Chapter Thirty-Six
HOKDA WASN’T SURPRISED at all when Fyar drifted through his office doors less than an hour after the procession had returned from Porthos’ vigil, dressed in the same drab, black robe he had worn all night.
Because why should Hokda be surprised? He never gets a moment to rest. Why would today be any different?
“What do you want now?” Hokda grumped, completely out of patience. “I was just about to go to sleep.”
“You can manage a few more minutes.” Fyar shut the door firmly behind him.
“Is that all this visit is going to take? Really? I haven’t slept in days.”
“Neither have I. You’re not special.”
Hokda blew out a long breath and then tried again. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Your Majesty? And might I call to your attention to the fact that you’re dripping on my floor, you royal fuck.”
Rolling his eyes, Fyar reached into the sleeve of his robe and pulled out a cutting of a plant with white flowers, a purple stem, and heart shaped leaves.
Hokda understood immediately. “I’m assuming you already got your answer. Are you expecting different results?”
“It’s called being thorough,” said Fyar. “I need to be sure.”
Moving around his desk, Hokda opened opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a flat glass jar. Inside sat a couple of tea stained flowers, dried and preserved.
“Give it here.”
It was a simple test, over and done in a blink. Focusing his eyes, Hokda read the traces of en still clinging to both sets of flowers in front of him, one dried, the other freshly cut.
The energy was identical. They were one and the same.
Hokda grimaced, and then gave his findings.
Fyar said, “I see.”
“What happens now?”
“What indeed.” Fyar turned to leave, but paused. “How are you faring with my cousin’s passing?”
Hokda inhaled sharply. It was still too fresh to say.
“I had thought—I had hoped—he wouldn’t get caught up in his brother’s schemes.
He was a smart boy, a good boy, but too easily led.
He had the potential to be a great healer.
I hate wasted potential.” He swallowed thickly. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s okay to be sad, you know. It’s okay to mourn him.”
“Thank you for your permission,” Hokda snarked. Then, ”Will you?”
“I am, in my own way.” Fyar cocked his head, thinking. “I mourn what we could have been. In another life, perhaps we had the chance to be a real family instead of the fucked up mess we are now.”
Hokda understood. “Porthos was mine. My student. My apprentice. My charge. I’m supposed to protect what’s mine, but…”
“You couldn’t protect him from himself.” Fyar opened the door. “Get some sleep, Hokda. You deserve it.”
Oh, he intended to. The hunt was canceled and the palace was in mourning. The coronation feast wasn’t scheduled for another two days and Hokda planned to spend every spare moment in bed. Forgetting the past few days ever happened.
After three knocks came the call to enter.
Fyar was where Killian had expected him, seated at the desk in his private quarters where just days ago he nearly died. What Killian hadn’t expected, what drew him up short, was the presence of his lieutenant standing across from the king.
Loran immediately looked hunted, and turned away so Killian couldn’t see his face.
Clearly, Killian had interrupted something.
“Ah, Captain.” Fyar leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “What a surprise.” He turned to Loran. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You may go.”
Loran bowed his head. On his way out the door, he nodded to Killian, though it seemed more out of protocol than a greeting. He refused to even look at Killian, his gaze locked on the floor ahead of him.
“I wasn’t expecting to run into Loran here of all places,” said Killian. “He gave me his report hours ago. Nothing found in the searches. Did something happen that I’m unaware of?”
“That is the question I’ve been asking myself lately,” Fyar said gravely. “I asked Loran to report to me directly.” He gave no further explanation.
The jab stung. “I see.”
“What did you come here for, Captain? I’m not expecting any more reports from you tonight.”
Killian felt wrong-footed and off balance. This elf before him, sitting tall and proud with a politely blank expression on his face, wasn’t the friend that Killian had come to know, it was a king. A king with his guard up. “I just wanted to see how you were feeling. It’s been a long day.”
“A long day,” Fyar repeated slowly. “Yes. That’s one way to put it.” A deep breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve lost family. It never gets easier.”
They stared at each other. The truth sparking between them. Killian wondered if Fyar would say it. If he would admit it.
He did. Fyar confessed, “I could have saved him.”
Killian made a confession of his own. “I know.”
“You didn’t say anything when your brother was pointing fingers.”
“There was nothing to say. I would never speak against you in front of a crowd, you should know that. My loyalties lie with you.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Fyar said, folding his hands in his lap. “But under these circumstances. Well. I have my doubts.”
Helpless to stop it, Killian blurted out, “It wasn’t me. I know you have your suspicions. You’d be stupid not to, but it wasn’t me.”
It was hard to breathe as he waited for Fyar’s response. He was all too aware that this could be the end.
Killian was willing to fight, claw, beg for Fyar to see. For his friend to see him.
Fyar's face gave nothing away. “You, more than anyone, know what it took for me to get here. What I’ve sacrificed. What I’ve done. You stood by my side through it all, and I will never forget that. I want to believe you—”
“So believe me!” Killian was moving, and suddenly he was on his knees in front of Fyar’s chair, his hands on Fyar’s knees. “Believe me. Believe I would never betray you.”
Clenching his jaw, Fyar scowled, his mask beginning to slip. “If not you, then who?”
Killian opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t have an answer.
Fyar nodded like he understood. Like that was what he’d been expecting. He unfolded his hands and dropped one of them onto a thick leather-bound ledger on his desk. Killian recognized it instantly. He should, it was his after all. Swiped from its place in his office.
The record log of evening reports, all there, kept neat and tidy.
A gift from Loran, no doubt.
“It has come to my attention,” Fyar said, tapping one finger on the log book.
“That some reports don’t contain all the information they should.
Mainly, your reports. Or lack thereof. Your visits to forbidden areas of my estate.
Your guest.” He knew. Goddammit. He knew.
“You were seen. You’re not stupid. So, I’ll ask you again. If not you, then who?”
Killian lowered his head.
Fyar caught his chin, his fingers tight, when he drew Killian’s head back up, not letting him hide. Forcing him to face this. Fyar’s eyes were scorching.
For the first time in a long time, Killian felt the telltale tingling throughout his body of Fyar pulling on his enil. It was like a buzzing under his skin, roiling and raging, growing with intent as Fyar played with him. If Fyar asked again, Killian would have no choice but to answer honestly.
It grew until Killian was choking on it, his body quivering under the weight of Fyar’s control. The leash pulled taut around his neck. And then, it was gone.
“Get out of my sight,” commanded Fyar, his voice going cold and hollow. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Killian sagged.
Killian lingered in the archway of his room. Hovering.
Kade sat in the middle of Killian’s bed, his knees tucked to his chest, face turned away, staring absently out the window, watching the rain pour.
Rain drops ran rivers down the window panes, the sky dark beyond the safety of Killian’s bedroom walls. Kade hadn’t moved for hours, hadn’t talked, hadn’t cried, just sat. Silent.
It had been raining since the end of the vigil.
Fyar was showing his grief, chasing everyone inside and stopping all festivities to mourn with no distractions.
Killian didn’t know how to help. Kade had lost too much lately. His mother and now the first friend he could call his own. No matter Killian’s own feelings towards Porthos, he mourned for Kade’s sake.
Kade had moved like the dead on the walk back to the palace. Empty and hollow. Barely acknowledging Killian’s presence or even his absence. Every movement sluggish and slow.
Kade didn’t even blink when Killian crawled into bed and curled around him. He laid a hand on Kade’s back, feeling the ridges of his spine. Killian wanted to touch him, to comfort him, to let him know that he was there, however he needed him.
It was a long time before Kade spoke. “He’s dead. He’s really dead. I couldn’t save him.” His voice cracked. “He was my friend and I couldn’t save him.”
Killian’s arms squeezed tight, as if he could pull Kade into his chest. He pressed his cheek to Kade’s and held on. “I know. I know.”
He held Kade through the worst of it, through the wracking sobs and pitiful whines and the questions. Why? Why? Why? Kade was shaking and Killian felt useless in the face of his grief.
When it was over and done, Kade went back to being empty. A far away look in his eyes.
It was haunting.
Killian honestly didn’t know which was worse, Kade’s crying or this.
A long time later, Kade turned to Killian slowly, like he was finally seeing him. He said, “Hi. You’re here.” Then, he ran the pad of his thumb over the bags under Killian’s eyes. “You look exhausted. What happened?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Killian said, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch. “What about you? Are you alright? What do you need?”
“I watched my friend die, Killi. I don’t think I’ll ever be alright again.”
“You will,” Killian said. Sure. “However horrible it is, this feeling will pass.”
“I tried to save him. I tried so hard. But my magic—my healing—I wasn’t enough.”
“Stop. Stop right there,” Killian commanded softly. His arms tightened. “You did everything right, but sometimes even magic isn’t enough.”
“His magic should’ve been.”