Silver in the Cup

CHAPTER 13

ISOLDE'S POV

Rhaelen did not speak for a long time after he finished reading the letter.

He folded it along its creases and held it out to me, and I took it with fingers that no longer felt like my own. I read it twice. Caeldric's neat handwriting had once meant birthday wishes and little notes pushed under my door when I was sick, and now every line sounded like an order.

"You never told me," Rhaelen said.

"I didn't think it mattered." My voice shook, and I forced it to steady. "I stopped doing what the Veyrdens told me the day I signed those papers."

"Yet your Alpha's son still believes you owe him something."

"He always has."

I looked down at the letter again, and a cold weight sank into my stomach. Caeldric knew about the guards. The only reason he knew was that I had told him myself, through a stone that was lying at the bottom of my bag. I waited for Rhaelen to notice the same thing, but he only watched my face, and he said nothing.

"From tonight, every letter that comes for you will pass through Orren," he said at last. "You will not answer any of them. I will write to the Veyrden Alpha about your inheritance, as I promised."

"Thank you."

"Do not thank me. I have made a bargain, not a gift." He turned toward the broken table, and I understood that I had been dismissed. "Orren, move her to the guest suite in the north corridor of the keep. The chamber in the tower was served by the maid who carried that pitcher, and I do not intend to leave her in a room that woman knows how to reach."

Orren bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."

He walked me out of the war room and up two flights of stairs, with the guards close behind us. The torches along the corridor burned lower here, and the stone floor had been covered with a long woven carpet.

"The maid has not been found," Orren said quietly, when we were out of earshot of the soldiers. "She has not returned to the servants' quarters, and nobody there will admit to knowing where she went."

"She was shaking when she put the pitcher down."

"Then she was afraid of someone." He stopped in front of a heavy oak door and pushed it open. "I have placed four guards on this corridor, and no one will reach you without passing them. Do not leave the suite until I send for you."

I walked inside, and he closed the door behind me.

It was the largest room I had ever been given in my life. A sitting room opened onto a bedchamber with a wide bed and thick velvet curtains, and a tall window looked out over the dark northern mountains. There was a small dressing room off to one side, a deep copper tub, and a fireplace almost as tall as I was.

It should have felt like a kindness. Instead, I stood in the middle of the carpet and wondered what the other servants would say when they saw it.

I did not have to wonder for long.

An hour later, two women arrived carrying a pile of folded linens and a pail of steaming water. I recognized them at once, as the same two servants who had taken my bag and dragged me out to scrub the floors on my first day. The taller one set down the pail with a bang, and the shorter one dropped the linens on the bed so hard that they slid to the floor.

"The King's wife," the taller one said, looking me up and down. "Only a few days ago, you were scrubbing the main corridor in a gray tunic, and tonight, you have the best rooms in the keep."

"I didn't ask for them," I answered quietly.

"Nobody ever does." She sneered, and her eyes flicked to the velvet curtains. "A cursed king, a replacement bride, and a hole burned through the war room table. They say you knocked it over yourself, my lady. Did you know the water was poisoned, or did you only want to look clever?"

My heart began to pound. "I lost my balance."

"Of course you did."

The shorter servant gave a small, ugly laugh. They filled the tub without another word, and the taller one jerked her head toward the dressing room. "There is a service door behind the tapestry for fetching more water," she told me coldly. "You will not use it, and you will not follow us."

They walked into the dressing room together, and I heard the faint scrape of a hidden latch.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. My hands would not stop shaking. I had been hated by the Veyrden servants for years, and I had learned to ignore it, but those servants had only hated me for being a charity case. These two looked at me as if I were a danger.

A few minutes later, I heard voices on the other side of the tapestry. The service door had not closed all the way, and the whispers came through the gap, low and quick.

"...a hole right through the table. Did you see it?"

"I saw the pitcher. Then the little one from the kitchen never came back. They say she has run."

"She will be found. They always are." The second voice dropped lower. "You heard what was said. It cannot stop now. Whoever is behind this wants it finished."

"The King is still alive."

"And that is the problem. We have to finish what the medicine started, and the Veyrden girl keeps getting in the way."

I stopped breathing.

"Quiet," the first voice hissed. A floorboard creaked, and then a latch clicked, and the whispering stopped completely.

I sat very still on the bed, my fingernails pressing into my palms. Finish what the medicine started. They had not been talking about the silver in a single bottle. They had been talking about something that was still happening, and they had both spoken as if it were something they had been told to do.

I pressed my fingers against my temples and tried to reach for the wolf. There was only the crackle of the fire and the wind against the glass. He had not spoken to me since the war room, and I did not know whether it was because Rhaelen was far away, or because he was simply too tired.

The tapestry rustled, and both servants came back into the room. The taller one carried a tray with a steaming cup, which she set down on the small table beside me.

"The steward says the Lady should have something warm after her ordeal," she said, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Chamomile and honey."

I stared at the cup. It was the same tea that had come to me two nights ago, on the same kind of tray, delivered by a servant who could not get out of the room fast enough.

"Thank you," I said.

They left, and the door closed behind them.

I did not touch the cup for a long moment. The warning I had found under my door was still folded inside the lining of my bag, and I could almost see the neat, hurried handwriting. Don't drink what they bring you. I walked to the fireplace, lifted the cup in both hands, and carried it close to the candle on the mantel.

The tea was clear and golden, with a faint curl of steam rising from the surface. I tilted the cup toward the light.

At the bottom, beneath the honey, a thin layer of fine gray dust had settled against the clay.

It caught the flame and glittered like frost.