He turns to face me now. "Milord, you've been taking it since the coronation."

My eyes burn with fear and frustration. "Ollem, I don't take a tonic!" I push to my feet. My head swims, and bile rises in my throat. I still myself against the desk. Hands on my shoulder guide me to sit again, and I swallow and try to pull in a steadying breath.

Silence reigns as I collect myself. The world is darkness and chaos, and then we die. I let my eyes open, forcing calm. Ollem hovers, an anxious look in his eyes. Finally, I manage, "So who, exactly, tricked you into poisoning me?"

He cringes. "The girl said the doctor asked her to send it to me when you forgot it in the infirmary."

"But who was she?" I snap.

"The Queen's maid. Maera."

Bitterness sets my face in stone. I knew she was the one to blame for Mother's death. Did the investigators I set on her case even question her, or did they shrink back from the truth at the Queen's disapproving frown? My jaw sets, and slowly, I push back up.

"Are you sur—"

I hold up my hand. He quiets. He stays only a pace behind as I walk to my old room. I move slowly to keep from feeling sick, but lethargy still dogs my bones. Some of my things are still in this room, so if someone sees me enter or leave it, they shouldn't think it so odd. But I'm not having this conversation where the Retrans can hear that their newly-acquired possession is damaged.

I sink into the couch. "Send a message to the Queen for me, asking to meet with her here. Come back when you're done."

"Yes, milord." He starts toward the door, then hesitates. He looks back at me.

I look away. "You didn't know."

He exhales. "Yes, milord."

The door shuts, and my head leans back against the cushion. As I wait, the pounding behind my temple intensifies. Ollem returns within ten minutes and stands quietly beside the hearth. We don't speak.

After another ten or so minutes, a knock sounds at the door. "Come in," I tell her.

Selenia enters, and the fire reflects in her glittering crown and dress. "What is the matter, brother?"

Too tired for obeisance, I gesture for her to sit. Her lips tighten, but she does, in the armchair across from me.

"I have news."

She frowns.

"But first, I'm tired of being argued with. I tell you, rather than taking the matter into my own hands, because you are my Queen and deserve this from me. I am not being unreasonable, I am not jumping to conclusions, and before the past month, I thought nothing of the girl. But I will not tolerate a traitor in our midst, and it is not my fault who the traitor proves to be."

She huffs. "Astraeus, Maera has done nothing wro—"

"That you have been privy to. Regardless of the previous implications against her, new information certainly convicts her."

Her face is sharp. "And what would that be?"

I lay out the story of the morning, calling Ollem forward to explain his understanding of Maera's involvement. She sits somber for a minute. "Does it occur to you that Maera could be a scapegoat?"

"It is not because of blind trust in my servant that I presume his innocence"—I hold her gaze—"if that is your meaning."

Her arms cross. "Then why?"

"He would have no reason to mention the 'tonic' if he were intentionally poisoning me. There are a hundred other excuses for tardiness. It would be in his best interest, if murder by poison was his intention"—a pained expression tightens her face—"to keep anyone from finding out about it for as long as possible, and then contrive the story about Maera when knowledge was unavoidable."

She swallows, silent. I study her. War has aged her already. Despite her makeup, her eyes are dark, tired. Frowns look less and less foreign on her face. The flowing half-down hairstyles of her Princesse years have seamlessly traded into severe buns.

I suppose death has taken its toll on all of us.

Her voice is soft. "I'm sorry for what has happened. Have you seen Illesiarr yet?"

"No. I called for you immediately."

"Astraeus," she admonishes, standing. "If you are sick, then you need to see him. Before you talk to me!"

"Apprehend the traitor and I will."

Her eyes close. I remember her excited whispers as an eleven-year-old when Maera was assigned to her. Sela wasn't simply loyal to the girl—they were close.

I hate her treachery all the more.

Her eyes open, lips twisting. "A traitor deserves whatever comes to her. If she wants to live under the rule of the Kadranians so badly—we'll throw her to them."

Startled by the venom in her voice, I only watch her. Does she mean to execute her by tossing her over the wall?

She comes around the coffee table, offering me a hand up. I take it and stand slowly.

"I don't want anyone to know about this," I say, "that doesn't have to."

"Why?" We start out of the room, her hands clasped cordially around my elbow, probably in effort that I'll lean on her should I feel the need to.

"Because I'm still fit for work. And I wouldn't appreciate any more marks against my name if I can avoid them."

"You're sick," she whispers.

"Yet lucid and operational." I stop to look at her. "Please don't take me out of this before I have to go, Sela."

Her lips press together. Then she forces a small smile. "Of course." We walk again. "Please be careful. We don't know how bad this is yet."

I nod, then wince. Her frown deepens, but we make it to the infirmary in silence. She reaches for the door when a page runs up to us.

"My Lady Queen," she says, dipping a rushed curtsy. She passes her a sealed note.

I peer over Selenia's shoulder. Someone found Maera's body at the bottom of a servant's stairs. Looks like it might have happened overnight. I'm sorry, Selenia. - Reyan

Fear envelops me. A castle native slipped and fell on the stairs she grew up on? No. The traitor is killing us one by one, whoever gets in their way.

And we just lost our only lead.

To the servant, she says sharply, "Thank you. No response." The girl nods and scurries off. Sela turns to me.

"Go," I say. "I'll be fine." My stomach feels like sand.

"I can wait to deal with it."

"There will be rumors."

Her lips press together.

"Go, Queen."

Face tight, she nods and leaves. I enter Illesiarr's alone.

He looks up from the counter he was working at, then hurries closer. "My boy, you look like a spirit warmed over." I smile thinly, and he leads me to the table in the center of the room. "What's happened to you?"

Quietly, I say, "I have reason to believe I've been poisoned."

Shock ripples his features. "Do you have any information about the substance?"

"Liquid. Mixed in with my meals."

He examines me and asks my symptoms, then flicks through a couple books from his shelf, searching. My head pounds watching him, so I close my eyes to wait.

Maera must have been the servant Leavi overheard in the hallway, and the would-be assassin was the wizard traitor. He could have been an illusionist; it wouldn't have been that hard for a student of that field to twist a few details. I'm stupid not to have thought of it before.

Illesiarr's bony fingers brush my shoulder. "My boy."

My eyes open, heavier to lift than I anticipated. I must have started to doze off. I clear my throat. "What did you find?"

"Whatever they used must be new or foreign. I don't have anything that matches those symptoms." His face is tight. "I'm sorry, Aster."

"I—I'll see if Ollem can bring you a sample. I'm sure you know—you have to kn—" My stomach constricts, and I press my fist to my lips, eyes squeezed shut. I'm not going to throw up.

If he can't figure out what the poison is, then he can't save me.

I lower my hand and open my eyes. Illesiarr sits beside me, and I stare at the stone floor, numb and cold.

After a minute, he speaks softly. "I'll look at it when it comes. In the meantime, I can give you medicine to help with the symptoms, but there's a chance for unpredictable effects since we don't know what this other drug is."

I don't move. Am I better off to be miserable but mostly able to handle it or to not be distracted by feeling bad but possibly make things worse?

"No," I murmur. "I'll manage."

He nods, standing. "There's a chance that, without you receiving further doses, this will run its course in the next few days. Even if I don't know what was used."

"We can hope." I push up slowly. Even so, my pounding head aches, and my legs tremble from the use. I close my eyes as I wait for the world to stop moving.

"You should rest, my boy."

"Of course I will, Illesiarr."

"Good. Let me walk you upstairs. You can stay in the extra bedroom."

"No, I—" I raise my hand to stop him. "I'm going to my room."

He pauses.

"If there's nothing you can do for me now, then there's nothing you can do for me should something get worse. Let me go to my room."

His lips tighten. "That might not be the case."

"I'll let you know if something changes."

Pain deepens his wrinkles, and I feel guilty for hurting him. "I'll catch a maid to walk you."

"I'll be fine. Thank you." I start to turn.

"Aster."

I look at him. "I'll get there fine."

Eyes reddening, he turns to his work. "Be careful."

"Of course." I leave. I just need a moment alone before I get back to work. Just a moment to think. I take the halls to my old suite, and the motion sets me off-balance. When I get there, the tension and dizziness build, and I stumble into the bathroom. My knees hit the stone in front of the chamber pot hard. I heave.

After a moment, I sit back, shakily wiping the sick from my mouth. A sinking feeling fills me that this morning's dose was stronger than it had been before.

I scoot back to lean against the wall. I need to get up and rinse my mouth, but I don't feel like moving.

The last generation of rulers is dead. I probably will be soon. Some tragedy might befall the reinforcements. We're running out of food. We're running out of men.

For the first time, the idea digs its claws into my mind that we might actually fail. My whole life has been defined by my failure to be what I needed to be—first skilled with magic, then present, now functioning.

The Kadranians could win.

I climb out of the floor and rinse my mouth in the sink. My bones feel empty. When I look up from the water, my reflection glares at me with dead eyes, and I wince. My skin is pale like Mother's was. Shadows darken my eyes and cheeks.

I look like a walking corpse.

I straighten and finger-comb my hair. My legs might feel like they'll collapse under me, but I know how far I can push myself. I won't fall yet. Neither will my land.