Page 93 of Grave Flowers
Aeric sat up. His hand reached toward me. I cringed back in my chair. Gripping the hem of Yorick’s cloak, he flipped it back. Cheap red fabric flashed beneath the black folds. A harsh, mirthless laugh left Aeric’s throat.
Leaning forward, he whispered in my ear: “You’ve ruined my play.”
“Did I?” I blinked innocently back at him, even as terror tightened my throat. “But my darlingest dear, isn’t this dress mine?”
Another bitter laugh rent from Aeric. Gently, he replaced the fold of the cloak so the red dress was obscured. Then he set his crown on my lap, just as he had the tin crown. It was heavy on my knees. Involuntarily, I gripped it with both hands so it wouldn’t slip to the ground.
“I think I like you better in green.”
It was all he said. Then he surged to his feet. Immediately, I drew Yorick’s cloak over my nose and mouth. Father, noticing, followed suit with his sleeve. In one smooth motion, Aeric lifted the mask from the grave flower Oscura stall from under his chair, along with a glass orb. He slipped the mask over his head and pushed a lever atop the orb. It deployed liquid straight into Prince Lambert’s face. With a howl of rage, Prince Lambert jumped to his feet. He reached for his sword.
Then he blinked.
“What is this?” Prince Lambert asked. He pawed at his face. Mad minds. Aeric must have their liquid inside the orb. The scent was weak, and it didn’t seem exceptionally potent—if it’d been from the mad minds in our garden back home, everyone in the box would’ve been afflicted. In fact, it was probably what Aeric was counting on. That I, Prince Lambert, and even Father would breathe in the nectar vapor and begin tattling on ourselves, while he was protected by the mask.
But, since Father and I had protected ourselves, it was just enough to work on Prince Lambert.
His eyelids and lips swelled. Seeing his reaction made my own eyes and lips sting. I felt as though I were the one with the burning spreading to my brain, tearing out my closest held secrets, and forcing them to my tongue.
Madly, Prince Lambert stumbled forward. He tripped and tumbled over the edge of the royal box, landing heavily below. He pushed himself up and staggered unsteadily to the stage, as though he might enter the tableau. The court murmured. Several nobles hurried forward to pull him back. The ring of metal against metal resounded as he drew his sword, swinging it wildly to keep them away.
The actors fled the stage as Prince Lambert flopped inelegantly onto it. He lurched around the set. Clear liquid seeped from his eyes, and he blinked rapidly. The swelling around his lips intensified, and they began to move as though of their own accord.
“I slipped the poison in my brother’s ear as he slumbered on the bench.” Prince Lambert’s voice didn’t sound like his. It was several octaves higher, nasally, strange. “I did, I did, I did. It went in so easily, like a breeze or a bee or a whisper. I tried to wake him. I shook him. I wanted him to look me in his eyes as he died. But he never woke. From sleep to death. Or maybe this is death, and he went from sleep to life and I did it, I did it, I did it.”
Nimbly, Aeric stepped up onto the royal box’s rail. He walked its length and jumped down. He ascended the stage, his own sword suddenly in his hand. Gasps and cries ran through the court.
“Your Highness”—the Head General surged forward—“say the word, and he shall be arrested.”
With a lazy toss of his hand, Aeric waved him off. I knew this was inevitability finally tipping into fate.
One would emerge king.
The other would be dead.
Chapter
TWENTY-SEVEN
Father tapped my shoulder. He cocked his head to the discarded orb and mask on the carpet.
“Mad minds?” Wordlessly, I nodded. “I see …” He paused. “Does the boy know your part?”
“No, he has never even suspected it,” I lied.
“Very good.” He reached for his goblet of wine and cautiously sniffed. Then he held it up to peer at it, as though it was more interesting than the drama unfolding on the stage and his ability to drink it was of the utmost importance. Satisfied it didn’t seem to bear any poison, he took a sip. He sat back as though to enjoy the proceedings, then began fiddling with the goblet, testing the tightness of the gemstone settings.
My attention returned to the stage, along with that of the rest of the audience. Prince Lambert’s and Aeric’s swords tangled. Prince Lambert’s teeth bared around his swollen lips, and he pushed back Aeric’s advance, slashing his sword down. I leaped to my feet and gripped the edge of the royal box, the velvet balustrade soft beneath my clawing fingers. Prince Lambert’s blade pierced the air, stabbing toward Aeric’s chest.
His motions were erratic and sloppy, but skilled. His blade connected with Aeric’s forearm. Blood bloomed across his sleeve. It wasn’t fatal, but it was his sword hand.
“I’ll take everything from you too, boy,” Prince Lambert sneered. “I took your mother’s heart. I took your father’s life. Now I’ll take your throne and your bride.”
Forcefully, Aeric parried Prince Lambert’s attack, forcing his uncle’s sword up and away. For one moment, his chest was exposed. Aeric’s sword flashed like a sunray. Then it disappeared into Prince Lambert’s chest. Prince Lambert’s eyes widened, the whites showing in the grotesquely swollen folds of skin. He stumbled back. With two hands, he gripped the sword handle. He staggered, stumbled, fell. The sword protruded from his chest, a silver line pointing up to the ceiling.
For a moment, everything was silent. Faces bore round holes of open-mouthed shock and wide-eyed horror. Gasps and screams rang out seconds later as the court recovered their voices. Heads bent together, and elbows nudged, and whispers slithered about beneath it all.
Then Horatio cried out, “Long live the king!”
