Page 135

I feel the chaise beneath my back. I feel the damp linen around my forearm and the cold air Fiona has allowed into the chamber. Sensation remains, precise and merciless. Movement does not.

My right hand lies beside me, fingers curled around nothing. The house ring rests on the table beyond reach. I command those fingers to close. No muscle answers.

Numiscu has severed intention from flesh.

Fiona stands between me and the chamber doors. Her chestnut braid has loosened over one shoulder. Water darkens her sleeves, and a smear of my blood marks one calloused hand. The poisoned jar remains uncovered beside the basin.

She has not hidden it.

She could have fled when the footsteps approached. She could have called attention to my helplessness and bargained with whoever came to claim me. Instead, she places her sturdy body in front of mine as if defiance can serve as armor.

The latch turns.

I reach for chaos.

Ordinarily, the power waits beneath thought, vast and dangerous. It requires discipline, not effort, to draw a controlled thread from it. Now I find resistance where the current should be. Numiscu clogs the path between will, blood, and magic. A thin black spark gathers near my wrist and dies against the poisoned obstruction.

I try again.

Nothing.

The doors open hard enough to strike the walls.

Six members of the King’s Guard enter in two disciplined lines. Their dark armor carries the royal crest of Orthani worked in pale metal across each breastplate. Crimson cords mark the captain. Their swords remain sheathed, but gauntleted hands rest near the hilts.

These are not my soldiers.

Joran appears behind them, one hand on his blade and murder in his violet eyes. More royal guards block the passage at his back. He cannot force his way through without turning Morwen’thir’s halls into a battlefield against the king.

“Stand aside,” the captain orders Fiona.

She does not move. “Lord Morwen’thir is under a healer’s care.”

“Stand aside, human.”

The title he denies her is deliberate.

Fiona lifts her chin. “You have entered his private chambers without his summons.”

“We enter under royal authority.”

“Royal authority does not make you his healer,” Fiona says. “If you crowd this room or drag him upright, his breathing may stop.”

The captain studies my chest. “Is he dying?”

“Not if I am permitted to work.”

“Answer me directly.”

“It is the only answer that matters.”

Red eyes appear between the guards.

Varrus steps into my chamber wearing black court leathers beneath a mantle lined in crimson. Snow has melted along his shoulders, proof that he came directly through the outer ward. He surveys the room with a care calculated to resemble concern.

His satisfaction ruins the performance.

It brightens his red gaze when he sees my motionless body. It touches the corner of his mouth when he notices Fiona’s stained hands. He has arranged each object in this scene without needing to enter the stronghold himself.