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“Leave it! I shall take it to himself.”
“Yes, milord.”
He motioned for the servant to move away, glaring at him contemptuously. With his pale hands he grasped the tray and made his way to the main hall. Just as he turned the corner, however, he came to a halt. Then came a look about – no one could see him from here.
Good.
He balanced the tray with one hand while he dug in his pocket with the other. Out came a vial containing a clear liquid.
With his thumb he uncorked it. Carefully he allowed a single drop to fall into the gold and silver goblet. Then he just as carefully put it back into his pocket.
Now you might have thought it was a poison, but it was not.
He would never do something so barbaric. He was above that.
It was simply something that would elevate the mind, make it susceptible to reason.
And verily, to poison would mean to offer up power to a successor less willing to be doused.
Nay, his way was more gradual, more sophisticated.
He grinned to himself, the sneer splitting his pallid face in two, and he continued his way across the hall and through the doorway leading to the private chambers of the King.
“Your Majesty, it is I, your humble servant Gríma. It is time for your supper.”