Chapter Fourteen #6
The healer crashed to her knees beside Iver and ripped a pair of gloves from the leather satchel at her hip.
She yanked them over her hands and gripped Iver’s chin, opening his mouth.
“It’s iron poisoning. Your tongue is seared and bleeding.
” She conjured a ball of light in her palm and held it to see into his mouth.
Iver’s face had taken on a sickly pale color.
“So is your throat.” The healer looked to Ailenor.
“Test the food for iron, Your Highness. Carefully!”
A horror-stricken expression flashed across Ailenor’s features, but she caught herself quickly.
She left Iver’s untouched cream puff aside and dipped the tip of her finger into his drink.
It came back unharmed. Was the iron in something Iver had eaten earlier?
But Ailenor dribbled the thick, yellow drink onto a plate.
In the liquid swam tiny, gelatinous beadlets.
Each one encased dark specks. Ailenor, her face tight, squished one with her finger.
She hissed and jerked away. Smoke rose along with the biting smell of burned flesh.
Ailenor splashed water over her fingertip, which was now dotted with tiny needle pricks.
Even after she’d washed off the liquid, her finger continued to bleed profusely.
She wrapped it in a napkin and applied pressure.
“Iron dust,” the healer said gravely.
William had made sure there was no iron in the castle, and he’d instructed the guards to search any human who entered.
Having the king’s sisters searched would’ve been absurd.
But if Silenia had kept the dagger sheathed, the iron dust sealed away, and her natural aversion to the metal under control, she could’ve smuggled it inside.
In case Iver died before an heir was conceived, Silenia would be queen of the Winter Court even if she was her brother’s murderer.
Had an heir been conceived? No way to know this early.
If Ailenor or Charlotte were already with child, Silenia would go after them once she found out.
William couldn’t let that happen. He had to protect his family and preserve Iver’s claim to the throne.
The healer scraped Iver’s mouth with her gloved hand, clearing what was left of the drink. She made him wash his mouth with water, which came back pink. “The iron dust seems to have been coated in a layer of gelatin that only breaks down in the stomach.”
So that was why the cup-bearer hadn’t detected it upon tasting the drink. William glanced at the young fae who lay in a puddle of blood on the cold marble floor, the nurse clearing his mouth, working to free his airway.
“Then why are they bleeding from the mouth?” William asked.
“Once the gelatin dissolves, the iron dust burns into the stomach walls, causing internal bleeding. Whatever of the dust is coughed up burns the esophagus and the mouth, causing further damage.”
Weakened, Iver dropped into William’s arms. He helped him slide off the chair, carefully laying him on his side, cradling his head. Blood seeped from his mouth, trickling onto the marble floor.
“Your Majesty,” the healer said to William, “we need to get the king to the infirmary. You must support him through your soulbond while we carry him.”
Helplessness clawed at William. “How do I do that?”
“Make sure your soul embraces his. Tether him to life as best as you can. The deeper you connect, the better.”
Panic rose. “Iver and I agreed that he would keep the bond closed. Our souls never joined.”
“What?” The healer reared back, her expression turning grim.
“Keeping a soulbond closed is… I’ve only heard of a couple of fae powerful enough to do that.
It’s a strenuous effort and must have weakened His Majesty considerably.
If that much of his magic is tied up in keeping your connection from developing, it leaves him vulnerable. ”
Memories flashed before William’s eyes: Iver lagging behind on the mountain.
Iver struggling to keep pace as they skated through the ballroom.
Iver passing out after a string of orgasms. He had shown no signs of weakness before their faerie wedding.
Iver had easily kept up when William had first tested his new powers in the ballroom.
He’d shown him up. He’d wrestled him down in front of the court.
Every sign of weakness had come after their wedding.
Iver, barely conscious, gave a low, pained moan.
“Your Majesty,” the healer said, cupping Iver’s face in an attempt to get his attention, “you need to open the bond.” She swallowed. “It’s crucial.” Another pause. “For your survival.”
Iver grimaced. More blood ran from his lips, this time brighter. Then, weakly, “No.”
“No” to opening the bond? Or “no” because he wouldn’t die? But Iver had taken on a waxy complexion. He looked like death.
William held back the angry, desperate words rising in his throat. His hands shook. “You can’t do this to me. I need you. Our children need you.”
No response.
“Let’s get a pallet and carry him to the infirmary,” the healer said. There was no hope in her eyes.