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 forhow 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.”
“Icould’ve told you that.”
“I’m unsure of the strain,” Hokda said, shooting him a fierceglare. 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.
