Court of Venom

Prologue

The court sat transfixed as Mina’s voice filled the Dining Hall. Tears welled in the eyes of even the most jaded as she sang of regret and lost love. My eyes burned too, but I hadn’t been able to cry since the day the King followed me into the garden.

The end of the song would come soon, and then I would look for my chance to poison her.

I wondered what Mother would say. She never meant for our magic to hurt anyone—to kill anyone.

And yet it had.

I planned to mix something that would only hurt Mina’s vocal cords: she would have a sore throat and her voice would be raw and gravelly for a few days. I hoped she would take it as the warning it was meant to be.

But the anger I felt must have made its way into the drink. The liquid was perhaps a bit more amber than it should have been, the smell more bitter.

The song died away and she curtsied to thunderous applause. There were calls for an encore and I held my breath. But she gave a graceful wave and swept from the stage.

The spell of her voice still hung in the air as I approached her. I’m sorry for how I’ve acted, I told her, my voice as repentant as I could make it. I know your throat gets sore after a performance, especially one as breathtaking as that. I’ve mixed you a tincture to help. Please take it. I offered her the glass.

Her eyes narrowed. Did you spit in this, little orphan?

I forced myself to smile, though it must have been more of a grimace. Of course not. I lowered my eyes. I really am sorry for how I’ve acted.

She studied me for a long moment, and I held my breath. I accept your apology, she said at last, and began to drink.

She was truly arrogant if she couldn’t sense the resentment, fear, and anger in the drink. If she only knew the truth about the King’s death, she wouldn’t be so amused.

For a moment I thought about knocking the glass from her hand and warning her, but I waited until she drained the liquid before I turned and rushed from the Hall, the poison dripping from my fingertips.

.

Later that night there was a knock at my door so soft it might have been a scratch. I was not surprised to see Mina on the other side.

She pulled down the scarf, revealing the lower half of her face where the poison had burned her flesh. Her chin and the skin around her mouth was left blistered and wrinkled. You should have killed me, she said through her ruined lips in a voice that was barely a whisper.

You’re lucky, I told her. She wanted me to kill you.

She slipped away without answering.

I closed the door and sank onto my bed, eying the vials of poison on the table. Surely Solena would consider my debt paid now.

But I should have known better.

Chapter One

The desert wind slinks into Aran from the west, winding its way through the pathways, turning corners, and catching people unaware. Nights like this end in fights and tears. My mother jumped from the Wall into the Lost on a night like this, her body swallowed by the sand and her soul held ransom for silver.

Tonight many will remember things they’d rather forget, deeds that are best left in the past. Some will dread terrible events lurking in their futures if they aren’t vigilant enough, or lucky enough, to stop them. Dark plans will take root in the minds of others, things they would never consider on any other night.

The chime of tambors in the Dining Hall is louder than usual. Drums beat like a heart and laughter echoes off the walls. The wistful melody of the lute holds a warning but it is lost in the sounds of merriment.

We sit on soft cushions around a low table, our goblets filled with sweet wine and our plates overflowing with spicy fish. Queen Solena presides at our center, her eyes glittering and her ebony hair shining. Our honored guest, the Duke of Dorros, sits to her right. He drinks deeply from his wine, his eyes fixed on her.

I sit on her left, per her request; either so she can more easily ridicule me or so she can whisper a command she doesn’t want others to hear.

What do you think of the fish, Diya? Solena asks. It was so kind of the Duke to bring it for us, don’t you think?

That’s not my name. The words boil in my mind but I don’t speak them. What would be the point? Instead, I make a show of raising my glass to her. A smile twists her mouth as she mirrors my gesture and takes a small sip of wine. She taps the table with her long nails, painted the color of rubies. One, two, three. The order will come soon.

I take a drink from the glass to wash down a piece of fish that is stuck in my throat. I am mindful not to drink too deeply—the wine could affect me in unexpected ways. Solena watches as I set down the glass, her smile widening. Delicious, I manage.

Vile, you mean, Petra breathes from beside me, so quietly that only I can hear. She is one of Solena’s ladies, and nearly my friend, if such a thing were permitted here.

The Duke’s round belly bumps the table and everyone’s drink sloshes from their goblets. Petra curses beneath her breath. Oblivious, the Duke tilts his head back and drains his glass, then belches and slams the goblet onto the table. Everyone’s hands dart to their drinks before they spill again.

In the shadows behind the Duke stands a Witch. She wears trousers and a loose white shirt, but it is the coins woven into her red hair that give her away. Her skin is smooth and unmarred, and her gray eyes gleam intently. She could be anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. To Solena’s court the sharpness of her cheekbones speaks to hunger; the color of her skin to exposure to the sun; the searing color of her eyes to the demons in the Lost, to the threats that lie just beyond the walls of Aran. No one wants to be reminded of those.

Following my gaze, the Duke grimaces. Terrifying, isn’t she? he says. But I had to hire her to guide us across the Lost. She charged one hundred silvers.

Solena murmurs a sympathetic response, and even Petra can’t suppress a shudder. The Witch’s face doesn’t change.

What wonderful hospitality, My Lady Solena, the Duke continues. You and your sister are delightful hostesses. My stomach churns as his eyes sweep over me.

Oh, we aren’t related, Solena says. We hardly look alike, do we? She widens her eyes in dramatic horror. Her court exchanges smirks, but no one dares laugh aloud in front of me, not if they want their potions and tonics.

She is right though; we don’t look alike. Her hair is dark and smooth, thanks to the tonics I use to wash it, while mine is wavy and coarse. Her face is oval and her cheekbones defined, while mine is shaped like a heart, as my mother used to say. Her eyes are dark and watchful like a cat’s. Mine are watchful, too, but they are round.

I didn’t mean to offend you, My Lady, the Duke says quickly. She is sitting at your side, is all.

My father adopted her, Solena explains. This story is a favorite of hers and she does not want to be interrupted. Her mother was a dancer. She lowers her voice as if the word means something contemptible. My father took Diya in out of the kindness of his heart after her mother died.

Diya, the Duke muses. My skin crawls as he regards me over the lip of his glass. What an interesting name. Is it a type of bird?

It’s a beetle, actually. It digs in dung until it finds a living creature. Solena delivers the inevitable barb. Then it burrows into their flesh and slowly poisons them. The Duke gives an uncertain laugh. Under the table Petra’s knee bumps mine, perhaps by accident, or maybe she can see that my hand has tightened around my glass and my teeth are clenched and she wants to remind me of the pleasure Solena would gain should I betray my feelings.

Letting out a breath, I force myself to smile as I take another drink. Once again Solena raises her glass to me with a mocking smile.

The truth is, the King treated me as his own because he loved my mother more than he loved his wife, Solena’s mother. Now all three are dead because of it.

My name is Badriya, I say, but the Duke is already speaking.

You are lucky to have one another. It must be difficult to rule a kingdom when you are so young. Solena’s eyes narrow as he moves closer to her. She taps her nails against the table again. One, two, three. Yes, she will want him dead soon. I glance at the Witch but her face is like stone.

I am glad you are enjoying yourself, Solena says. I hear you are a daring gambler. Perhaps a game of chance?

I am daring indeed. He snakes his arm around her waist. Petra sucks in her breath and Solena’s bodyguard takes a step forward, but she gives him a slight shake of her head.

The Duke leans forward, his lips at her ear. I would enjoy some time alone with you.

Perhaps after some dancing and more wine. She rises, the Duke’s arm sliding from her waist, and we all stand with her. Petra drains her glass as Solena signals to the musicians. They end their plaintive song and strike up a livelier one, the drums beating an infectious rhythm and the tambor jingling. A young man in the Duke’s entourage draws me into a dance. For a moment I can’t resist pretending like I am an ordinary eighteen-year-old enjoying a flirtation with a stranger. He smiles at me and I smile in return. The music swirls around us.

Over his shoulder, I catch Solena’s gaze and pull away from him. His hand brushes my arm as I side-step his reach. As much as I would like to stay, it is for his own safety that I depart.

I can feel the eyes of the past Kings and Queens staring down at me as I wind through the crowd of couples dancing. Each is honored with an effigy carved into the wall of the Dining Hall, so that they can forever watch their courts dining and carousing without them. There is the First King, Medacus, who made the bargain that founded Aran, and beside him stands his Queen, her expression grieving at the price she was asked to pay.

Other Kings and Queens wearing expressions varying from arrogance to joy to solemnity stand in a row, until one reaches the last King: Solena’s father. He smiles kindly over his subjects, and even in death the sight makes me shiver. His eyes seem to follow me as I struggle through the crowd.

On one side of the Third King stands a sculpture of his wife, the Queen, Solena’s mother. Her expression is serene as it never was in life. On his other side is an odd space where a statue of my mother once stood. As soon as the King died, Solena ordered it to be removed. The space is now covered with a great stone urn.

I have nearly reached the door when I catch a glimpse of wide eyes peering out from behind a silk hanging like a crocodile’s. The cloth drops back into place. With a sigh, I walk over and pull it aside as Solena’s younger sister, Najma, shrinks away.

This is hardly dignified. Do I need to remind you that you’re a princess? I ask.

Don’t tell, she begs. Please?

My scolding dies on my tongue as I study her. At first I hated her because she was Solena’s sister. Then I noticed the way she watched Solena and the other courtiers hungrily, waiting to be noticed, to be invited, as I once had. As I still sometimes do.

I’m old enough to be here, Najma persists. I’m thirteen! You’ve got to convince Solena. Please?

With a grimace I join her, letting the hanging fall around us, our backs against the warm stone wall. The fabric is light enough that we can faintly see what is happening in the Hall. The Duke is swaying, his eyes unfocused, and Solena is just out of his reach. A smile is frozen on her face. Petra dances nearby with one of the Duke’s men, a tuberose blossom tucked behind her ear. Girls in Aran are told that the scent of the tuberose might cause us to act recklessly, but Petra always wears one. She tilts her head back and laughs, always merry, no matter how tense the moment might be. I almost consider her a friend. Almost.

The young man I had danced with is now swaying with Yadira, Solena’s favorite lady-in-waiting. He gazes at her hungrily, though she hardly seems to notice, smiling with her eyes closed as if she is in the middle of a pleasant dream. I hope she didn’t take too much of the Stardust I had given her.

What is the matter with Yadira lately? Najma wonders.

Bed, I tell her, and her smile vanishes. I regret the sharpness of my words, but I don’t want her to guess the reason for Yadira’s behavior. Before I can soften my words, Najma rolls her eyes and storms from behind the cloth. I follow her out of the Hall but she rushes ahead. She crosses the courtyard and races up the steps to the gallery that leads to her chamber. Before I can reach her, she closes the door.

Good night, I say, but there is no answer from the other side of the door. I know she wishes to wound me—I did the same to my mother—but her coldness hurts more than I would like to admit.

Sighing, I wander across the gallery and look out over the city. Mother and I arrived here six years ago, when I was twelve, and even after all that’s happened, there is no denying the beauty of Aran. The buildings are all made of white stone, gleaming in the moonlight. The glass in the windows is tinted light blue so that in the sunlight it turns the color of water. The scent of lilies hangs in the air.

Behind me are the Favorites’ Chambers, where those closest to Solena reside. These rooms are the most opulent on the northern side of the city, where it is slightly cooler. Trees grow in a row in front of them, jeweled with oranges. Their scent sweetens the air on even the hottest afternoons. Though I am hardly one of Solena’s favorites, I reside here as well. She needs to keep me close. Of course, my chamber is merely a maid’s room, adjacent to hers and only a quarter of the size.

The less fortunate live across the courtyard, huddled against the southern side of the Wall. The sun is relentless there, heating the rooms like an oven. The rooms are much smaller and the floors are rough compared to the smooth, polished tile in the northern side of the city. In the mornings the air smells of manure from the horses in the stable a few yards away. Tonight, most of the windows are dark, for the residents here are mostly servants, and nearly all of them are busy entertaining the Duke and his entourage. A few yards away are the Lesser. That’s what the Favorites call these quarters.

Despite the name, I am envious of the easy chatter and light laughter among the servants that holds none of the danger of the Favorites. No matter how stealthily I try to approach, their laughter dies away the moment I come close.

A great roar bursts from the open doors of the Gambling Hall across the courtyard. Someone’s fortune has either been made or lost. For a moment the music spilling from the Dining Hall is drowned out.

Within Aran’s walls there is only revelry and light, but on the other side lies the Lost, lapping at the stones, seething and waiting to devour anyone foolish enough to venture into it. It rolls in every direction toward the horizon, where the sand and the night sky melt together.

Supposedly the Wall was built to guard against the hostile armies of other cities, but few are willing to risk a trek across the wastelands to attack tiny Aran. Everyone here knows its true purpose.

At the center of the city a fountain bubbles with the water that gives Aran its radiance and its citizens unusual youth and beauty. Legend says that it is enchanted. King Medacus built Aran on a bargain he made with a Witch nearly three hundred years ago.

While the contract has been forgotten by most, there are signs that the city’s time has run out. The walls are cracked and faded from centuries of relentless sunlight. The grass is brown and sharp against bare feet, and the city’s famed horses are finding less and less to eat. The water that bubbles in the fountain no longer tastes sweet and cold but gritty and warm.

Tonight the paths are empty except for servants hurrying to and from the Dining Hall. Everyone is either laboring in the kitchen, dining, or gambling. I am surprised to hear voices a few yards away. Two women approach, lost in conversation.

…can’t keep his eyes off her, one hisses to the other. They freeze when they see me. Both turn on their heels and scurry in the opposite direction.

One of those women knocked on my door last night. She paid me a sapphire ring in exchange for a cream to ease the shadows beneath her eyes, though only her lover’s fidelity could truly do that. Next time she comes I will raise the price.

With a sigh I turn back to the railing and gaze at the sky. The Snake constellation seems to writhe across the sky. Its red eye pins me with its gaze. Though I know it is just a far-off planet that gives the eye its hue, it still makes me shiver. Under the Snake everyone must be watchful or risk being deceived. The Duke has chosen an unlucky time to visit Aran.

On nights like these, when Najma was younger, I would tell her stories to ward off the wind. If she were speaking to me tonight, I would tell her a story about the spirits that dwell in the Lost. I would warn her about the Wind Demons who whisper venom into the ears of the unwary, and the Sand Ghosts who slither just beneath the surface, ready to drag down the unlucky until they suffocate on their own despair. Then there are the Witches who disguise themselves as travelers and appear out of nowhere. But no one questions them because they offer water, food, and companionship—all things one craves in the heart of the Lost. Only when they come to their senses do the victims realize they’ve traded their souls for a sip of water.

The wind gusts. I should go to my chamber and close the door against it, but that would be useless. Its taunts and whispers would still find their way in. I could light the lamp in my window—surely I am not the only one who feels unsettled. On a night like this, heartsick courtiers will visit in search of balms or potions. Hopefully they will have silver.

The wind’s restlessness has infected me, so instead I begin to walk, descending the stairs. The wind follows me as I pass the fountain. I cross the courtyard to the Great Hall, topped with its dome. Beside it is the low stone building with heavy doors that lead to the Crypts. Even over the wind I can hear the whispers and taunts of the dead. To distract myself, I recite the ingredients for the sleeping draught I plan to create and sell for a good price.

Dreamsigh for pleasant dreams. Clearvine for snoring—only a pinch, though or the user is likely to stop breathing altogether. Slumberweed for deafness to loud noises.

I let my breath out as I leave the Dome behind and head for the shop where fine sandals are crafted. Those purchased with pentos are lovely enough, but only the best can be purchased with silvers. Usually only the Favorites are able to buy them, but every once in a while the servants, too, are able to scrape together enough silver to buy a pair. Even now, when the windows and doors are closed, I can smell the deep leather scent from inside. Beside it is the shop where the delicate dresses are sewn with fabric that is light enough that ladies hardly notice the sun, in colors of the morning sky or the sunset.

Tonight I am wearing a frock that floats around my ankles, the color of the sea in Mera. I traded it for a potion for luck, and as much as I hate to admit it, I love the way it is hardly more than a whisper against my skin.

The White Garden grows in a courtyard just north of the fountain. As I pass, I hear the sound of weeping among the lilies and tuberoses. For an instant I see a shimmer among the blossoms and catch the scent of licorice. The wind blows the petals in a sudden storm of white.

Don’t worry, I won’t come in, I mutter, then shake my head in disgust. I am speaking to ghosts that are best left alone. I’m just as mad as my mother.

A fistful of slumberweed. A finger of clearvine. A pinch of air root.

A long reflecting pool separates the