Several of the dukes nodded their approval. This promised to be a difficult night for the queen.

Chofya gave a low sigh. “It seems we can’t even agree on a toast, Lord Solkara. Shall we drink simply to our realm then?”

The duke nodded. “Agreed. To Aneira.”

“To Aneira,” the dukes and ministers repeated.

Fetnalla took a sip of wine, then belatedly glanced toward Evanthya, who was watching her, still holding her glass. They had done this for several years, sharing a private silent toast whenever they attended such events together. Fetnalla smiled and raised her glass a second time.

Even as she did, however, she became aware of a queer sensation in her throat. She heard a strangled cry come from the queen, and then another from one of the dukes. Brail, who had started to sit, lurched back to his feet, staggered backward, and began to retch. But all Fetnalla could do was stare at Evanthya. The feeling in her throat was spreading down through her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.

Evanthya was gaping at her, hands trembling until her wine started to spill. Aware suddenly of the goblet she was holding, Evanthya threw it away, as if it had abruptly become too hot to hold.

Fetnalla felt her stomach heave.

“Evanthya?” she called. Or tried to. The name came out as softly as a sigh.

Still Evanthya seemed to hear her. And as Fetnalla convulsed, vomiting violently onto the table, her love was at her side, her slender hands gripping Fetnalla’s shoulders.

All around them was turmoil and panic. Shouts of “See to the queen!” and “Someone help my lord!” filled the chamber. Fetnalla sensed people running to and fro all about them, but all she could do was stare at Evanthya’s face. Her chest burned like a smith’s forge and she struggled to draw breath.

“Evanthya,” she whispered.

There were tears on Evanthya’s face and a wild look in her eyes, such as a horse gets on a stormy night. “Yes, love. Yes. I’m here.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know. Be still now. Someone’s gone to fetch the surgeon.”

Fetnalla nodded, and with an effort, she tried to gaze around the chamber. Several dukes were on the floor, as was Chofya. Servants were screaming to each other, terror on their faces. She could hear people vomiting, and she felt her own stomach rise again.

Turning the other way, she saw Grigor still standing at the end of the table, his face ashen, his dark eyes as wide as a frightened child’s.

Fetnalla raised a hand, the effort almost more than she could bear, and pointed at him.

“You did this,” she mouthed, unable to make a sound.

The duke shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice quavering. “No, I swear.”

She wanted to call him a liar. She wanted to scream at him. But instead she felt herself convulse again. And as consciousness began to slip away from her, like a memory or a dream, she felt Evanthya’s arms easing her down to the floor.

“Where’s the surgeon?” Evanthya screamed again, through the tears running down her face.

No one answered, of course. Everyone who hadn’t been poisoned was seeing to someone who had. All of the servants had escaped harm, saved by their low station. A few of the ministers had waited for their dukes to drink before doing so themselves, and thus had been spared as well. Pronjed appeared to be fine, and though this raised Evanthya’s suspicions, she was hardly in a position to make accusations.

Still, she felt certain that Fetnalla had spoken for all of them when she accused Grigor. Pronjed had barked an order to the castle guards, and four of them now stood around the duke of Solkara, swords drawn and pressed against his back and chest.

Fetnalla was still breathing, but barely, the rise and fall of her chest nearly imperceptible in the torchlight. Tebeo was on his back as well, but still conscious. He had taken but a small sip of the wine and had been in the process of swallowing when the queen cried out. He managed to cough up most of what he drank, and had emptied his stomach of the rest. If any of those who had taken the wine were to survive, the duke would be one of them. Evanthya had gone to his side after laying Fetnalla on the floor, but he had waved her away.

“I’ll be fine, First Minister,” he had whispered. “Tend to the others. Tend to Brail and Fetnalla.”

Brail had collapsed to the floor some time before and had not moved since. One of the servants was laying wet cloths on his brow, but Evanthya feared the worst.

At last, the master surgeon burst into the room, followed by a number of his assistants, an older man who had to be the castle herbmaster, and several Qirsi. Let them be healers, Evanthya prayed silently, knowing that Carden had no Qirsi healers in the castle, but hoping that at least one of the gods might hear her.

The master surgeon hurried to the queen, but the other surgeons and the Qirsi began to move among those lying on the chamber floor. One of them, a young Qirsi wearing ministerial robes, knelt beside Evanthya and looked down at Fetnalla.

“Are you a healer?”

“Not by trade, but I have the power. How is she?”

“She’s having trouble breathing. She’s barely moved in some time.” Evanthya started to say more, but then began to cry.

“All right,” he said. “Let me see what I can do.”

She made room for the man and watched as he closed his eyes and laid his hands on Fetnalla’s chest and stomach.

One of the Eandi surgeons was kneeling beside Brail, a deep frown on his face. But he wasn’t giving up on the duke, and Evanthya took that as a good sign.

“What was it?” the master surgeon called out.

Looking up, Evanthya saw the herbmaster sniffing at one of the goblets.

“I can’t be certain,” the old man said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it was oleander.”

“Oleander? That doesn’t even grow here. You’d have to go south of Noltierre to find any in Aneira.”

“Not today, you wouldn’t,” Evanthya heard herself say.

Both men stared at her.

“The funeral. It was all over the great hall and the cloister.”

The herbmaster nodded. “Of course.”

Oleander was also known as Bian’s Rose because it was used so often in funeral settings for kings and queens. Despite its noxious qualities, it was a beautiful shrub that remained green throughout the year and could be made to bloom even during the snows if taken inside and cared for properly.

“In that case, herbmaster,” the surgeon said, “bring me all the pink madder you have. That may be the only way to keep the palsy from their lungs.”

The old man nodded and rushed away. The surgeon turned to one of the servants. “Bring tea. Uulranni, if you have it. Otherwise Caerissan will do. Make it strong and make a lot of it.”

This man too offered a quick nod and then left to do the surgeon’s bidding.

Evanthya turned back to the young Qirsi healer kneeling beside Fetnalla. “Is she going to…?” She stopped, unsure of what she wanted to say, and almost afraid to hear his reply to any question she might ask.

He shook his head, his eyes still closed. “I don’t know yet. A healer’s touch only goes so deep. She’ll probably need the madder and tea, just like the others.”

Evanthya began to nod, then stopped herself, realizing that he couldn’t see her anyway. As she continued to kneel there, watching the healer, Pronjed walked past her to where Grigor still stood, surrounded by the guards.

The duke of Solkara’s face had regained little of its color, but he held himself straight-backed and proud, as befitted a man seeking the throne.

“You honestly believed you could do this and go unpunished?” Pronjed said, stopping just beside him. “You thought you could poison the queen?”

“I’ve poisoned no one,” Grigor said, gazing straight ahead.

“Come now, Lord Solkara. You want us to believe that you came through this ordeal unharmed by sheer good fortune?”