Page 45 of Poisoned Empire

“Librarian, I want help finding a book.”

“Oh my!” He jumped, dropping his books, his rough voice at odds with his delicate appearance. “Please, forgive me, I didn’t hear you approach. What is it I can help you with, Your…?” He looked up at her from his position on the floor, gathering books under one arm.

“Domina Amethyst. And you can help me find books about the noble houses and their current members.”

“You’ve come to the right place!” he beamed. “We have detailed genealogies, some of which include mage gifts and miniature portraits. We also have official and unofficial histories, as well as…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “…a rather scandalous book of gossip.”

“I’d like to see all of them. What was your name?”

“Azar, Your Resplendence.”

“Thank you, Azar.”

“It is my pleasure. I presume you’re hoping to go into battle well-armed with knowledge?”

“Something like that.”

“Very good. I’ll retrieve the materials at once.”

Azar bowed and scuttled off. Once the rumours got going, she would need more than her standard go-to of revenge-poisoning her opponents. Much as she hated to admit it, that wasn’t always going to work in her favour. Not with women who spoke as if their tongues were lethal weapons. Selene needed to know enough about them to play a noblewoman’s version of ‘dirty’ if she wanted to keep her full monetary reward.

Early morning rays reflected off walls of white stone, streaming through tall, pointed windows open to the elements. Plants grew in a haphazard arrangement, their vines scaling the walls. A single butterfly fluttered about, unperturbed by the visitor to its quiet haven. Belisarius placed the bottle of ceremonial wine at his feet. The secluded, serene garden enclosure had been created for just this purpose. Words learned long ago rolled off his tongue.

“To the gods, forgotten by foolish mortals, I beseech you. Protect this insignificant man, whose ancestors you saw fit to liberate from the old world. Grant me safety as you granted them your boundless world, Oblivion, formed by your decaying souls. Accept my meagre offering and rise from obscurity.”

As he finished his prayer, footsteps sounded behind him. It was disrespectful to turn away in the middle of supplication; some said dangerous, too. In a moment that never failed to strike a chord of fear in his heart, no matter how routine, the bottle sank into the earth, leaving undisturbed soil in its wake. Offering accepted, the prince let out a pent up breath and turned to the interloper.

“One wonders if they didn’t want to remain forgotten, why they didn’t at least tell us their names.”

“Good morning, Father.”

Darius stood before him properly—if simply—attired in a short, military-style tunic of imperial red, leather boots polished and gleaming, no hint of drunkenness or hangover. Even his long hair and cropped beard were properly groomed, the scent of sandalwood soap drifting on the breeze. It was a rare sight, and before noon at that.

“I heard what happened the other night. You’re lucky the girl was there. The magistri and their benefactor are getting desperate to try the same thing twice,” Darius remarked, only his white knuckles betraying his worry.

Belisarius nodded. He’d been close to his father, even idolized him as a boy, but that had changed when Mother died suddenly and unexpectedly three years ago. As Darius abdicated all responsibility and wallowed in self-destructive misery, Belisarius had been left to grieve alone and shoulder the weight of Lethe. Despite sharing the pain his father felt, Belisarius couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive him for the abandonment, nor the broken promise to rule side-by-side until Belisarius’ own coronation. He was only two years from the age of thirty, when he could be crowned while his father still lived. It was an extra bitter pill to swallow, with Selene’s remonstration ringing in his ears that a lack of fear on the part of his enemies was at the root of it all. It was the fear his father had always commanded in the hearts of the nobles that he’d needed, and Darius had never once offered it.

“I can only hope that my praetor’s spies and investigators are competent enough to uncover the poisoner’s trail. Until then, a prayer to the forgotten gods can’t hurt. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to see you were okay for myself. First the hunt, then the poison. Yesterday must have been difficult.”

Anger scalded Belisarius.

“I’m in perfect health, as you can see. Was there anything else?” he asked, striding towards the exit where his father held himself awkwardly. Darius reached out, a hand on his arm.

“I would like to help you. Is there a part for me in your game?”

Belisarius ground his teeth. So all it took to garner his father’s cooperation and attention was to be nearly assassinated—again? Had the attempt on his life not long after Mother’s funeral not been enough? Where had this fatherly concern been when Belisarius had needed him in his grief? He’d fended off nobles alone as he’d stood at his mother’s freshly erected mausoleum, and he’d do it again now. Perhaps if he’d been a better son or a more practical man, Belisarius might have accepted the olive branch, but the days when he could look at Darius without bitterness were few and far between. This was not one of those rare occasions. He tugged his arm free and swept by his father, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’ve no need for unreliable players. If you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”

Chapter 18

Neverhadamorecruel torture been devised. No poison, however painful or paralyzing, was a match for what had befallen Selene. Tea time. Instead of playing with or harassing Belisarius, Selene had been forced to have polite conversations with the pretty Dominae Emerald, Opal and Topaz. The powers that be had decided it was time to single out serious candidates for Belisarius’ hand. Seated with that short, exalted list, Selene wished she could just put these incredible bores to sleep and wipe her hands of the drudgery. But much as she wanted to, she couldn’t. That officious snob, the praetor, had threatened her with monetary losses. Curse her lust for gold!

Each wore an embroidered silk gown in the colour of their jewelled namesake, the bright, saturated hues clashing as badly as their personalities. Had they been men, Selene wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d come away wearing each other’s blood instead of pretty baubles. The assumption that their dismissal might offend her was laughable. She’d remained silent, sipping her tea while the three women ignored her to trade witty barbs back and forth. Given what Selene knew about a potential war in the near future, it all seemed trivial.

Thus far, Selene’s personal favourite was the tall, beautiful Domina Emerald, cruel and unrelenting with her verbal assaults. Opal obsessed over proving her intellect and political savvy, while Topaz crowned herself queen of the backhanded compliment. It was like watching a pack of wild pups working out the hierarchy. Now, where was it that she’d last seen wild pups? Something half-remembered and warm seemed just out of reach.

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