"What do you mean, 'weird'?"

I come over to glance into Emilio's goblet. At first, all I see is red liquid sparkling in the light of the candles. Then, I notice tiny grains rolling about at the bottom of the drink when Emilio tilts it one way, then the other. They're finer than grains of sand, only barely visible.

I bring my own goblet to the closest candle and peer inside. Sure enough, the tiny grains are there, too. I bring it to my nose and sniff. It just smells like wine.

Maybe it is sand.

"Hey," I say. "Come here."

The servant, a middle-aged bald man with his back curved from constant bowing, pauses by the door and then scurries back to me, never raising his eyes. I hand him my goblet.

"Drink," I say.

"Wait," says Emilio.

"Shut up."

The man takes the goblet and, after a brief hesitation, takes a sip. Nothing happens.

"More," I say. "Drink all of it."

"Wait, you shouldn't --" begins Emilio, but I stop him with a gesture.

The servant dares a quick, confused glance at me before upending the rest of the wine into his mouth. His Adam's apple goes up and down as he swallows. Then, he just stands there, holding the goblet, unsure of what to do next. I take it from him and place it on the table.

"There was some dirt in the wine," I say. "That's all."

Emilio puts his untouched drink on the table, apparently unconvinced.

"Get out," I tell the servant. Then, I turn to Emilio.

"This usually doesn’t happen. Our wines are the clearest and the most potent in the world. I'll have someone track where this bottle came from, and the winery will be shut down."

"All right," he says, still frowning. "Your way of testing it, though…"

"Nothing happened to him." I nod at the retreating servant. "It was just dirt."

"But…when you made him drink it, you didn’t know that."

"It doesn’t matter now, does it?"

"No," he says. "I guess not."

"Fine." Still, I can sense his disapproval, and his presence suddenly feels burdensome. I didn’t call for him to judge me. "It's getting late, so you better--"

A choking sound cuts me short.

The servant stands by the door now, his back to us, which is strange, for they always exit while facing me. He's not moving or trying to open the door, just stands there, shivering, his hands moving up and down, rubbing his shoulders as if he was cold and trying to warm up. A quiet whimpering noise reaches my ears.

"What --" I begin, but then trail off as he suddenly bends as if someone has punched him in the stomach.

He crumbles to the floor, hitting it hard. His body twists and writhes, his hands wrapped around his abdomen, his feet kicking convulsively. His throat produces whimpers, stiffed moans and grunts. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face distorted, his clenched teeth bared in a grimace of pain.

I watch with disbelief.

This can’t be happening.

Has someone tried to poison me? Why? There's no competition for the throne. I'm my father's only legitimate heir. Why else? Hatred? Revenge? I glance at Emilio who stands frozen, staring at the man writhing on the floor. He fits the bill, but he wouldn’t have told me about the poison if he was behind this. So, it wasn't him. Who, then?

I walk to the door, stepping over the convulsing man, and open it a crack. A somber guard and the eunuch waiting for Emilio both look up before bowing their heads.

"Send someone for Sagaristio," I tell them and shut the door again.

The slave is barely moving now, apart from the slight twitching of his limbs. His eyes are still closed, and he seems unconscious. His skin glistens with sweat. I walk back to the middle of the room, desperately needing some wine, yet unsure how I could bring myself to ever drink it again. I'll need someone to taste all my food and my drinks from now on, like my grandfather did during the years of The Great Conquest. It seemed unnecessary since then. My father did fine without. Nobody ever tried to…why now? Why me?

Emilio clears his throat. "Well…"

He walks over to the man on the floor—motionless by now—and stops over him.

"That was handled pretty badly. "

"It's nothing," I say, my thoughts still in turmoil. "He died to save his king. If he has family, they'll be rewarded."

"Not that, you fool." That draws my attention instantly back to him. He's not looking at me, though, too concentrated on the man at his feet.

"You shouldn't have killed him. Could have tested the wine on a dog or a pig. This one should have been questioned. Who gave it to him? Has anyone approached him as he walked here?" He shakes his head. "Now it will be harder to figure out who's behind this." He looks up at me and, unbelievably, grins. "See, you could use an adviser."

"You look more excited than upset," I say, my suspicions rising again.

He shrugs. "Why not? After a few weeks I've spent in this limbo, at last something interesting has happened. Would you like my help in unraveling this mystery?"

"No," I say flatly.

His face crumbles a bit.

"You're a fool. Why did I even save your life? I wasn't thinking straight." He crosses his hands on his chest and looks away.

He's acting disrespectful, yet it was indeed him who has stopped me when I was just about to take a sip. My lips still carry the sensation of the cold goblet's rim—but, thanks to him, not the taste of the poisoned wine.

"You served me well today, and I'll see you rewarded," I say. "You can take those rides outside the palace you've asked for—under supervision, of course."

He nods, then tilts his head to point at his tunic with his eyes.

I sigh with exasperation. "Is that what you care about now? Your clothes?"

"You'd care, too," he says, unperturbed, "if you were forced to wear dresses."

"Fine. You can dress like a man."

"How about a room? Can I have a room of my own?"

"You're pushing your luck," I say, nodding at the door. "Get out before my patience runs out."

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