The Elven Art of Falling Gracelessly

Chapter 8: The Poisoned Goblet

“Wait,” Eryndor grinned weakly, his ribs groaning under the pressure of the heavy boot. “Before we start fighting… did you like the dance? Honestly? On a scale of one to ten?”

The Southern assassin looked down at him with eyes that held the warmth of an arctic midnight. “Zero. Your rhythm is offensive.”

“Ouch. Tough crowd,” Eryndor wheezed.

“Get your foot off my student!” Aelith’s voice was a whip-crack in the tavern’s smoky air.

The assassin’s weight shifted as he spun to face her, his other hand drawing a curved dagger from his sleeve with a sound like silk on stone. “The vial belongs to the Shroud, lady. You should have stayed in your high towers.”

“Eryndor, grab it!” she barked.

“I’m trying! I’m currently being utilized as a floor mat!” Eryndor yelled, his fingers scrabbling for the glass container.

The assassin kicked outward, aiming to crush Eryndor’s fingers, but the boy rolled—a motion that started with a desperate flail and ended with him accidentally catching the man’s heavy, dirt-caked cloak between his legs.

“Gotcha!” Eryndor grunted, wrapping his ankles tight.

“Fool!” the stranger spat.

With a brutal wrench, the assassin didn't pull free; he sliced through his own cloak fastenings with a flick of his blade and surged backward toward the open window. He didn't even look back as he vaulted into the foggy harbor.

“Wait, come back! You forgot your laundry!” Eryndor scrambled to his feet, holding a tattered piece of grey fabric and looking completely bewildered.

Aelith skidded to the window, her blades ready, but the dark water had already swallowed the intruder. She turned back, her face a mask of frustration. “He’s gone. And the vial? Please tell me you got the vial.”

Eryndor sheepishly opened his empty palms. “He was very heavy, Aelith. And very mean. But look! I got his cape? It’s… definitely southern-weave?”

“We need the poison, not his fashion accessories,” Aelith groaned, leaning against a table. “The King’s dinner is in four hours. Without that vial, we can’t prove the toxicity until it’s already in his glass.”

Eryndor began patting down the fabric he was holding. “Wait, wait. There’s something in the lining. My awkwardness didn't fail me entirely!” He pulled out a small, crumpled square of parchment. “It’s a schedule. Look. ‘Sector Four, Table Three, The Royal Chalice.’”

“They’re going through with it tonight,” Aelith whispered, her silver eyes widening. “They have another vial. They don't need the one we almost took.”

“So we go to the palace? We tell the guards?”

“The guards are being coordinated by Lethielle’s cousin, Eryndor. Use your head. If we show up as ourselves, they’ll lock us in the dungeon for ‘disturbing the peace’ before we even reach the foyer.”

“So what? We do another costume change? I am running out of sequined options here.”

“No,” Aelith said, a dangerous sparkle in her eye. “We go in as the one thing people in this city ignore more than the trash: the caterers. I’ll handle the coordination. You? You’re going to be a server.”

“A server? Aelith, have you seen me near fragile objects?”

“Precisely. People expect you to be clumsy. We’ll use it to our advantage.”

“I feel like a sausage,” Eryndor muttered, tugging at the high, stiff collar of the server’s uniform. “Why is everything for elven service people so tight? How do they breathe?”

“They don't,” Aelith replied, smoothing down her own apron while adjusting a tray of appetizers. “They survive on pure etiquette and the fear of losing their job. Now, remember the plan. When the music shifts to the second movement of the moon-hymn, that’s when they pour the King’s vintage.”

“Movement two. Right. When the guy starts humming like he has a sinus infection?”

“Just focus, Eryndor. You’ll be carrying the wine. I’ll be right behind you with the empty glasses. Your job is to swap the gold-rimmed chalice with the silver-plated one I’ve treated with the neutralizing agent.”

“Easy. Except for the whole ‘walking across a marble floor with liquid’ part. And the ‘avoiding assassins’ part. And the fact that my knees are currently knocking loud enough to be heard in the next kingdom.”

“Look at me,” Aelith said, stepping into his space. She reached up, her cool fingers lingering on his collar to straighten it. “You’ve fallen into ponds, tackled assassins, and survived my training. You are the most unpredictable element in this entire city. That makes you powerful.”

Eryndor felt his heart do a somersault that had nothing to do with gravity. “You only say nice things to me when we’re about to potentially die. It’s very bad for my nerves.”

“Then stay alive,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to his mouth for a fraction of a second before she pulled back. “Now, pick up the tray. Straight back. Eyes forward.”

Eryndor took a deep breath, lifted the silver tray, and immediately let out a small squeak as it tilted seven degrees to the left. “Is the gravity heavier in here? It feels heavier.”

“Move, Eryndor.”

They marched into the banquet hall. The room was a sea of shimmering silks and low, droning conversations. At the head table sat the King, looking weary but regal, flanked by his council. Lethielle was there too, sitting three seats down, her eyes tracking every movement of the staff with predatory focus.

“She’s looking at us,” Eryndor hissed through his teeth, his tray wobbling rhythmically.

“No, she’s looking at the King,” Aelith murmured behind him. “Stay to the left. Blend in. Be invisible.”

“Invisible? I’m literally vibrating!”

As they approached the main table, the herald’s voice boomed: “The Toast of the Turning Tide! Let the King’s vessel be filled!”

Eryndor felt cold sweat slicking his palms. This was it. He moved forward, his legs feeling like they were made of overcooked noodles. Beside him, a real server stepped up to the King’s right. That server—a pale-faced man with a twitch in his eye—carefully began to pour from a decanter that pulsed with a faint, familiar violet light.

“That’s it,” Aelith whispered. “Move in.”

Eryndor lurched forward. He didn't just walk; he performed a deliberate, staggered slide, mimicking a man who had caught his heel on a carpet edge. “Pardon me! So sorry! The floor! Terribly slippery!”

He slammed his tray down near the King’s elbow, causing the royal chalice to jump.

“Easy there, boy!” the High Elder barked.

“Terribly sorry, Excellency!” Eryndor squeaked.

In the split second of chaos, as he flailed his arms to ‘recover,’ his hand dipped down. He snagged the poisoned chalice and slid the identical, clean one into its place. It was a masterpiece of accidental-looking theft.

But as he pulled back, his heavy sleeve—the bane of his existence—hooked into the edge of the King’s decorative plate.

“Oh no,” Eryndor breathed.

The chalice he was holding began to tip. Time seemed to slow down. The poisoned wine was half an inch from spilling directly into the King’s lap, which would have meant instant detection and likely an execution for 'treasonous drenching.'

THWACK.*

Aelith’s foot lashed out beneath the table, invisible to the guests. She didn't kick Eryndor; she kicked the heavy oak table leg with just enough force to vibrate the entire surface. The jolt caused Eryndor’s hips to snap back, and the cup leveled out just in time.

“Steady, waiter,” the King said with a tired smile. “Perhaps less enthusiasm next time?”

“Yes, Sire! No enthusiasm! I am a hollow shell of a man!” Eryndor bowed so low his nose nearly hit his knees, then backed away into the kitchen passage with Aelith following close behind.

Once they were clear of the doors, Eryndor collapsed against the stone wall, the poisoned cup still clutched in his trembling fingers. “I did it. Aelith, I actually did it. My reputation for being a total mess saved the monarchy.”

“We did it,” she corrected, though her chest was heaving with relief. “Now, we just need to get this to the alchemy guards once the dinner concludes. We have the proof.”

Eryndor looked down at the gold-rimmed cup. His mouth was dry. His adrenaline was crashing, and the stress of the last hour felt like a physical weight on his skull. “I need a drink. Not this one, obviously.”

“Keep your guard up, Eryndor. We aren't out yet.”

“I know, I know. But man, I thought for sure I’d dropped it.” He looked at his other tray, where two decoy cups of regular, un-poisoned wine were sitting. “I just need a sip of water or something before I faint.”

He reached out, his hand shaking so violently he grabbed one of the cups on his tray. “To success?”

“Wait, Eryndor, which one did you put where?” Aelith asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the tray.

“The red wine was on the left, the blue wine was on the right, and I… wait.” Eryndor froze, the cup half-pressed to his lips. “When I swapped the cups on the table… did I put the poisoned one on the empty tray or did I…?”

Aelith’s face turned white. “You moved them three times during the wobble.”

Eryndor slowly looked at the liquid in the cup he was about to swallow. Then he looked at the identical one on the tray. Then he looked at Aelith.

“Aelith?”

“Yes?”

“I think I just performed a very successful swap with myself.”

“Eryndor Silvaris, do not drink that wine.”

“I’m really thirsty, though,” he whispered, his eyes wide with panic. “Is it getting hot in here, or is it just the existential dread?”