Chapter Thirty-One
THERE WAS NO color in Fyar’s skin when Killian found him keeled over on the floor next to his desk. He was trembling and weak, barely able to keep his head up. There was blood smeared across his lips and a pile of slimy sick at his feet.
Relief tore through Killian at the sight. Fyar was alive. Dying slowly, but still alive. As long as he was breathing, Hokda could heal him. Killian was sure of that.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Fyar wheezed as Killian knelt beside him, taking his weight. The king’s skin was clammy and cold, he was sweating too much, and his heart hammered in his chest.
Killian’s own debilitating pain hadn’t lessened in the slightest, so it was in fact much, much worse than it looked. Brutally shoving his own trembling and burning to the back of his mind, Killian focused all of his attention on Fyar.
“Shut up. Don’t talk,” Killian snapped. “Can you stand?”
Fyar shook his head.
Before Killian could even think of anything else, Fyar lurched forward, more wet, red tinged vomit splashing onto his expensive rug.
Ignoring the king’s groaning, Killian wrenched him up and carried him to the sofa, propping him up against the armrest so he wouldn’t choke if he vomited again.
He put a hand on Fyar’s chest, it was a small comfort to be able to feel the rise and fall of his chest, physical proof that he was still alive. For now.
“Breathe. Just breathe.”
Eyes hazy and unfocused, Fyar obeyed. It was an awful rattling sound, harsh and ragged and wet, each inhale a struggle. But he was breathing. He was still breathing.
“You feel it too?” Fyar choked out.
“Yes.”
“Shit.”
“Shit,” Killian agreed. “Don’t talk. Hokda will be here soon. He’ll fix this.”
Killian rested his head against Fyar’s shoulder, bracing against the pain clamping around his insides, sucking the energy and life out of his body. Never once did he look away from his king, just in case.
They both jerked when Hokda flew into the room, Loran at his heels, the heavy door rattling in its frame at the impact.
He was a whirlwind of motion, all flowing robes and gold jewelry, his eyes bright and searching and as panicked as Killian had ever seen him.
A heavy leather medicine bag clutched tightly against his chest.
Killian bit out, “Took you long enough.”
Ignoring him completely, Hokda shoved Killian out of the way. Kneeling at Fyar’s side, he began his diagnostics. Flickering golden energy drifted in a haze around the edges of Killian’s sight, Hokda’s magic, already at work trying to ease Fyar’s symptoms.
As frustrating as the healer was, Killian commended him for how well he worked under pressure. To the untrained eye, Hokda looked as calm and composed as ever, but Killian could see how affected he was; sweat beading at his hairline, and a slight tremor to his hands.
Knowing he would be no help to them, Killian turned to Loran, leaving Fyar in Hokda’s care.
“Keep this quiet,” Killian ordered, stepping close to his lieutenant. “Use only the guards you trust explicitly. No unnecessary eyes or ears, do you understand?”
To his credit, Loran was calm. Shaken, but steady. “Yes, Captain.”
“The king’s quarters are under strict access, especially now with guests in the palace, that should narrow your list of suspects.
Take them to the dungeons. I’ll meet you there once I’m finished here.
” Loran agreed and turned to go, but Killian stopped him.
“Loran, if you can’t find who it was, bring them all. I’ll not risk a traitor walking free.”
Loran tensed, hesitating a moment. Then, “I’ll find them.”
Killian nodded. “Go.”
Hokda had made progress, there were a few empty vials thrown on the floor and he had his hands pressed against Fyar’s now bare abdomen, the golden energy coiled densely around Fyar’s body.
The king was breathing better and his eyes were more alert. It was working.
“What’s your diagnosis, Healer?” Killian questioned, wanting answers.
“Poison.”
“I could’ve told you that.”
“I’m unsure of the strain,” Hokda said, shooting him a fierce glare. He opened another vial and passed it forward. Fyar downed it without a word, though his face twisted in a grimace at the taste. Hokda rolled his eyes. “Don’t complain.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Fyar said petulantly.
Killian stalked the perimeter of the room, looking for anything out of place. With Fyar healing, Killian’s own pain was slowly subsiding, his head cleared and his focus returned.
Someone had dared to poison the king, the most protected person in the entire kingdom, with guards stationed right outside the door. Someone close. Someone trusted.
Fyar’s evening meal was spread on a tray atop his desk, next to a small pile of scrolls he had been going over as he ate. The food was barely touched. The porcelain teapot was still warm, it’s matching cup sat in the middle of the desk, steaming.
Killian called for Hokda.
The healer came in his own time, not willing to leave Fyar’s side until he’d done all that he could do and was confident the king’s condition was stable.
Taking in the scene on Fyar’s desk, Hokda clearly came to the same conclusion that Killian did and went straight for the tea.
He took a small sip from the cup, swirled it around in his mouth, and then spit it out.
Fyar looked appalled. “On my floor?”
“It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to your floor tonight,” Killian pointed out.
Fyar turned slowly towards Killian. “Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Poisoned,” Hokda confirmed. Then, he popped the top off of the teapot and began digging through the tea leaves that had steeped the liquid into a deep honeyed amber, strewing them all over Fyar’s desk.
“My documents,” Fyar lamented pitifully. “My desk.”
“Shut up. I need to focus,” Hokda snapped.
He was hunched over the desk, examining each and every leaf, picking it up and rolling it between his fingers, searching for the bad apple of the bunch.
He came up a few minutes later, two budding flowers pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Got you.”
The air turned serious.
“Tell me,” Fyar commanded.
Hokda shook his head, his eyes trained on the flowers. Distracted, it was as if he didn’t hear Fyar at all. A whisper to himself. “No. That’s not possible.”
“Hokda.” Fyar’s voice was harsher, more urgent.
The healer picked a few white petals and popped them into his mouth, chewing it, before spitting it out. The healer turned slowly, meeting Fyar’s blazing eyes. “Anafei.”
There was a there-and-gone twitch in Fyar’s eye, but otherwise he didn’t react. He went as still as a marble statue. Voice calm and steady. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Fyar and Hokda stared at each other, a silent conversation passing between them.
This poison—anafei—clearly meant something to both of them. Something more than just a poison. It felt like a piece of the puzzle just clicked into place for them, the timeline and procession of events made clearer.
Killian, on the other hand, was still thoroughly in the dark. His gaze pinged back and forth between the two frozen elves.
“And?”
Hokda opened his mouth, then closed it again, and turned his gaze to the floor. Speechless for once in his life.
Clearly, Killian would get no answers from him. So he turned to Fyar. “Am I missing something here?”
Fyar simply stated facts, “Anafei is a rare and potent flower not native to Netyere. The flower is poisonous while the root is an excellent stimulant. It’s a surprising choice, to say the least.”
“You don’t dose yourself against anafei,” said Hokda. A statement, not a question.
“No, I don’t.” Fyar raised his chin. “They did their research.”
Unease wormed in Killian stomach. He was being purposely evaded. They knew more and were only giving him just enough to satisfy.
“I’ll go brew an antidote,” Hokda said. “Just to be sure. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Fyar and Killian watched the healer pack his things and go in silence.
“I’m tired,” Fyar announced when the door had closed. “I’ll sleep now.”
Killian helped the king to his feet, kept him standing when he stumbled and led him the distance to his bed, easing him down onto the mattress. He used pillows to prop Fyar up and then tucked the blankets around his legs.
Standing at Fyar’s bedside, his hands folded behind him, Killian couldn’t help but ask, “What is it you’re not telling me? I can’t do my duty properly —to find and punish this traitor who poisoned you—if you’re keeping secrets.”
“My secrets are not the ones that will doom us.”
“We shouldn’t have secrets at all,” Killian hissed. Fyar blinked at him. Pointed. “Not about this.”
“What you don’t know will not impede your investigation into this night. Carry out your duties and find who slipped through our defenses. The rest can wait for tomorrow.”
Killian’s nostrils flared. He hated how dismissive Fyar sounded. How official. How blank.
It hurt. A stinging pain in his chest.
It grew until it was anger. Pain masquerading as anything but.
“Do you not trust me?” Killian pushed. “Is that it?”
Fyar met Killian’s budding anger with an icy distance. “Have you done something that would make you lose my trust?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then I have no reason not to trust you.”
Shaking his head, Killian clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might break teeth. “Fine.”
That was the end of it.
There was silence as Fyar readjusted, sliding down until he was horizontal. And even with this thing between them, this sense of wrongness, he met Killian’s eyes and asked, “You’ll stay with me until I fall asleep?”
“Of course, I’ll stay.” There was no question. “I’ll have to leave for a time, but I’ll come back.”
Fyar nodded, his eyes already beginning to droop.
It was hard seeing his king so weak.
“Have Hokda give you something for the pain,” Fyar said quietly. “You may not have had my symptoms, but you were as close to death as I was. I won’t have you keeling over on me tomorrow, I’ll need your strength.”