He did turn at that, a sneer on his fine features. “You’re fine, Archminister.” He gestured at Evanthya. “So is she. Several Qirsi survived this,” he went on, looking around the chamber. “I don’t hear you accusing them.”

“None of the Qirsi in this room seek to take the throne from the queen and her child. None of us has sworn to defy this council.”

“Perhaps not, but all of us know of the conspiracy. And all of us know that poison in the weapon of a Qirsi. An Eandi uses his sword and his strength. I have no need for magic and potions.”

Evanthya saw at least one of the guards waver.

“Hold your place!” Pronjed commanded, seeing it as well. “You serve the queen, not this man!” He lifted Grigor’s goblet and sniffed it. Then he held it out to the duke. “Drink this.”

“Are you mad?” the surgeon said from across the room. “I’ve already got more patients than I can handle. I won’t allow you to poison another man, no matter what you think he’s done.”

A cold smile touched Pronjed’s lips. “He won’t be poisoned, you fool. That’s the whole point. There is no poison in this cup.”

“Then you drink it,” Grigor said.

Pronjed raised an eyebrow. “Very well.” Throwing back his head, he drained the goblet, wiped a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth, and returned the cup to the table. “You see?” he said. “No poison.”

“How did you know?” the surgeon asked, his voice low.

Pronjed didn’t take his eyes off the duke. “I saw him drink with the others just after the toast.” He stared at Grigor briefly. “Tell me, Lord Solkara. You’re so convinced that a Qirsi is behind this. Are you willing to drink from my cup as I just have from yours?” He gestured toward Evanthya. “Will you drink from this woman’s, or from any of the others meant for Qirsi lips?”

Grigor swallowed and looked away. “No,” he whispered.

“I see.”

“But I’m telling you,” the duke said a moment later, raising his eyes again, “I didn’t poison anyone. I had no need. A majority of the Council was prepared to support me.”

“But if they hadn’t been, then you would have killed them. Is that what you mean?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying-”

“I’ve heard enough,” Pronjed said, turning his back on the duke and returning to the queen. “Take him to the prison tower. He’s a duke, and should be treated as such. Don’t put him in the dungeon, but be certain to chain him to the wall, feet and hands. He has allies in this castle, and I don’t want them winning his freedom.”

Two of the guards sheathed their weapons, grabbed the duke’s arms, and started dragging him toward the door.

“Release me!” Grigor shouted, struggling to break free. “I didn’t poison anyone!”

Pronjed didn’t even look at him again. None of them did.

“Let go of me!” he yelled, as the soldiers pulled him into the corridor. “I didn’t do this! I swear it on the memory of my brother!”

“The man knows no shame,” the archminister said in a low voice, as the duke’s cries continued to echo through the castle halls. “He’ll hang before long.”

Evanthya had little sympathy for Grigor, but she couldn’t help feeling that his denials had the ring of truth to them. Again she found herself wondering if there might have been more to Pronjed’s escape than mere good fortune.

In the next instant, the herbmaster returned bearing several vials of ground madder root, and almost immediately after, several servants arrived with steaming pots of tea. The surgeon had the herbmaster mix the root right into the tea, and then directed the servants and healers to administer the tea to all who had ingested the poison.

Evanthya helped the young Qirsi lift Fetnalla into a sitting position and held her there as the man gently spooned tea into her mouth. At first the tea just dribbled down the woman’s chin, staining her ministerial robes. She felt cold to the touch, and Evanthya feared that they had lost her already. Finally, though, Fetnalla seemed to swallow a small amount. A moment later she began to cough and retch. But her eyes fluttered open briefly, and when the healer offered more tea, she swallowed.

“Gods be praised,” Evanthya whispered.

The healer glanced at her. “Indeed.”

An Eandi surgeon tending to Brail called for assistance, and the healer handed the spoon to Evanthya.

“But I don’t know-”

“There’s no secret to it. Just keep giving the tea to her. As much as you can make her drink.” He smiled kindly. “You’ll do fine.”

After a moment, she nodded. She began to feed Fetnalla the tea, which was the color of rusty iron and smelled slightly bitter, though she couldn’t tell if that was the tea itself, or the madder root that had been added to it. For a long time she gave little thought to what was happening around her, giving all her attention to Fetnalla and the tea. The color started to return to the woman’s face, and her breathing gradually grew less labored. She didn’t open her eyes again, nor did she say anything or give any indication that she knew Evanthya was there. But she was alive, and with all that had happened, Evanthya could hardly ask for more. Eventually, Fetnalla refused more tea and Evanthya allowed her to lie down once more. She gazed at Fetnalla’s face for a few moments, then rose, her knees stiff and sore, and walked to where the healer and a surgeon were spooning tea into Brail’s mouth. The duke was drinking as well, though his face remained deathly pale and shiny with sweat.

“She stopped taking it,” Evanthya said. “I think she looks better.”

The healer glanced quickly at Fetnalla. “You’re right, she does. Well done.”

“How’s the duke?”

The man shrugged. “He’s taking the tea, which is something.”

“Do you need my help?”

“No, but others might. Go ask the master surgeon.”

She walked to the end of the table, where the master surgeon was overseeing the care of the queen. There were two other surgeons there, as well as a Qirsi healer. Circling the room once, she found that all those who had survived the poisoning thus far were being treated. She returned to Tebeo, who was still on his back, his eyes closed, and a hand resting under his head.

“My lord?”

He opened one eye. “Yes, Evanthya. What news of the queen?”

She sat beside him. “The master surgeon says it’s too soon to know. She takes the tea, but her breathing is still weak and her face is grey.”

“Demons and fire,” the duke muttered. “What about Brail and Fetnalla?”

“The duke is much the same as the queen. Fetnalla took some tea and has better color than before.”

“I suppose that’s something at least. And the others?”

“Lord Tounstrel is dead, my lord, and Lord Noltierre is failing.”

Tebeo closed his eyes. “Vidor and Bertin. No one hated the Solkarans more. Except maybe poor Chago, and they already took care of him.”

“The first ministers of Kett, Rassor, and Bistan are dead as well.”

“I’m sorry, Evanthya,” he said, opening his eyes again. “Did you know them well?”

“Not very, my lord.”

“Still. This will be remembered as one of Aneira’s darkest nights. I expect such things from the Eibitharians, but for one Aneiran noble to do this to others…” He let the thought go unfinished, shaking his head.

“Have you had enough of the tea, my lord? I know that you’re better off than most, but you did drink some of the poison.”

He made a sour face. “I’ve had more than enough. I never liked Uulranni tea to begin with. The madder root just makes it worse.”

Evanthya smiled, as if at a complaining child. “The taste is secondary, my lord.”

“I know, Evanthya. I’ve had plenty. I promise.”

“Very well.” She started to stand again, then stopped herself. “My lord, thank you for letting me go to Fetnalla. I’m sure she would have survived anyway, but I was able to help her. I’ll always be grateful to you for that.”

“You’re welcome.”