“Who were you talking to?”
Fayren shook his head. He stretched his jaw wide, and showed his tongue. Just as Killian had feared, a vertical stripe of back ran down the center.Enil. “I’m sorry.”
“Now why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?” Killian sighed. “Is there anything youcantell me? Was it for money? Were you looking for something?”
Fayren put his head down. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“This is a crime against the king himself, it’s not taken lightly.” Blowing out a breath, Killian gestured to the dungeon cell around him. “Welcome to the rest of your life.”
Fayren looked stricken. He wasn’t even middle aged yet, hehad hundreds of years left. Hundreds of years to rot away.
Hit hard, Killian was bowled over onto the dirty floor. Fayren’s weight on top of him, his movements frantic and desperate.
It was only a moment before Loran had Fayren off of Killian and slammed back against the wall. It was taking all Loran’s strength to hold Fayren still, the prisoner seeming to have gone mad. Limbs flying wildly, Fayren fought to get to Killian.
“He was my friend. I thought he was my friend,” Fayren yelled. “He told me I could get in. That he had a way. I would be safe.” There was a gurgling in his throat as he began choking. The words stuck in his throat, refusing to pass his lips. A name that would never be spoken. The betrayal of a so-called friend.
Killian crowded close. “Who? Who told you that?”
“That…he…” They couldn’t understand. Only able to catch words here and there as Fayren fought through the binds of his oath. “…looking…”
“What?What?” Killian shook him. “What were you looking for? Answer me, Fayren. Don’t you die yet, goddammit. What were you looking for?”
“An…a…”
Stepping away, Loran and Killian watched as their prisoner dissolved into a twitching mess. Foam frothed at his mouth and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. It was a slow death.Painful.
“Fuck.” Killian turned and kicked the wall. Raking a hand through his hair, Killian turned to Loran. “Take care of this. I’ll go inform the king of what we’ve learned.”
Loran nodded, his eyes never leaving Fayren’s still form.
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 mycoronation.”
“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.”
