Jester, page 23
“Take him back to his home for the night.” The queen’s jaw is clenched, the only sign of emotion on her otherwise smooth face. “And whatever you do, do not let him use magic.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Mistress, a summons from the queen.”
“Now?”
With only a handful of days left before the final show, the interruption comes as more than an annoyance. Instead of a note, the queen has sent an actual messenger, and not just any messenger, a guard, a lanky boy of nineteen or so, who flushes at the sight of my bare legs.
“It is urgent.”
His voice cracks on the final syllable. Of course it’s urgent, I think, grabbing a robe. When is it ever not urgent? I follow him reluctantly to the elevators. I’m surprised when he does not lead me to the queen’s suites but instead takes me down to one of the private conference rooms the queen uses for court business. I don’t even have time to feel dread before he bows me in, the door clicking shut behind us.
The queen is arrayed in all her finery, seated upon a makeshift throne. My gaze snags upon her heavy ceremonial armor, the kind she only dons for serious matters. Execution. Treason. Her eyes burn like chips of diamond. I curtsy belatedly, my legs betraying me by wobbling, and tug my robe around me further, flimsy shield that it is from the queen’s wrath.
“Lisette Schopfer. Do you or do you not deny affiliating with Natalia Obrist, and her son, Luc Obrist, in conspiring against the Crown?”
Any defense I might have had dries up in my throat like dust. The queen waits like stone, the only indication of her displeasure the staccato tap tap tapping of her tiny, heeled boot. I clear my throat.
“Your Majesty—”
I wait for her to interrupt, rend me with whatever proof she has of my dealings with Luc and Natalia, but she simply waits, both hands gripping the armrests of her high-backed chair. A fire rages in the hearth behind her, even though the room is already hot, so hot, sweat dripping down my spine.
“I have dealings with the former,” I say slowly, hoping against all hope she is in a lenient mood today. “But not what you think. I disavowed myself of them both, immediately upon learning their true motives.”
The queen’s cerulean eyes are dark, almost black. “You lie.”
“I do not!”
The words tumble out before I can realize how pointless they are. Her mind was decided before I set foot in this room.
“Here, here is the proof!” I rip my glove off, revealing the twisting black beneath. It’s only been a day since Luc healed me last, and already the poison creeps up my palm. It’s happening faster, I realize, heart thudding dully. The queen stares, uncomprehending. Twisting my father’s ring, I hold it in front of me.
“Luc discovered that I have magic poisoning and used the fact against me.”
My own words sound hollow and juvenile in my ears, a child tattling on a sibling.
“Your Majesty, I wish you no harm, you know this.” Desperation clings to my words, souring them. The queen’s hand clenches.
“I know nothing of the sort,” she hisses, and in an instant, the stone she hides behind has shattered. “It is always the ones closest to me I trust the least.”
There is something else there, behind the fury. Pain. I seize on it.
“I am your friend, Your Highness.”
The queen laughs, but it is a mirthless sound. “Do you always sell your friends to the highest bidder?”
Without meaning to, I think of Yasmin. No, I want to shout. But the queen is right. I am a liar.
“I have been accused of murder,” the queen says, softly, almost absently. “Do you believe I poisoned my husband, Lisette?”
“Of course not!” The words tumble out in a guilty rush. Poison. My own careless words, exchanged for a reprieve from my own self-poisoning, have come back to haunt me like a spirit, unbidden.
“Prove it.”
The queen’s face is a mask once more, as heavy as the armor she wears.
“Anything,” I say, dropping to my knees. The queen is silent, no doubt weighing my words against my actions.
“I want you to kill Luc.”
The breath catches in my throat. So this is to be my punishment. I wonder if I wouldn’t prefer the axe to my own throat instead. The thought of Luc dead at my hand is too much to bear. I want to crumple under the weight of the request, let the marble floors swallow me whole. I can feel the queen’s gaze on me, scrutinizing my every facial tic.
“Your Highness—” I manage, but the words catch in my throat, so I clear it. “My queen, of course he deserves to be punished, but death?”
I try hard to smother the despair that colors my tone. The queen straightens, fingers tightening against both armrests, knuckles white. “He is guilty of treason and conspiring against the Crown.”
There is not enough air in this too-hot room.
“If you successfully manage this, I will pardon your own transgressions, of course,” the queen continues, adjusting the golden clasp, shaped like a roving vine, that sits at the base of her throat.
A royal pardon. My whole life I’ve sought the approval of the Crown and now that it’s finally within my grasp, it feels hollow. I should have known the price would be more than even I was willing to pay. And then the queen delivers the final blow:
“And I want you to execute him during the final show.”
I stare at her, uncomprehending. “You wish me to murder him publicly?”
For some reason, the act feels more vulgar done this way, his death made into a spectacle. But what else should I have expected in Oasis, where pain is sold as entertainment daily?
“It is for your benefit,” the queen says, cold. “Even after everything you have done to me, I still seek to protect you. His death will be nothing more than a tragic accident, at the hands of a fellow performer. You will be forgiven by the Crown, the people, and you will be free to enjoy your new position as Jester.”
Jester. There is little more than a week left before the final show, the show where the queen will announce her choice for Jester. Is this really the way I want to win though? As if sensing my thoughts, the queen continues.
“He will die either way, whether by your hand or another’s. I hope you are not having second thoughts about defending a traitor.”
Luc made his choices, I think. Do not feel bad because he was caught in his own snare. I tell myself this, but I’m the one tangled, fought over by the two wolves who set the trap.
I’m afraid to answer, afraid to speak the words that will turn me from traitor to murderer, so I shake my head instead.
“Come to me,” the queen says, extending her pale hand. Rings glitter on her slender fingers. “Since you have chosen the path of loyal servant, you may kiss the royal ring.”
The edge of the gem cuts my lip. I wonder how many other mouths have breathed lies on this same stone, while swearing fealty.
Her words come as if from a great distance. Fury and a wild desperation pound through my blood, making the world around me shimmer with heat. I long to pounce upon her and wrap my fingers around her delicate swan’s neck and throttle her until she’s limp and gray.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, grimacing. “Once you have accomplished what I ask, I will repay you with magic of your own.”
Although my breath still comes in heaves, her words hit like a drug. Magic of my own. Never again a slave to stolen magic. For that, I would serve this horrible woman. For that, I would kill. For that, I would do anything.
I push Luc far from my mind, already on my knees. The promise of magic bows my neck further still, my lips brushing the exquisite marble floor beneath, the only thing lower than myself.
“Your Highness, as always, I am your humble servant.”
I wait in Yasmin’s dressing room backstage. I’m furious with her. My thoughts rage in time with the blood pounding through me as I finger a bouquet of long-stemmed roses set by her mirror. There are so many flowers in the room, it’s hard to breathe. Dried, live, even an arrangement of fake flowers, adorn every available inch of surface in the lavish suite. I watch the clock count the seconds until her encore is finished.
At 9:04, the door clicks open, right on schedule.
“Hello, Yasmin.”
She lets out a squeak, the macaw on her shoulder struggling to maintain its hold. But she quickly regains her composure, expression going cool at the sight of me, seated at her vanity.
“What are you doing here?” she snaps, shutting the door.
“Like you don’t know,” I retort. After everything we’ve been through, I can’t believe she betrayed me to the queen. All over a misunderstood kiss. Her face remains carefully neutral, arms crossed over her chest.
“I don’t suppose you’ve come to apologize then.”
“Apologize?” The word roars out of me, and for a moment, she looks unsettled. Good. Let her see the consequences of betraying me. “You sold me to the queen!”
I expect her to be defensive, hells, I even expect a fight. But what I don’t expect is the utter bafflement that crosses her face.
“What are you talking about?”
She almost looks genuine. But she forgets that I’m a performer too, that I see through an act as well as anyone. I forge ahead.
“Don’t play stupid. I know it was you!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
A stalemate. We stare at each other, chests heaving. The parrot lets out a low clucking sound, shifting its weight from foot to foot.
“You told the queen. About Luc and I,” I say, low, angry at the tears that rise unbidden to my eyes. Yasmin’s mouth drops at the accusation, speechless.
“You really think I’d do that?” she finally asks, mouth a tight line.
I roll my eyes. “Of course. I know better than anyone how much you hate Luc. I saw you in the audience when . . . I know you overheard us.”
“And you assumed my reaction would be to betray you, my closest friend.” Her voice is flat, without inflection. Staring at her arms wrapped tightly across her midsection, as if to protect herself from me, I have my first misgivings.
“You hate Luc,” I repeat, but I barely convince myself anymore.
“So what if I do? I care about you.” She laughs, high and bitter. “But you’re too self-absorbed for friendship, aren’t you? Too busy scaling the cliffs of your own ambition.”
I gape at her, completely disarmed. All this time, I thought Yasmin’s friendship was . . . not an act exactly, but for entertainment. A show. Like everyone else. Gone as soon as the applause fades and the lights dim.
“You know nothing about me,” she says when I don’t respond. The pain in her eyes adds to my overabundance of guilt. “And you’re an even worse friend than I thought. Get out of my dressing room.”
“But—”
“Get out!”
The Book of Laws is heavy, the pages brittle. I have not touched it since my father’s death. Once, I knew all the laws within. Once, I let myself believe my father would teach me, like he taught my brother. A vindictive pleasure surges through me at the thought of what my father would think of the show I have planned. Of him knowing I used his precious book as part of a magic show. Such nonsense would have been blasphemous to my father.
Flipping idly through the thick pages, the comforting smell of old book emitting with each page turn, I skim through the text half-heartedly.
When a murderer is found guilty, a suitable sentence must be determined . . .
The text is as dry as the book itself, full of old laws and bylaws no one but my father cared about. How I ever hoped to be his apprentice is beyond me. . . .
A scribble, hastily penned in my father’s hand stops my page turning. My father did not write in his books, limiting his notes to the stern black notebook he kept on his desk.
Amarantyllus/devil’s tongue
highly toxic: muscle spasms, confusion, frothing, hydrophobia, coughing up blood
sweet-smelling
I stare at the words, which make no sense. My father was a judge, not a botanist. Why would he have any interest in a poisonous plant?
Heart sinking, I scan the page the note was left on. It’s mostly useless: dense blocks of information on presenting evidence for defendants. Unless I’ve inadvertently stumbled across my father’s plan to murder the king . . .
I’d never really thought my father guilty. Not even the day they executed him, after a trial so short, we barely got there in time to hear the verdict. I remember Hattie, silently braiding my hair with trembling hands. In the end, it hadn’t mattered how I looked, since by the time we got there, my father had already given his defense.
The judge, a hastily appointed substitute for my father, was going over the evidence with a baffled look on his face, shuffling papers repeatedly to hide his inexperience.
“So, on the night of the . . . incident, you were found at the king’s bedside, alone and with a weapon.”
“A gun,” my father interrupted. I could see from the way his hands clenched the stand in front of him that he was afraid, even though his expression was bland, almost nonchalant. “But as your inspector has already pointed out, there was no gun wound.”
“Wounds can be healed though . . .” the false judge put in, shuffling the papers again in that maddening way.
“As you all know, I have no healing powers and I was found alone. If you’d let me summon the king, he can tell you himself who murdered him—”
“What were you doing in the king’s quarters in the middle of the night?”
The question came not from the judge but the queen, who stood up, hands fisted at her sides. My father, who always had an answer, merely opened his mouth and shut it again.
“I did not kill the king,” he finally answered, but even I knew it wasn’t enough, this meager defense from the only man who knew the law better than anyone else. “He was clearly poisoned; the symptoms were the same as—”
“Enough.”
The judge peered over his spectacles at the queen, who slammed the table in front of her with two shaking fists in an uncharacteristic bout of emotion.
“He was the only one there the night of the crime, and I will not have him attempting to deceive the courts with trickery.”
“I do not attempt to deceive anyone!” my father burst out from the stand. “Everyone knows the dead cannot lie, why won’t you let me—”
“You are a judge of the land,” the queen snarled. “And if anyone knows how to lead a jury, it is yourself. I will not allow this trial to be tainted by magic. I’ve heard enough.”
All eyes watched the substitute judge, who let out a nervous “aah.”
“It’s quite clear, is it not?” the queen snapped.
“Of course, of course, Your Majesty.” The judge’s head bobbed on his neck. “I, er, pronounce this man guilty of murdering the king.”
The gavel swung down, sealing my father’s fate with a hollow thud. Guards swarmed my father, who had the dazed look of someone who has just been solidly punched in the stomach.
“There was no gunshot wound! The king was poisoned! Check the glass at his bedside!”
It was then my father finally lost his composure. The guards pulled him shouting and pleading from the stand. And then Hattie turned my head from my father, before I could suffer the further disgrace of watching him, a common criminal, being dragged from the room.
Poison.
Sweet-smelling.
The taste of the tea I accidentally brewed the queen, the slick nauseating taste of it on the back of my throat floods my mouth with saliva. What if these notes aren’t my father’s own murderous plan, but his attempt to solve the crime himself? And if my father didn’t kill the king, is it really possible the queen did?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Although there is no point in rehearsing the grim show I have planned, I sit on the empty stage anyway. I stare at the knife given to me by the queen. Running it against my hand, I can smell the poison coating it, even from here: a ghost of sweetness.
For once I do not have to plan my show. It’s obvious what I need to do. The silver glints against the blackness of my palms, the blackness that now reaches my shoulders.
Stolen magic will corrupt your soul. Is this what Cillian meant? That I’d be so desperate to keep my magic, I’d murder for it?
“Lisette.”
I don’t look up as Luc crosses the stage to where I sit. I’m not surprised to see him, even though it’s been almost a week since the queen’s summons and more than that since I saw him last. After a moment of hesitation, he drops to the stage next to me, long legs folded awkwardly underneath him. He leans back on his hands, letting the stage lights bathe his face in a hazy glow. The spotlight has always loved him, I think resentfully. It limns the strong lines of his jaw and sparkles in his golden hair.
“What do you want?” My voice is flat. I don’t look up from the knife, the knife I could kill him with right now.
“I’ve come to release you from our deal.”
The knife slips in my grasp, clattering to the floor.
“Excuse me?”
Luc sucks in a breath, as though the words are physically painful. “If you truly believe the queen is innocent . . . I trust you. You’re released from our bargain.”
I pick up the knife, still not comprehending. “Just like that?”
Luc takes the knife from my shaking hands and sets it carefully next to me. When did he get so close? And devils, when did I fall prey to his spell? The heat between us shimmers like sun on sand. Hesitating, Luc takes my hands in his, one finger tracing the black veins that fan out like lace all the way to my shoulders. He follows the lines, his touch burning all the way up. Leaning down, his lips brush my exposed shoulder. I shiver despite the heat.
“You’re a fool,” he says softly. “Is it truly worth all this to you?”
His question tumbles in my mind, and for a moment, I don’t know the answer. He turns my face up to his, amber eyes questioning, and finally, here is a question I do know the answer to. My lips part in response and he leans to meet them with lips that taste like gunpowder and honey. And although I’ve kissed him before, this kiss, without bribery or manipulation to sour the sweetness, is exquisite. How is it that I’ve never known how badly I wanted this? Wanted him? I kiss him fiercely and with abandon, pulling him by the neck even closer. Gently, he leans me down onto the stage, his hands tangled in my hair. A pain in my back rouses me from the spell of passion, an annoying dig in my spine. The knife, I realize. The knife I’m going to kill Luc with in mere hours.
