Aldor stopped in the middle of the stairs, took a deep breath, and convinced himself to keep climbing. Irital’s invitation to dinner had caught him unawares. The steward’s head was tossed between refugees from the Disputed Lands, Gregor’s trip, and everything else the bureaucracy entailed, leaving him poor company for a noble woman bored and alone.

He did his due diligence as he prepared for his meeting with the most beautiful woman in the world: combed his hair, changed his tunic, and practiced his most charming smile. And when Aldor stepped into the cozily outfitted quarters, Irital left her chair, curtseyed, and greeted her guest.

She walked over to a large, stained-glass window that opened toward the northeast. Lancet windows took up almost the entire wall of the room, which featured all the hospitality Ellisdor had to offer—thirty years before, Rolf Voldhard had rebuilt the house’s guest wing all for just one special guest. Gregor’s father wanted the view from his future wife’s chambers to look out onto the Vagran Mountains. Back then, Rolf had hoped the view of her native mountains would help the future duchess cope with her homesickness. The woman the whole thing had been for was named Artanna nar Toll, and her marriage to Rolf was supposed to strengthen the alliance between Vag Ran and Highligland.

But it didn’t happen. Document scraps said the Vagrans were the first to turn their backs on the union, and, according to a paper in the Ellisdor chancery, House Toll was accused of treason. The entire clan was executed with the exception of Artanna, who was then in Highligland. And even though the wedding was off, the Vagran girl stayed in Ellisdor, afraid of what would happen if she returned home. Rumor even had it that she become Duke Rolf’s lover and maintained that status until he died. When Rolf was forced to marry a different woman, Artanna won the right to carry a sword, swore fealty to Rolf, and followed her lord around for twenty years as a bodyguard. That was typical for Vagrans—they saw no difference between men and women when it came to war. But for Highligland, the path Artanna chose was eccentric, to say the least.

That all happened so long ago that it was shrouded in speculation and legend. Still, the large stained-glass windows served as a reminder of the unwritten history everyone in Highligland knew, one the minstrels opined on in tearful ballades. Rolf’s legal wife, Duchess Viviana, didn’t spend a single night in the luxurious chambers out of contempt for the woman who really loved her husband. Even Artanna nar Toll herself had to move to more modest quarters in order to avoid giving rise to rumors, though it’s also possible she just didn’t want to see the Vagran Mountains every day. On the other side of them was the homeland she could never return to.

Irital was staying there then, most likely dreaming that one day those very same chambers would become hers and Gregor’s.

“I’m glad you were able to find time for me at last, Your Grace,” the ambassador said with a bewitching smile as she took Aldor by the hand. “Thank you for everything you’re doing for me. Would you like some warm spiced wine?”

“Of course,” Aldor lied. He didn’t want alcohol at all, though he wanted to risk ruining the uneasy truce even less.

They were seated at opposite ends of a small table. The servants had already brought several dishes loaded with appetizers and filled their pot-bellied glasses made with colored Gatson glass. Irital’s food wasn’t close to what they offered in the main hall—the variety of herbs turned every bite into a thing of beauty.

“I was very sad to find out that you don’t like poultry,” Irital said, “so I had them make you brisket on greens. We’ll have to leave the second partridge for the servants, I suppose. A shame.”

“You shouldn’t have changed your plans on my account,” the baron replied, smiling and suppressing his rising annoyance. “But your attention is flattering.”

Irital raised her glass.

“I’m just happy to host you. I’ll admit, I find it inspiring how much you care about the refugees. It was not my expectation that the castle would have any interest in them, but you, Aldor den Grauer, always find a word of comfort, shelter, and a bowl of soup for everyone in need. That is generosity befitting the Keeper himself.”

“I’m sure Lord Gregor would do the same.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the ambassador nodded. “I’m starting to understand why you’re such close friends.”

In reply, Aldor raised his glass and took a small swallow. The spicy liquid burned his throat as it cut a fiery path down to his stomach.

“There are starting to be too many refugees,” the baron continued, valiantly fighting to keep from grimacing. “Soon, Ellisdor won’t be able to take any more. Ekkehard is full, Urst is packed. They’re going to have to go farther south.”

“There’s Grauer, Mirvir, Kelbu. Even Ultsfeld if it comes to that.” Irital got to work carving up her partridge. “And there’s the port, Gorf, for anyone who wants to try their luck in the empire or Ennia. Is there any news from Gregor, Your Grace? He’s been gone an entire moon, and I’m starting to worry.”

“The last thing I heard was that he’d arrived in Missolen. There hasn’t been any news since then, though Lady Rhinhilda writes regularly.”

Aldor used his tiny fork to spear something resembling pâté rolled up in a piece of bread.

“Her position is much simpler,” Irital replied. “It’s Gregor I’m really afraid for. Missolen is a cruel city.”

“Forgive my impudence, but everything he’s doing is for you, my lady.”

“Of course, I understand that. And I’ll admit, the longer I wait, the more nervous I get, and the more doubt I feel. Was I right to accept his reckless gesture? Am I going to get Gregor killed? He’s definitely a soul ablaze, burning brightly…”

“But not for long?”

“To continue the metaphor, I’m afraid they’ll extinguish him.”

Hot food was brought in. The smell of roasted meat and fragrant foreign herbs flooded the room, and a servant girl placed a plate of juicy brisket carefully in front of the baron. Irital watched her sternly, only nodding in satisfaction when she was sure the service had been impeccable. Their glasses were again full, though Aldor hadn’t even noticed when that had happened. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and his mouth watered traitorously.

“Gregor Voldhard is tougher than you think, my lady,” Aldor said. “Please, eat. It would be a shame for such delicious food to get cold.”

The ambassador deftly pulled a leg off her bird and buried her teeth with relish into the white meat. Aldor followed her example.

“I think they might have overdone it with the spices,” the Latanian woman smiled wryly. “Sometimes, my cook likes to take things too far.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Aldor replied quickly. “This is the best thing I’ve had since my travels with Lord Gregor.”

“In that case, you should dine with me more often. I swear, the next time we’ll have you licking your fingers.”

Aldor took a sip of wine and cut off a succulent chunk of meat.

“Our best people went with Lord Gregor, and I’m sure they won’t let anything happen to him. Also, I would like to see the person who can threaten anyone as renowned as him.”

Irital put her uneaten leg down in disgusted before throwing back the rest of her wine.

“Water,” she said hoarsely. “How do you ruin such a tender bird?”

“That’s odd—my meat couldn’t be more savory,” the baron said in surprise. He noticed that the color had even gone out of the Latanian’s cheeks. “And how do you make partridge inedible with a few extra spices?”

The Latanian servant girl filled a small cup and handed it to her mistress. Irital emptied it in a few gulps.

“Wait a second…” Aldor looked at the woman’s shaking hands. The ambassador was pale and starting to choke, her delicate shoulders jerking. The terrified servant girl froze with eyelashes batting helplessly. With a crash, the cup dropped out of the Latanian’s spasming hands onto the carpeted floor.

“Help…”

The baron leaped to his feet, threw his chair back, and ran over to Irital, who was sagging to the floor. Her eyes rolled back, and foam dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

“Poison!” Aldor roared. “Get the healer, now!”

The servant girl screamed and dashed out of the chambers. A second later, the guard rushed in, alerted by the cries. Aldor barked at him angrily.

“Close the gates! Nobody gets out. And put the cook and servants under guard.”

The soldier backed away, staring at the twitching body of the Latanian.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes…yes, sir!”

“Get to it!”

Irital convulsed and groaned. The baron continued holding her, racking his brains for what he could do to help. He glanced over at the table, at his uneaten brisket, at the ambassador’s overly seasoned partridge… The poison could have been in with the spices.

“The bird,” he said, the truth dawning on him. “The damn bird.”

The ambassador had mentioned that they’d prepared two partridges, one of which she’d given to her servants when she found out too late that he didn’t enjoy poultry.

And that meant that somebody else was going to die inside the walls that day.

“Lady Irital,” the baron said, gently shaking the woman by her delicate shoulders. “Curses! Stay with me, I’m begging you.”

The door to the chambers flew open. In rushed the castle healer, a stocky man wearing a long, black robe, with an equally black hat on his head and a large bag thrown over his shoulder. Confusion was plastered all over his face, and the baron had a hard time blaming him. Poisoners were despised in Highligland to the point that nobody really knew what to do when someone was poisoned. To Aldor’s surprise, Brother Aristid flew into the room behind the healer. But there was no time to ask what the itinerant monk was doing in the chambers. The servant girl paced the threshold, wailing and crying.

“Move her to the bed!” the healer ordered. “Bring me a pitcher of water and charcoal!”

“The charcoal will damage her throat.” The monk started digging through his small bag. “Better dissolve this powder in the water. It’s crushed tyrosine, and it’ll get her to vomit and clear her stomach.

The castle doctor stared at the man of god in shock.

“I’ve heard of tyrosine—it’s an eastern drug. Give it to me.” He grabbed the sack of powder out of Aristid’s hand. The servant girl was already holding a pitcher of water out to him. “How much?”

“Three pinches. And bring me a basin or a chamber pot. If we’re lucky, the lady is going to have a hell of a time vomiting.”

The healer dropped the powder into the pitcher and shook it hurriedly.

“We’re going to need a tube for her throat,” Brother Aristid said, demonstrating the shape with his hand. “Do you have anything like that?”

“Yes, I think so,” the doctor replied. “It’s just that nobody’s ever been poisoned in the castle. This isn’t your Gatson or Ennia—they kill people with iron around here.”

“Well, I’ve had to deal with poisons many times.” The itinerant monk looked through the healer’s bag and pulled the tube out of the very bottom. “Hold the lady with her head back and open her mouth.”

Aldor had seen limbs lopped off, terrible wounds, arms and legs lost to gangrene. Gaping stomach wounds and slippery organs flopping out meant nothing to him. But watching the fat tube forced down the throat of the helpless, fragile girl terrified him. The view made him want to turn and lose his dinner, but force of will quelled the spasm and kept his eyes forward. The monk finished pushing the instrument down the Latanian’s throat before pouring the water with the emetic powder into it.

“And now we wait,” the man of god said, sighing heavily as he carefully pulled the tube out of Irital. “I hope the Keeper will hear my prayers.”

The golden-haired servant girl huddled near the headboard, wiping away the foam and drool from her mistress’ face. The castle healer looked at the monk with awe.

“I didn’t know the masters could heal with anything besides prayers.”

“I’m not a master; I’m an itinerant brother of the church,” the monk replied. “I go to many places, and the more I know and can do, the better my chances are of surviving. It’s not everywhere that the followers of the Way are given a warm welcome.”

Aldor shook himself.

“Brother Aristid, you wouldn’t be capable of identifying the poison, would you? I saved Lady Irital’s food.”

The man of god shrugged uncertainly.

“That depends. Some substances are impossible to identify.”

“The ambassador ate half her food and complained that the cook had overdone it with the spices.” The baron took Irital’s plate off the table and handed it to the monk. Brother Aristid lifted a piece of uneaten partridge to his nose and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Then he licked it, rolled it around on his tongue, and suddenly spat onto the floor.

“Drinna’s Blessing,” he said after some thought.

“Whose blessing?” Aldor asked.

“Drinna’s Blessing is the name of the poison. I’m surprised it was added to poultry, although that explains why there were so many spices…”

“But why wasn’t it just put in the wine? That would’ve been simpler.”

The monk shook his head wearily.

“Not at all. Drinna’s Blessing brightens the wine, leaves a residue, and is just generally visible, which makes it impractical. Very strange…”

“What’s bothering you, holy brother?”

“Are there any Ennians in your castle? The poison that was used on this woman is very expensive, but highly effective. They call it the aristocrat’s death since it acts gently and tenderly. First, the victim has a hard time breathing, then their limbs start to shake, convulsions kick in, and finally, they fall asleep. After they die, the body doesn’t bloat, there aren’t any of your typical splotches on the face. The person looks like they just went to sleep. And that’s where the name comes from—Drinna was the ancient Ennian goddess of the night.”

“I’m impressed that you know all that, though I have no idea where you’d get that kind of poison in Ellisdor,” Aldor replied with a frown. “Is there an antidote?”

“The important thing is to not wait until the victim falls asleep, since waking them up is impossible. Whoever came up with this ungodly way of doing it wanted the victim to go with as little pain as possible.”

Suddenly, Irital wheezed, and something gurgled in her throat.

“Quickly, turn her over onto her side,” the monk cried. “Otherwise, she’ll choke on her vomit.”

It was like the ambassador suddenly turned inside out. Her slender body, supported by the arms of the servant girl and the healer, was wracked with spasms. Brownish liquid splashed all over part of the bed and the floor, and Irital groaned between attacks. It didn’t look like she had any idea what was going on.

Aldor prayed that the monk’s treatment would work, unwilling to picture the duke’s rage in his head. If Gregor’s sweetheart didn’t live, Aldor knew he’d be the first to lose his head.

Finally, Irital’s rasps calmed. She lost consciousness once again, softening into the arms of the healer. The servant girl carefully pulled the dirty bedspread out from under her.

“What now?” the baron asked.

Brother Aristid pulled out his sack. “One more pitcher, back to the tube.”

“Can she take it?”

“Latanians are tougher than you and me, even their women,” the monk replied with a smile. “Although, I’ll be honest, this is the first time I’ve had to deal with one of them being poisoned. I don’t know if there’s anything different about their body.”

Aldor nodded.

“Will you be okay here without me?”

“Of course. You’ve done everything you can, Your Grace. Leave the poor girl to the doctors.”

“Agreed—I’m not much use here.” Aldor buttoned up his wool cloak. “I’m going to go look for the other body.”

Mixing in more powder, the monk raised his brows questioningly.

“When the ambassador invited me to dinner, she had two partridges cooked. But the servants told her I don’t like poultry, so she had them make something for me and give the other bird to the servants. I need to go see who else that Drinna blessed.”

“I’ll be praying,” Aristid said with a quick nod.

“Pray for Her Grace. If she doesn’t make it… Heal her, and you’ll save us all.”