“Put it down,” he roared.
I danced away from him, flitting to the door he’d left gaping beyond him and dashing out into the wide hallway. I would return to my room, gladly. But I was taking a book.
I ran with the livid Kjell bellowing behind me, and when I finally stopped in front of my tower door, after easily navigating the corridors, he drew up abruptly, gasping for air, eyeing me like I was completely daft.
I thumped the book at my chest fiercely so he would understand why I had run. Then I pounded the door to the room where I’d been held for two long weeks. With a shake of his head and an impatient curse, he pushed me aside and unlocked my chamber door. I was shoved inside once more—an infuriating pattern emerging—with no explanation of what he’d expected from me and no enlightenment as to the king’s whereabouts. But he didn’t take the book.
Kjell was back less than an hour later. I was bathed and dressed, but my feet were bare, my hair lay in wet clumps down my back, and I hadn’t broken my fast. When Kjell burst through the door, it was all I could do not to fling my goblet at him, and when he grabbed for my arm, his grip harsh and bruising as always, I shoved him back as hard as I could. He was as brawny as the king, and he only staggered because he was surprised, but I shook my finger at him in warning and lifted my chin. Then I turned and began walking for the door, indicating I would go where he wanted me to go, but I would not be manhandled. When he tried to grab me again, I smacked his hand and kicked at his legs.
“Fine. I won’t touch you. The king requires your presence. Follow me.”
I followed him docilely, my chin high, my hands folded, but when he made to shove me into the king’s quarters, I shot him a look of such malevolence that he dropped his hands once again and bowed slightly, as if conceding.
“He asked for you. That is why you are here. The only reason you are here,” he explained begrudgingly, and stepped aside, bidding me enter. But this time he didn’t leave. He followed me inside and locked the door.
The king was not in shackles like the first time I’d been summoned, but his skin was flushed, and he trembled and thrashed on the bed. The bedclothes that weren’t twisted around his body were pooled on the floor, and when I approached, he opened his eyes and tried to rise. He wore a pair of breeches that were soft and loosely gathered, and nothing else. I wondered if the breeches had been pulled on for my sake and mentally thanked the Gods for that. And where had he been all night?
I could not make him an elixir or blend the herbs for tea like I could have done at my father’s keep, where I had my own supplies in my neatly organized bottles and vials. I had nothing here—nothing that would ease his pain or lower his fever. I couldn’t even tell Kjell what I needed or send a summons to the kitchen. I thought about the words I’d pressed upon him when he was chained to the wall, the words that had brought comfort and relief. But I didn’t dare touch him that way with Kjell looking on. I wouldn’t survive the night.
Distrust tinged the air, and I dismissed Kjell with a sigh, turning my attention to the task at hand, to the mysterious king who exuded size and strength yet struggled with an ailment he was clearly hiding from his servants and his subjects.
Instead, I filled a basin from the pitcher on his dressing table and brought it to his bedside, soaking a cloth and wringing it out before running it over his arms and chest, repeating the action until the water in the basin was warm and I was soaked through. It didn’t appear to be helping, and Tiras watched me with exhausted eyes, offering no complaint. But his agony pulsed like a drum beat. It was becoming deafening, and I wondered why I was the only one who could hear it. It had always been that way. I had always been that way, hearing the words nobody said.
I closed my eyes in defeat.
“Kjell.” The king’s voice was remarkably strong.
“Yes, Tiras?” Kjell was immediately at his bedside, his hand on the hilt of his sword, as if he could vanquish what ailed his king.
“Leave us.”
Kjell eyed me, his eyebrows lowered dangerously, but he acquiesced without argument.
“I’ll be right outside, Tiras.” His warning glance told me he would be nearby should I attempt assassination. I would have laughed if the king weren’t so sick.
The door closed softly, and I met the king’s gaze. He looked as troubled as I felt. He wasn’t writhing in horrible pain like he’d been the night he’d been shackled. He seemed more ill than wracked in pain, and I wondered again what was wrong.
“Put your hands on me,” he instructed softly. “Like you did before.”
I shook my head, stalling, wanting to understand. I pointed at his stomach and tilted my head in question. He shook his head. I placed my fingers on his throat and raised a brow. He shook his head once more. I touched his temples, his ears, his arms and his legs, and he finally spoke, answering my question.
“It hurts everywhere,” he explained softly. “There is fire beneath my skin.”
Suddenly there was fire beneath my skin too, and I felt the heat warm my cheeks and flood my chest. Last time he was hardly conscious. This time, his eyes clung to my face making the act terribly intimate. I was already sitting beside him on the bed, but I pressed my hands to his heart and closed my eyes. My hands were trembling, and he pressed his hands over them, weighing them down.
“You are afraid,” he murmured. I nodded, not opening my eyes.
“Are you afraid of me?”
I nodded again. Yes, I was afraid of him. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to help him, or worse, that I would, and I would mark myself a Healer. I would mark myself for death.