Chapter 4 Taster

SERAPHINA

Verna drops to her knees so fast her forehead nearly grazes the stone floor.

"My king!" Her voice shakes hard enough that I can hear her teeth clicking together. One trembling finger extends in my direction. "It was her! She made it! All of it!"

I could kill her. Not literally, obviously, because I have enough actual death in my immediate vicinity without adding to it, but the sentiment is genuine. I intended to use what I know to keep both of us breathing, and she has dismantled it just like that.

I can only pray him not to have an issue with the food. I reach for his thoughts and find them easily.

What is she doing? I only want to know who made this. And whoever didn't make it will taste it first. Isn't this standard protocol for two attendants? What exactly is Mira teaching these girls?

The knot in my chest loosens. He is not angry about the food itself. He wants a taster. That's an easy-to-solve problem. I let my eyes flick to Verna, still prostrate on the floor, her entire body vibrating like a plucked string.

Useless. His attention moves back to her with the flat disinterest of a man appraising a broken tool. If I make her taste it, she'll vomit on my boots.

He is not wrong. Verna's skin has gone the color of old ash. I give it perhaps thirty more seconds before she loses the ability to remain upright entirely.

I step forward before he can reach any other conclusion.

"My king." I keep my voice level. "I made the food. I'll taste it."

Aldric looks at me. Interesting girl. Always knows what I need.

A cold thread runs through me. Am I going too far? Does he suspect something? I search his expression for any sign that might mean he is connecting too many dots. There is nothing. He simply gestures toward the plate.

I take a piece of the cake and eat it. It sits in my stomach. I wait. Nothing happens.

Good. His thought carries the brisk satisfaction of a man checking an item off a list.

He picks up the cake himself.

I watch him eat. His expression does not change. But I hear what his face refuses to show.

Better than anything they've put in front of me in weeks.

Inwardly, I smile back. "Thank you, my king."

When he finishes, he sets the plate down and is quiet for a moment. Then, with the decisive energy of someone who has just made up his mind about something unrelated to the food, he calls out, "Aldous!"

His voice is booming, seeming to echo through the entire castle. A beat passes, and then the door opens to admit a man roughly Mira's age, broad-shouldered and composed, with the practiced calm of someone who has spent decades making chaos look manageable. He takes in the room, including Verna still kneeling on the floor, with a single measured sweep.

"My king. You called for me?"

Aldous. My majordomo. Knows where every body is buried, figuratively and otherwise. The thought arrives in Aldric's mind with the easy familiarity of long habit, and I understand immediately that this man is not merely a servant.

"I've eaten," Aldric announces. "I want to walk in the courtyard."

Aldous blinks, and though his expression smooths over almost instantly, I catch the fraction of a second in which genuine surprise crosses his face. Aldric eating voluntarily is, apparently, an event worth noting.

"Of course, my king. I'll have your outdoor clothes brought at once."

What follows is a production. Two attendants appear to help Aldric change into lighter garments suitable for the afternoon heat. A small formation of guards assembles. Verna, having finally recovered enough function to stand, falls into position beside me at the back of the procession. We file out into the corridor and then down through a series of passages until the stone walls open onto the courtyard.

The sun is still aggressive at this hour, pressing down on the flagstones with heat that makes you want to find a wall to stand against. The courtyard is large and formally arranged, clipped hedges running in geometric lines, a fountain somewhere out of sight producing the sound of moving water.

Aldric walks. The guards maintain their perimeter. I maintain mine, which is to say I stay far enough back to be invisible and close enough to remain useful if required.

Too hot. His thought arrives with mild irritation. And my room is too far from the garden. Whoever designed this layout was an idiot. And there are too many of them. I can't think with this many people around me.

I look at the back of his head and think, with great sincerity: then tell them to leave.

It genuinely puzzles me. He is the most powerful person in this castle, in this country, arguably on this continent, and he is silently resenting the number of guards attending him instead of simply dismissing half of them. He wanted spiced food. He did not ask for it.

There is a pattern here I cannot yet name, but it sits at the back of my mind like a splinter.

I am still turning this over when a figure appears at the far end of the courtyard path.

She is dressed for an audience, her gown a deep arterial red that catches the light, her hair arranged with the kind of precision that takes a second pair of hands. A trace of rose perfume lingers on her, and she moves toward Aldric with the unhurried confidence of someone who believes her approach is welcome.

Aldous steps forward before she covers half the distance.

"Maren." His voice is pleasant and carries no flexibility whatsoever. "His grace has made his wishes clear on this matter. More than once."

I turn the name over in my memory and find the shape of it. Mira mentioned the naming system briefly during my first hours here. Once a woman completes ten years and chooses to remain, she takes on a name drawn from nature.

Maren. That's sea. She has survived a decade in this castle, which means she is either extraordinarily careful or extraordinarily lucky, and she is currently walking toward Aldric as though Aldous's words were a light breeze she has decided not to acknowledge.

She steps around him. "My king, I only wanted to offer my congratulations. I heard you ate today. We have all been so worried."

Maren lifts his hand without permission, and presses her lips to his knuckles.

Aldric doesn't throw her away like what he did to the old Verna. He stands with the absolute stillness of something that has stopped being a person. I reach for his thoughts. There is nothing there, as though the part of him that generates reason has simply ceased to operate.

In other words, I can't read his mind now.

Maren is still speaking against his hand when Aldric's free arm snaps sideways, strips the sword from the nearest guard's scabbard, and brings it down toward her head.