladies stood conversing in groups, drinks in hand, while their teenage children and attendants paired up and whirled around on the dance floor.
Such a manor-wide celebration was a first for Meya. Unfortunately, as the host, she must join the Baron, Baroness and Lord Zier at the front of the hall to greet and thank each distinguished guest. And her husband wasn't even here to keep her company!
Coris hadn't put so much as a toe outside his bedroom for the entire day. Zier reported poor lad had returned to his pillows' beckoning embrace the moment Zier forced the last spoonful of breakfast into his mouth.
Meya had been stuck practicing embroidery with Baroness Sylvia for the whole afternoon. Once she'd reduced her right forefinger to little more than a bleeding pincushion, the Baroness led her to the front gate to welcome the Baron and the lords back from hunting. Then, she was whisked away by the chamberlain to dress up for the feast. There wasn't one opening for her to sneak off and see Coris.
To make matters worse, each approaching guest would naturally ask where Coris was. And naturally, the Baron wouldn't enjoy telling them time and again his son was too sick even to attend his own wedding feast.
As guest after guest repeated the question, Baron Kellis's mood soured. He'd shoot dark looks at Meya once the visitors had drifted away, as if it was Meya's fault.
Meya strived to look as contrite as she could. Well, it was her fault. Coris had a good reason to not be here.
At least, she thought that was the case. Say Beau was up to his job and the message did reach Coris, it wasn't likely Coris would immediately make a noticeable move. There was still a month of opportunity window left. They'd only been in Hadrian three days. Meya didn't expect Gillian would glean enough leads on the dowry's whereabouts to strike anytime soon.
Maybe Coris is actually just sick, Meya consoled herself, which makes it your fault anyway since your lady pillows excited him too much.
Meya blushed at the thought. Freda hadn't been gracious to Meya with her blessings, but she was generous when it came to her bosom department. Coris couldn't seem to get enough of them last night and, to be honest, they were still somewhat sore.
Meya's head, hands and chest weren't the only painful parts of her body, however. Her stomach was starting its own riot. Half an hour had passed since the feast started, but the long table in the middle of the hall remained empty.
The Baroness surveyed the guests every so often to make sure they were still content. Her husband has struck up yet another conversation with a balding, ale-bellied old nobleman, Marquess Fratengarde, so she couldn't nip away to check on the scullery.
Meya was worried about the food, too, but not for the same reasons. With their measly manpower, Gillian suggested he might have to knock everyone in the castle out when time came for the search.
Gillian could use the fireplaces and torches to smoke the room with sleeping draught, but he could spike the food as well. Every guest and most guards were gathered in the Great Hall, making for a rare opportunity to search the rest of the castle, not to mention everyone was bound to eat or drink something.
If Coris was as smart as everyone said he was, he'd no doubt have realized this. Did he guess the food would be spiked and stopped it leaving the kitchen? Or was it Lady Arinel? She was working in the scullery, wasn't she?
As Meya assumed the role of Coris and Gillian to play her version of Heist in her brain, the Baron and the Marquess's chat droned on.
"Yes, I understand you, my dear man. Though I've always been, still am, a skeptic of Uriel's interpretation, this time I fully support you." Fratengarde dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief then waved it in frustration, "Freda's damnation aside, we can't possibly get a trade that's been outlawed for two hundred years back up in a month, can we?"
"Exactly. Our best course of action would be to investigate the ships' disappearance and bring back some ores as soon as possible." Baron Kellis agreed solemnly, "And in the meantime, limit the use of metals, but His Majesty won't be pleased if we touch his reforms."
Despite her pressing matters, Meya couldn't help her mounting curiosity. The Baron had been talking about this thing with ore ships and the king's reforms with the other lords, too.
Some of the lords agreed with the Baron about solving the ship problem and continuing to ship ores from Everglen, but some were adamant about finally lifting the Mining Ban and resuming mining in Latakia, to stabilisize our ekonony, or some thingy. Unfortunately, the king was all for lifting the ban, too.
"Books and coins for the commoner, eh?" Fratengarde chuckled as if the idea was incredulous,
"I've known His Majesty since he was a young squire. Far-sighted dreamer he's always been, but in times like these, we need eyes grounded in the present. Take it one step at a time. He won't get his reforms unless he can get us enough metal to survive this year." He took a large swig from his mug of ale.
"Alden is young, naïve. He won't simply surrender his dreams. I've been thinking perhaps, we might need to be discreet rather than drastic." Baron Kellis caressed his mustache as he shot an insinuating look at Fratengarde, "This is where you come in, my lord."
The two men exchanged knowing looks. The Baroness and Zier seemed to have no trouble deciphering the secret message, so although Meya had no clue what was going on, she strived to seem well-informed as well.
"I take it you're talking about my niece," Fratengarde broke away first. He nodded with a heavy sigh as he patted Kellis's shoulder.
"I will try, my good man, but I can't promise anything. Zephyr is a woman with her own mind. Very much like your fine lady here." Baroness Sylvia blushed, swaying as she waved the compliment away. Perhaps Meya had imagined it, but her movements seemed...sluggish?
"She's mostly kept her lips sealed, and Alden will listen to his queen when she does speak, so it all depends on her opinion."
The same phenomenon spread to Marquess Fratengarde; he swayed on his feet, his eyes drooped close then snapped open again. He waggled his wooden mug, his speech slow and slurred,
"So far, she hasn't said anything, but if it turns out she backs Alden, I'm afraid there's little I can do to persuade her..."
"Sylvia!"
A split-second after Fratengarde dropped to the floor as if bludgeoned in the head, Baroness Sylvia fell lifelessly into Baron Kellis's arms. Rousing his wife in vain, Kellis staggered toward the nearest chair, then he too collapsed.
Yet, there were no screams from the surrounding women, nor noblemen barking orders for servants to tend to their lord. As Meya stared in horror, lords and ladies teetered where they stood then crumpled to the floor.
Dancing couples fell onto each other. Those sitting around tables smacked their faces into their mugs or the tabletop or slid off to the floor. Minstrels slumped against their instruments, guards against the wall or their weapons. Maids and manservants dropped their drink trays with much clattering, soaking them as they tumbled.
Meya spun around at the tug on her arm to find Lord Zier dropping, his mouth lolling open, the whites of his eyes gleaming between half-shut eyelids.
In less than a minute, the lively party had been reduced to a hall strewn with passed-out, dead-drunk humans, plus one bewildered Meya Hild.
What in the three lands is going on?
Meya spun about; eyebrows knotted in bafflement. Have they decided to spike the drinks instead? But if so, Meya had been sipping apple juice. Why was she still standing? And why had no one warned her beforehand?
At any rate, I should probably be asleep myself.
Meya emptied her glass onto Zier, then flattened herself on the cold stone. Just as she was relaxing her limbs, footsteps approached from the hallway outside, then the double doors were thrown open. Meya prayed the crackles and sputters of the fireplace would be enough to mask the sound of her thundering heart.
The scattered clapping of metal-soled boots on stone swelled into a chorus as a dozen pairs of feet joined the march. The congregation halted a few feet away from her.
"Trunt, you gave them the aconite?" Gillian's voice rang in the silence.
Aconite? The poison? What's that for?
"Done. Got one of 'em maids to put it in the stew."
The stew?
Meya couldn't believe her ears. Gillian had meant to kill everyone in the castle by spiking the food with aconite? Fortunately, her folk in the kitchen have found a way around by putting everyone to sleep and delaying the food.
Dead or asleep, no one could thwart their search for the dowry, so overall, there was no harm done, but how could she trust Gillian now?
It was one thing to steal to feed your hungry family. It was entirely different to murder dozens of people while you were at it. This was insanity. Utter insanity. What should Meya do now?
"The stew, you say?"
As Meya shivered in dread, Gillian's ice-cold voice void of mercy answered. He allowed a moment of excruciating silence, so Trunt would notice the lack of food on the tables.
"Explain to me, Trunt, why they are all asleep when not a dish of food is in sight, and when I told you to put aconite, not sleeping draught, into the food?" said Gillian, his voice still chillingly soft.
"I―I saw to it that she put it in, commander. I really did. I dunno how―" Trunt stammered.
"Then bring them here and squeeze the truth out of them! What are you waiting for? Go!"
At Gillian's snarl, Trunt scampered outside. Gillian turned and barked to his men,
"If it's not the scullery maids, then it's her. Where is Meya Hild? Find her!"
A jolt of pure fear coursed through Meya. She prayed to Freda for protection as the bandits scattered and examined every guest. If they found out she was the only one awake, they'd think she was behind this, although she had not the slightest idea how it all came about.
A pair of boots stopped before her. Warm air caressed her cheek as the bandit peeled her face from the carpet and brushed aside her golden locks. Perhaps, with all the beautifying, he wouldn't recognize her?
Meya held tight onto her only hope. That was, until he lifted her eyelid. Though it was too quick for him to notice Meya's eye focusing on him, it was more than enough,
"Green eyes. It's her." He muttered, then hollered, "Over here, commander!"
Stupid, cursed eyes of doom! I swear, if I survive this, I'd stick my head in a chamberpot filled with poo for three days, if it would dye my eyeballs freaking brown!
A heavy, eerie silence descended as twenty men gathered around her. The pressure of twenty ogling pairs of eyes threatened to crush Meya flat.
"She faking, right?" A bandit suggested hesitantly, prompting another bandit to prod her waist with the tip of his boot. Meya tried her best to stay limp as raw dough.
"Read her, Torbald." Gillian commanded. Before Meya could prepare for whatever was coming, Torbald knelt and pushed up her eyelids.
Glowing green eyes stared into hers, breaking contact only to blink. Unlike Gillian, Torbald's gaze was warm, so Meya willed her eyes to convey her honest plea to him. At last, he released her and turned back to his leader,
"She knew nothing, commander."
Gillian dipped a nod of satisfaction then turned his focus to the doors. Meya melted in relief. Torbald rested his rough, calloused hand on her shoulder.
"You stay asleep now, little lass." He whispered, chuckling at the sight of her frown, "Wouldn't wanna blow our secret, eh?"
He winked. Meya blinked, puzzled. What did he mean, their secret? That aside, one look in the eye, and they believed she wasn't involved, just like that?
Torbald didn't explain, nor did he have time to. Footsteps echoed from outside again. Trunt reappeared at the door, stringing the reluctant Lady Arinel along with a tight grip on her arm.
Meya's heart thundered once more as she closed her eyes. She'd been cleared of all charges. Now she feared for her Lady. Once the approaching footsteps had died, she cracked one eye open a slit, then shut it once more.
A panting Trunt stood before Jerald, Arinel, Gretella, the five guards and nine scullery maids. He jerked his chin at Arinel.
"'ere, commander. The maid I gave the bag to. If anyone's tamperin' it's gotta be 'er."
A brief pause followed; Meya guessed Gillian was taking a good look at the maid, broken by the sickening sound of gagging and sputtering which was unmistakably Gillian heaving Trunt off his feet by the collar.
"You fool! Of all the maids in that kitchen, you handed it to Lady Crosset?"
Gillian roared in exasperation. Even under such dire circumstances, Meya stifled a snort of laughter. Poor Trunt; Arinel would've been the only one in that kitchen smart enough to know poison when she saw it and concoct a countermeasure.
"Why does it matter who gets the draught and what is spiked, lowlife?" Arinel's icy voice drowned out Trunt's intelligible whimpering, "The guests are asleep. As planned. Now go loot to your heart's fill. We'll head back to our posts."
A long, deafening silence followed. Meya chanced a second peek.
Gillian glared at Arinel, the tendons taut on his scarred, paper-white face, his dark green eyes cold and calculating. Finally, his lips twisted into a tight grin.
"No, Lady Crosset. I can no longer trust you not to interfere." His voice was as soft and serene as ever, but the menace mingled in it sent shivers down Meya's spine.
Gretella pulled Arinel into her embrace. Sir Jerald stepped up to shield them both. Gillian's smile stretched wider.
"And yes, my lady. It does matter greatly. My plan has never been to leisurely scour the whole castle for the dowry. Lord Hadrian will deliver it to me willingly."
Strength flowed out of Meya and seeped away into the carpet at the numbing realization. Gillian had planned to hold all these people hostage, bargaining the antidote in exchange for The Axel. She had miscalculated his true motive, had trusted in his camaraderie. If Arinel hadn't intervened, she would've been responsible for all these innocent lives.
As she lay there, stiff as a skeleton, Gillian delivered his ultimatum,
"Lady Crosset. Meya Hild. Lord Zier. The Baron and Baroness. Tie them up. We're moving out."
The bandits dashed towards Arinel and Meya. Wrenched back to reality, Meya closed her eyes and played dead. As much as she longed to act, she was powerless and overwhelmed. It was best for her comrades for her to let these heartless bandits believe she was still their ally.
"Lady! No! Lady!"
"Let go of me. Let go! Grandma!"
"Stop! You lowlife! Scum!"
Gretella and Arinel screamed. A bandit yanked Meya's arms behind her and looped twine around her wrists. Jerald's voice joined the din of shrieking maids as the Crosset guards unsheathed their swords, but outnumbered four to one, that was the farthest they could go.
Meya longed to do something, anything to help. It was she who landed them all in this catastrophe. Yet, as always, when it truly mattered, Meya was at a complete loss for bright ideas. The shame, the guilt was such that she couldn't muster the will to wag a finger. The bandit pulled her to her feet by her bound hands.
"What in the three lands are you doing? Do you not want the antidote?"
Arinel screamed the question ringing in her head. The chaos died. Meya sneaked another peek, then shut her eye just as soon. Arinel was standing right before her, panting, arms pinned behind. She was glaring at the bandit who held Meya.
"Meya Hild is smart, but she knows too little of the world. And herself." said the bandit, his voice brimming with a smirk; Gillian's rat-faced second-in-command, Dockar, "There is only one poison to our kind."
Meya felt as if the ground had opened and swallowed her whole into abyss. Gillian's mysterious smirk when she suggested the antidote swap; it all made sense then. The reason Meya was unaffected by Arinel's sleeping draught.
They were all Greeneyes. Their bodies must have been different from normal people. The only poison that could kill them was Lattis. If aconite couldn't kill Greeneyes but could kill normal humans, then Lattis could protect normal humans while killing Greeneyes?
The dowry is The Axel. The Axel is made of Lattis. If The Axel is inside someone, it would protect him from poison. That's why Gillian poisoned everyone; whoever has The Axel won't be affected!
Gillian had kept his promise. He had meant to spare Meya and take her to join their kind, but the same couldn't be said for everyone else. The moment Meya made that pact, she sentenced the deaths of all these people who had trusted in her.
There was nothing, nothing she could have done. Dockar's chilling last remarks rang loud and clear in her ears,
"But you needn't worry. Since Meya Hild honored her end of the deal, we'll uphold ours as well." Dockar's voice was undercut with tension; he wasn't comfortable with Gillian's decision to rescue Meya.
"All you have to do is be a good little lady, while we wait for Coris Hadrian to hand over what we came for. Then, we'll deliver the requiem for the whole Hadrian family in one fell swoop."
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