Cyr wanted to protest the fact that it was a<span style="font-style: italic">question</span>and not a demand, but he favored staying quiet on that. Poison really was a woman's weapon and she seemed to enjoy using it a<span style="font-style: italic">lot.</span>Best not to correct her on her definition of a royal demand by actually giving her one to shove her foot up her ass. "Do I look like I'm about to dart out the door?" he asked quietly, blankly, giving her a stare that was far more challenging than was smart.<br/><br/>When the bowl was offered, he almost took it. It didn't smell particularly appetizing, but just like the cheese, it smelled like the most delicious delicacy in the world. And still, he possessed mind enough to shake his head. "Not particularly, no." In truth, he<span style="font-style: italic">was</span>hungry. Dreadfully so, though he trusted that broth no more than he had trusted the cheese, or the woman herself. Whoever had hired her probably didn't trust her either if she didn't know how this was going to work.<br/><br/>His thoughts traveled back to Yridhren, back to Ion. His position on the High Council was his brother's saving grace, and the only thing standing in the way of discarding the trial and going straight for the sentence. His queen mother had always been kind to him, but never his brother. Ion was by far the smarter of the two, and personable. He always knew just what to say.<span style="font-style: italic">He'd</span>know how to talk his way out of this. All Cyr could do was be indignant about it, but apparently that would just have to do.