The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy) by Celine Kiernan

Author:Celine Kiernan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy - Epic, Fantasy - General, Epic, Fantasy fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction, Fantasy, General, Science Fiction And Fantasy
ISBN: 9780316077064
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2010-04-01T07:00:00+00:00

"Go ask him," he urged.

"Now?"

"Now. I'm bored beyond endurance here all day. I need some company while you're supping my beer at the banquet."

"But..."

He waved his hand at her. "Go, go!... I promise not to gamble... it's just for fun."

Wynter eyed him as she got up. "Yes," she said, dryly. "I think that would be wise."

"Ohhhh," he crowed, raising his eyebrows accusingly, his gaze not quite steady. "You think he'd best me, eh? You think he'd be my match?"

"Even with his brains dribbling out his ears, I think Christopher Garron would walk home with your eyes in his pocket tonight."

Lorcan grinned blearily, and waved her out. "We shall see! We shall see!"

Wynter shook her head and headed into the secret passage to see if Christopher felt up to beating her father at a game of cards.

A Game of Cards

The shutters in Razi's suite were still closed against the evening light, and the candles had been extinguished so that the retiring room was very dark. Wynter could barely see. She had to feel her way around the dim shapes of furniture and the many piles of books and scattered objects on the floor.

Shuffling, banging and quietly cursing, she eventually groped her way across the small space and peered in at Christopher's door. The shutters let in a diffused light, which, though still very dim, allowed Wynter to make out the interior of the room.

"Christopher?" she called softly, and stepped over the threshold.

He was on the bed, curled on his side, lying atop the covers. He was dressed in his long Bedouin robe, his bare feet tucked up, his fists pressed to his forehead. Wynter thought at first that he was sleeping, but as she neared him she saw the slits of his eyes gleaming in the soft light, watching her as she approached the bed. She could hear his soft breathing.

"Christopher," she said again, her voice laden with sympathy, "How fare you?"

He didn't reply, but his eyes followed her as she knelt by the side of his bed.

There was a strand of sweat-damp hair caught in his eyelashes and Wynter gently pulled it free and tucked it behind his ear. He closed his eyes at her touch, but opened them again quickly and focused on his hands as though to keep his eyes shut made him feel ill. He swallowed delicately.

"Is the pain very bad?" she asked needlessly.

His lips twitched, his dimples lost in the terrible bruising that had spread down his cheek. "I'm mortal feared my head will fall off," he whispered.

"Have you taken nothing?"

"Willow bark tea."

Wynter snorted, he might as well be taking milk for all the good that would do for this kind of pain. "No hashish? No tincture of opium?"

"Oh, how I wish..." he moaned longingly, "but Razi is afeared to dose me too soon. He says I must wait."

"For what?" she exclaimed. It seemed so cruel!

Christopher chuffed a little laugh at her indignance and gasped and swallowed again. "To ensure my brains haven't run to jelly, I suppose.

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