The Poison Throne Read Online Free

She remembered watching in horror as a Midlands castle cook had beaten one tiny child with a wooden ladle. It made it all the worse that the little child still kept turning the spit. Even as his eyes swelled up into black puffs, he kept the handle going for fear the meat would burn and his punishment would worsen.
    To Wynter, the spit-boy was the ultimate indication of the soul of a palace; most of them were blackened, hollow-eyed things, forgotten and abused.
    The spit-boy who sat in Marni’s kitchen was laughing while he turned the meat. His tiny hands were gloved and a big metal disc attached to the spit handle shielded him from the worst of the scalding splatter. He was sooty and shiny with grease and sweat, but he was clothed in a proper uniform and he was plump and jolly.
    He was leaning forward, talking to someone who appeared to be crouched on the floor out of sight. As Wynter watched, the child took a piece of chalk from the unknown person and, still expertly turning the meat with one hand, he wrote something on the flagstones.
    Wynter leant to the side to get a better view. A man was hunkered down beside the child, his dark head bent to look at the chalk marks on the floor. He was clad in the sky blue robes of a doctor, and, though his voice was too low for Wynter to hear the words, he said something to the child that brought a grin of pride to his greasy little face.
    A pot-girl set a beaker of frothy milk down by the child and a plate of horse-bread and cheese. The little boy went to grab for it, but the doctor stayed him with one brown hand on his arm. Wynter saw his head tilt up to address the girl and her heart leapt as she recognised his profile. Razi.
    “Did you boil the milk like I asked, Sarah?”
    The girl nodded, her eyes wide.
    “Boiled, not just warmed? Made to bubble, and then skimmed so that the evil humours dispersed?”
    The girl nodded again and bobbed a curtsy as if that sealed the question. Razi, his back still turned to Wynter, released the child’s hand and stayed crouched for a while, watching him cram food into himself. Even while eating, the little fellow continued to turn the meat at the exact speed necessary to let it cook without burning. It was as natural a movement to him as breathing.
    As her friend rose from his crouch and turned, Wynter realised that she was not the only one to have grown. She had expected to come home – in her fifteen-year-old body, with her new length of leg and her new height – and find herself the equal of the fourteen-year-old boy she’d left behind, his counterpart in riding and swimming and climbing.
    But Razi too had changed and it was a nineteen-year-old man who now stood before her, rubbing chalk dust from his brown hands. He was much taller. His face more defined somehow, all cheekbones and nose, his dark eyes just as large, but hooded. He was clean-shaven, but his glossy curls were in need of a trim and he kept pushing them back from his forehead with an impatient sigh. His blue doctor’s robes suited him, and she felt an almost violent stab of pride in him, that he had finished his studies and graduated, despite the terrible times they’d just survived.
    Alberon must be so proud of him , she thought.
    Razi pushed his hand through his curls and looked around him absently as if trying to remember what came next. His eyes met Wynter’s and she saw them pass her by, then snap back with sharp attention. She quirked an eyebrow at him, a challenging smile rising up in her face. I dare you not to know me, Razi Kingsson. I dare you not to recognise my face.
    “ WYNTER!” He bellowed it, his deep voice taking her by surprise and shocking the kitchen into stunned silence. The staff jerked and ducked as though a cannon had been fired. “WYNTER!” he shouted again, spreading his hands as if questioning her.
    Wynter was so pleased to hear Razi say her name that she laughed out loud and tears sprang to her eyes.
    She had sense enough to put the tools