Chapter Eleven
FYAR’S FACE DARKENED as Killian recounted the morning’s events.
They were in the king’s study in the eastern wing of the palace, floor to ceiling windows gave them a perfect view over the pastures, and beyond that, of the leaves in the forest as they began to turn from green to a vibrant red.
The other three walls were covered in history.
Records and decrees reaching back in time to the very first of Fyar’s line.
The elf said to have been touched and chosen by the gods for how much magic he possessed, securing his bloodline’s right to rule over the land now known as Netyere, named in his image.
Killian leaned against the mantle as he watched Fyar sit in this thoughts.
Fyar said, “I see.”
Killian waited for the rest of it, for the anger, the suspicion. Nothing came.
Fyar then returned to his scrolls, picking up his feathered quill and scratching away at the parchment.
“He wasn’t working alone,” noted Killian.
“Yes. Clearly not.”
“It could be Lyra. Making trouble before he even arrives.”
“How could it be? He’s not here. He hasn’t been since my coronation.”
“His brother is.”
Fyar blinked. “Huh. You’re right. I forgot about Porthos. He was never one to have much drive on his own. Opposite Lyra, Porthos was always bland. A follower.”
“Porthos is partial to his brother, willing to do anything to please him.”
Fyar hummed. “I suppose.”
“I’ll explore the possibility.”
“You do that.”
“I have some questions then.”
Fyar leaned back in his high backed armchair and rested his cheek on his fist. “Ask away. I’m an open book.”
Killian pushed from the wall and dropped into one of the sofas, making himself comfortable. Fyar quirked an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “What was your relationship with Porthos like before you banished his family?”
“Nonexistent. He was a child. He held no interest to me.”
“Did he share his brother’s suspicions of your involvement in Numar’s death?”
“I don’t know. If he did, I don’t think I would have noticed. I remember having very few real conversations with him. He just…hovered. Followed Lyra around like a puppy.”
“So you weren’t close like you were with Lyra?”
“Gods no. Porthos was born when we were on the front lines, and by then, things were already beginning to fall into place for me. I was beginning to understand what needed to be done. I had no spare time to coddle a child.”
“I don’t remember what your father thought of him.”
Fyar snorted. “He didn’t. My father was deteriorating, barely there on most days, I don’t think he was even aware Porthos had been born.”
“Poor Porthos.”
Fyar abandoned his work and rounded the desk, tucking his legs under him as took a seat next to Killian on the sofa.
“Lyra and I were raised as brothers. My father doted on him like he was his own son, as did my uncle to me before his death. We grew up together, lived together, fought together. He was my right hand.” He paused to clear his throat.
“When I learned he had gone before my father’s council to make a case against me, to have me stripped of my throne—my birthright—and branded a king killer.
I was…shocked. I never thought he’d go against me.
Even if he did suspect, I thought he would come to me.
Naively, I thought he might understand.”
“I think he did,” said Killian, not unkindly. “But he also saw the chance in it. His one opportunity to surpass you—the only son of King Numar. With you gone, the crown would have made its way onto his head.”
Fyar frowned. “He never used to care about titles or power. I don’t know when that changed.”
“When he got a real taste of it.”
“Yes,” Fyar said slowly. “The war changed everyone.”
Killian barely remembered Lyra from his time in the palace before Numar passed.
Though, to be fair, Killian hadn’t exactly been a welcomed guest at that time; he was usually sequestered away in Fyar’s personal rooms or shuffled from empty room to empty room to keep him out of sight like a prized mistress.
No one took too kindly to a former prisoner roaming their halls, no matter how reformed Fyar claimed him to be.
Lyra always shied away from Killian. Glaring at him from across the room as though Killian was a mad dog, poised to attack at any moment.
“I’ll keep an eye on Porthos,” Killian said.
“You do that.”
Killian narrowed his eyes. “You seem awfully blasé about this whole thing. You don’t care that someone tried to get into your little sanctuary?”
“It’s not like they succeeded. And they’re dead anyway. So it seems to me like they got what was coming to them.” Fyar smirked. “I have the utmost faith in my magic and my captain. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Killian put a hand over his heart. “That means so much.”
Fyar chuckled. “While on the subject of brothers, do you want to talk about what happened with yours that’s got you so distracted recently? You haven’t said anything about your trip. I’ve been patient and given you time, but truly, Killian, your brooding is getting ridiculous.”
“I haven’t been brooding.” Killian flushed unhappily when Fyar fixed him with a flat stare. “Much.”
“Please. You’ve been stomping around my palace as if everyone and everything has personally pissed in your porridge. You need to get a grip.”
“I’m trying. It’s not that easy.”
Fyar folded his hands into the long sleeves of his elaborate white robes. “My poor, poor captain. It must be so difficult for you to focus on the measly troubles of the crown when you have so many of your own. Hurry up and tell me what happened already so we can get back to my problems.”
Killian groaned and dropped his head back against the sofa. He then spent the next few minutes giving Fyar a vague retelling of the goings on in small town Turell. Of course, he made sure to skip the parts about Kade expressing a vehement and unfiltered hatred for Fyar and his entire family.
“I’m not seeing the issue,” said Fyar, puzzled. “It sounds like it went well.”
“It did,” exclaimed Killian, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “That’s exactly the problem.”
A most disappointed expression crossed Fyar’s face. “And to think I was genuinely worried about you.”
Killian jumped to his feet and pointed down at Fyar, threatening. Fyar only grinned, lazily like a fat cat. “This is why I didn’t want to talk to you about it.”
Fyar chuckled. “You’re so sensitive. Relax. It’s not like it was the last time you’ll ever see him.”
“It could be.”
“Only if you let it.”
“It might be for the best that I do.”
Tilting his head, Fyar asked curiously, “Why would that be? You left on good terms, did you not?”
Killian’s mouth moved. “I just don’t see how he could’ve forgiven me.”
“Well,” Fyar stood and straightened his robes. Then, serenely, said, “Luckily that’s not up to you to decide. Don’t argue it.”
Killian moved at a glacial pace through the halls leading to the infirmary, not at all looking forward to the upcoming task. He’d tried to send Loran on this particular errand, but the lieutenant had given him a bone stripping glare and in no uncertain terms, told him to get fucked.
As expected.
As Killian approached, he could hear shouting echoing through the halls.
The infirmary sat at the front of the palace, diagonal to the Guard’s Keep at the center of both courtyards. The entirety of the wing was dedicated to the practice of healing, official and experimental.
Patient rooms lined the lower two levels of the wing, personal treatment rooms for any who required it; from the smallest scratch to life threatening injures. Light and breezy and clean, they were designed for comfort.
Just outside, eight pristine greenhouses lined the western side of the palace, giving them constant access to fresh ingredients.
The working room at the end of the hall was bustling with life, it ballooned out into a wide space, with work stations lining the walls, each covered with a various collection of herbs and potions and strange, dead creatures.
An apprentice stood in front of each station, completely engrossed in the task at hand as, adding in new ingredients to a small cauldron that bubbled away next to them while also trying to pay attention to their master’s instructions.
Approaching the open door, Killian caught sight of shining golden hair, silky in the sunlight.
Porthos.
The prince worked stoically, his focus entirely on the task at hand. Calm and sure, he stood out amongst the rest. He was the spitting image of his brother, tan skin and sharp cheekbones and foxlike sky-blue eyes, a freckle just below his bottom left lash.
From the middle of the room, Hokda spewed orders. He wore a stark white, pleated robe with matching trousers, free of any embellishment or embroidery.
Hokda’s brown hair was cut short and choppy, sticking out around the crown of his head and down into his big, honey brown eyes in perfect chaos.
His unusually long ears were filled with gold, he tinkled like a wind chime whenever he turned.
His short stature and soft features gave him a cherub-like appearance.
The healer was beautiful as long as he kept his mouth shut.
Killian sucked in a breath of air and cleared his throat loudly.
The room went dead silent.
Hokda—cut off in the middle of a sentence—pivoted dangerously slow on light feet. Murder blazed in his eyes, his soft features twisted with furious irritation.
Killian felt giddy.
“Healer, I would speak with you.” Killian’s eyes flickered around the room. “In private.”
“Are you blind or just stupid?” Hokda spit through gritted teeth. “I’m busy.”
“Official business.” Killian tilted his head imploringly. “You understand.”
Fists clenched, Hokda jerked his head towards the back of the room where his office waited behind a thick, sound-proof door. “I’ll deal with you in a moment. Don’t touch anything.”
Killian floated by Hokda, grinning as he heard the healer hiss angrily.
Hokda’s office was a study on anal retention.
Kept completely spotless at all times. Nothing was allowed out of place, not even a single speck of dust. Bookshelves and storage cabinets lined the walls, treatment records were housed behind the gigantic desk that faced the door, safe under lock and key; not a single one was titled and they were all bound exactly the same.
Specimen jars and ingredient bottles were placed perfectly so nothing was touching and everything was evenly spaced apart, labels facing outward.
How the healer was meant to find anything in the mess, Killian would never know.
There was an examination table on the left side of the room, wooden and blocky and foreboding. Leather restraints dangled from the table at four different points. Bedside manner clearly wasn’t Hokda’s strong point.
Killian leisurely strolled the perimeter of the room, taking his time to shift a few bottles here and there, swap a couple of books from one shelf to the next, and move an anatomical canvas a couple inches off center.
Only when he was satisfied did he go and lean against the exam table to wait for Hokda to grace him with his presence.
The healer soon came banging into the room, the door bouncing off the wall at the force of which Hokda opened it. It fell closed behind him as he strode across the room to take a haughty seat at at his desk.
“Well,” said Hokda, with an impatient gesture to get on with it.
“I assume you’ve heard about the incident that took place yesterday morning.”
“You mean how your Guard was so incompetent that they allowed someone to slip through their patrols and take a stroll through the labyrinth? Oh, no. I haven’t heard a word of it.”
Killian scowled. “He didn’t get through.”
Hokda gasped. “Really? I thought he’d made it inside to enjoy a nice relaxing night by the pond.”
Ignoring him, Killian moved on. “His name was Fayren Ulr. I have it on good authority that he was a common visitor to the infirmary. Do you remember anything about him?”
“Fayren?” Genuine surprise leaked into Hokda’s voice. ”Really?”
“He worked in the—”
“Kitchens. Yes, I know. That was the source of most of his injuries. He was a clumsy thing. Awkward. Always coming in with small cuts and burns, he almost took his finger off once. Not anything unusual for the kitchens though.”
“Was it always you who healed him?”
“Gods no,” scoffed Hokda, as if Killian were an idiot for even suggesting it. “Minor injuries like that even my apprentices can’t fuck up.”
Killian’s brain was whirring. “Who usually treated him?”
“Whoever was free.” Hokda’s eyes narrowed. “There was no one apprentice he favored, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I see.”
Hokda said, “Is it true he’s dead? Our secret, of course. You know I’m not one to spread palace gossip.”
“Only because you’ve no one to spread it to.”
Hokda scowled.
Killian flashed him a smile. “Yes, he’s dead. Threw himself at the mercy of his enil and tried to break his vow when he learned his fate.”
“A shame,” said Hokda.
“Yes, it is.” Killian gave a mock bow. “Appreciate you taking the time to speak with me, Healer.”
Hokda only rolled his eyes and shooed Killian away.