To Poison a King

Copyright © 2013 Summerhold PublishingAll rights reserved.The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.ISBN-13: 9781234567890ISBN-10: 1477123456Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309Printed in the United States of America For Dad, with love. A Note To ReadersEvery time I write a book, I go in with a different vision for how I want it to feel. The characters are one thing, and the setting, and the plot, but there's this whole other element that's kind of like a story's aura. It's the atmosphere of a book—an intangible sensation that falls into place before there's ever a plot, before the characters even have names. I carry that feeling with me all the way through the writing, and use it to guide me if I get lost. To Poison a King is, in my mind, a dark fairytale. It's written for readers who want to know a character from the inside out, who are in it for the build, who like to watch a transformation take place over time, because that's how you really feel it. I wrote this book from the heart, as true as I could make it. I think it changed me to write it. I hope it changes you, too.- S.G. Content WarningsThis book contains reference to attempted suicide, attempted sexual assault, violence, gore, death of an infant, and sex. Contents CopyrightDedication123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930323133343536373839404142434445Next in the SeriesMore By This AuthorFree Short StoryAcknowledgementsFollow S.G. Prince 1My hands did not shake on the day I killed the king.I was confident, though perhaps it could be said my confidence was that of a child climbing a high tree. I had never suffered true pain in all my life, and my sheltered upbringing made me naive. Fearlessness and bravery are not the same, for in order to be brave you must first understand the danger, but you can be fearless and also a fool.I was a fool.My childhood was an easy one. I lived in the king’s palace under the care of my father, who was a carpenter, and my mother, who served as the royal physician, as had her mother before her, and her mother before that. Though I was only fourteen, I had taken to the family craft like a fish to the sea. I had a particular affinity for herbwork, yet since I had been hip-high I could do it all: stitch wounds, check fevers, set bones, birth babies. I was often called upon to administer whipstarch and bellwarth, remedies of my own invention to clear a cough or stop a sniffle. Sometimes I worked beside my mother, studying her art and honing my own, though more often I worked alone. The instinct for medicine ran in my blood, a gift passed down through generations, and I did not need supervision.It is strange to look back on those days. I thought myself clever. I did not care that the other palace children whispered about me behind their hands. I did not care that the ladies of the court fretted over my strange interests or my nighttime jaunts in the woods. A blessing, they called me when they needed me. A witch, they called me when they did not. It is not hard to imagine where they got the notion. I was a scrawny thing, my hair often frizzy from leaning over cauldrons, my hands burned and scarred from one too many experiments. I did not care to dress in the latest fashion or wear my hair in braids, and I found friendship frivolous. I had a reputation among the court, even then. And that was before.✽✽✽ As the royal family’s personal physician, certain honors were bestowed upon my mother. She sat at the king’s table at mealtimes and was given her pick of the finest robes, the fastest horses, the most handsome escorts. Though she did not wear jewelry, she seemed to sparkle in the halls, burnished gold and white. Like a falling star she drew all eyes, but she was charming enough that her beauty could be forgiven, particularly by the women. The court adored her.“Persaphe, you are not eating,” said a lady in waiting, one of the queen’s women who had somehow found her way to my mother’s side instead. There was always someone fawning over my mother, someone to ask after her health and happiness. The court flocked to her like bees to flowers. “Are you quite well?”“She is glowing,” said another, a tittering handmaiden. “She is with child.”We were in the great hall for the midday feast, my mother in her place of preeminence at the king’s table and I at her feet, scraping the bark off a young willow branch to reach the flesh underneath. I looked up.“No,” my mother replied with a lazy smile. “Freestone women bear only one child, and only daughters. You know this.”Their eyes met across the table. But then, why wouldn’t the handmaiden suspect my mother to be with child? She was said to have slept with half the court, men and women alike, anyone who caught her fancy. She took lovers like she took her tea: at her pleasure. The rumor was that my father was sometimes even allowed to join, and what an honor that must have been for him.I went back to my scraping. It had always been just the three of us in my family, my mother, my father and me. I was never one of those children who yearned for a sibling, and indeed, I did not like the idea of a brother or sister sharing my parents’ attention. But then, it was as my mother had said. Our women produced only one child, and only daughters. Persaphe would bear no more children, no matter