Okay... I know this chapter is almost a month and a half late, give or take, and I really have no excuse other than the fact that a lot of my time has been taken up with volunteering at the Faire, a dying (cancer) friend and the resulting funeral, school, and some depression that was completely unrelated to the friend. But now I think I'm back with a new chapter, a more defined idea of a plot, and some new ideas and motivation for a novel brewing, so watch out! Hiron Otsuki is back in action!
Shadowfax: I loved your review. Game of telephone, indeed... Yes, it's very frightening. Good thing that it's really hard to do... Never read X-Men, but the comment interested me. Who is Sage? Ooh, and you know stuff about Shakespeare and the subplots. (Not many people catch the fact that there are subplots, and not many people are willing to admit that they even read Shakespeare... I admire you.) Lol. Thanks, again.
AikoNamika: Oops... There is always more than one way to say something in any language, though...
Moondance: Erius did it with his Gift in Rowen's mind. (Am I the only one seeing the resemblance to Clue, here?)
Fireblade: ...Yes.
Thanks also to: Wizard116, DreamToCreate, Amber Stag, and AikoNamika. And Mischakitsune.
Notes: Touch-Sensing is a legitimate, canon Gift. It was mentioned in Exile's Valor as the Gift of one of the Hurlee players; the Trainee in question was using it to try to identify what the writer of a note was thinking in regards to plotting something against Selenay.
To see what we have never seen,
to be what we have never been,
to shed the chrysalis and fly,
depart the earth, kiss the sky,
to be reborn, be someone new:
Is this a dream or is it true?
Can our future be cleanly shorn
from a life to which we're born?
Is each of us a creature free—
or trapped at birth by destiny?
Pity those who believe the latter.
Without freedom, nothing matters.
The Book of Counted Sorrows
Chapter 21: Pushed to the Brink; Long Nights.
A wreck. Julian was a complete wreck. The Healers had stopped the bleeding quickly enough, and shielded both of them again, but the left side of Julian's face was covered in a design of thin, angry red lines. The right had only the tear-track scar that stretched from the corner of his eye to his jawline, but every time Rowen saw even that scar, he wanted to reverse time and pound the still-smoldering body of Ormus-the-bastard into a greasy smear on the floor again.
'Why did I leave the room? Why?'
Masaan had explained the illusion-spell repeatedly, but Rowen still couldn't force himself to believe that he couldn't have overcome it, somehow. Goddess... this was all his fault. If he hadn't... left...
The second he'd yelled for help from someone- anyone, Sendan had burst out of the closet and run for Healers- and met an army of mixed Guards and Healers in the hall, since the massive wave of emotion that Julian had thrown at Ormus had sent waking nightmares into the mind of all Sensitives in the castle. Rowen had found himself shouldered aside by Masaan, who had laid both hands on Julian's face and was pouring every iota of energy into Healing and Shielding.
Someone had taken Rowen out of the way after the third or fourth time that he'd tried to break into the circle of Healers trying to place a shield over Julian that he couldn't immediately get through, and had then decided to explain the now disabled fear-problem.
One of the gryphons from Iftel had remembered her history lessons and decided to start searching for less-than-ominous objects in the castle, and found the source of the fear-spell after only two hours of searching- a dyrstaf, and destroyed it, so the waves of fear and nervous pain had stopped battering Julian's already ragged shields to bits, although it had been too late to stop Ormus. Now they were in a new room, far away from the room with the new grease-mark decoration on the floor and the permanent aroma of burned meat.
The Bard was still a wreck. Rowen stared at the apparently sleeping Julian on the bed, and his rage at Ormus doubled when the scarred side of the Bard's face came into the light when Julian restlessly turned his head.
Rowen clenched his fists and all of the oil lamps on the wall flared brightly before settling into the dim glow of before. He growled lowly, and tried to control the anger. Keeping a new Gift under control was not his forte; the Gifts of adults were usually chancy at best, and since Firestarting was usually unpredictable and reacted to the emotions of the Gifted, it was not a good combination, in Rowen's case. The lights flared again, flooding the room with light, but not before Julian groaned at the excess of anger in the room.
A pale hand ventured out from under the covers to touch the badly scarred cheek, and he whimpered. Rowen's stomach lurched unexpectedly, and he tried to ignore it.
"Hello?" Julian whispered hoarsely. "Is someone there?"
"I am," Rowen answered gently. "Do you want any water, or something to eat? The cooks are just waiting with some broth to reward the Bard that took down the assassin."
"Some water would be nice," rasped the Bard.
Rowen fumbled with the water jug and cup for a moment, unexplainably nervous, then succeeded in pouring a drink. He hand the cup to Julian, who drank slowly, teeth chattering slightly against the rim. His hand reached up to probe the side of his face again, and Rowen could see the muscles in his jaw clench slightly.
"How bad is it?" Julian asked quietly.
"Pardon?" Rowen asked, surprised. 'Surely I misheard him.'
"I said, 'how bad is it?' How ugly am I now?" Julian repeated.
Rowen appraised Julian's face for a second and decided to be delicately blunt. "The left side of your face is a network of fine lines. The right only has a tear-track scar." He paused for a moment, contemplating whether he should finish the thought. "And you're not ugly. Yes, you're scarred, but not badly enough to set small children to screaming." He smiled ruefully, even though Julian couldn't see it. "Or you could just cover it with a half-mask, like that old Hardornen legend of the Phantom of the Theatre, although I can't see why you'd want to. Even as much of a sadistic pile of sheka that Ormus was, he still managed to make the pattern attractive. The side of your face looks like something out of a book of alchemy."
"I wouldn't know," Julian said gloomily.
Rowen sighed. "Believe me, Julian. You're not ugly." Hesitantly, he reached out a finger and traced the tear-scar on the far side of Julian's face. "You're not," he repeated firmly.
His stomach trembled when Julian lifted a slightly shaking hand and pressed it over his own.
"Thank you," the Bard whispered.
Rowen's finger stroked the beginning of the line at the corner of Julian's eye, then traveled sideways slightly to run over the older scar that had left Julian blind. The Bard sighed and relaxed slightly. "That feels good," he murmured drowsily. A few moments later, he looked like he was slipping back into a more natural sleep. "It's hard having no family," he mumbled sleepily. "My father hates what I am, and Rojer always followed what he said, despite being a Healer, and I haven't seen either of them in so long, except the time Father was at Court b'fore my accident. If only he weren't so close-minded. Rowen's lucky that he has Sa'heera and Nadar... I wish he would accept me... what we are... Rowen..."
"I'm right here, Julian," Rowen said, trying to find out just what Julian thought he wouldn't accept.
"Rowen?" Julian muttered, and tightened his hand on Rowen's.
The Changechild felt his cheeks flood with heat.
Suddenly, Julian's eyes flew open, and his blind orbs flicked about the room. "Rowen!" he cried, and tore his hand from Rowen's, hastily flinging it back under the blanket. "Rowen," he moaned. "I'm sorry- I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said anything, about my family- about- what I- I didn't realize it was you- I thought it was Masaan, or Sendan. The- the emotions are still affecting me, and my Empathy isn't as reliable as it was before this whole mess. Whatever you heard, forget it. I'm delirious, so don't listen to a word I say."
Rowen stared at the babbling Bard, confused. Why was Julian so nervous? What did he have to hide?
"Julian," he said slowly. "You didn't say anything other than the fact that your father hates you, you think your brother does, too, and that there's a reason for it. You said that it was something you were, but you didn't elaborate on it. You mentioned that I wouldn't accept you for whatever it is. Julian, I really don't care what it is. It's not going to bother me."
"You wouldn't understand," Julian said bitterly. "Believe me, it would disturb you. And the rest of it... if you ever could be ready to hear it, you aren't right now."
A little hurt, Rowen replied, "Look, Julian, it's obviously bothering you, and you need to talk about it with someone. Why not me?"
"I have talked about it, with Masaan and Sendan."
"So you think that you can trust them over me?" Rowen hissed. His frustration was quickly turning into anger, and it was getting the best of him.
The lights flared.
"No! It's just-" Julian started to say something, then stopped. His face, if it was possible, paled more. "Gods, Rowen- you're so angry."
"Damn right!" Rowen snapped. "I know you better than anyone here, and when you need to talk with someone, you run to them instead of me?" He knew that his reasoning was weak, and there was really no reason for him to be so angry, but the fact that Julian thought he couldn't trust Rowen hurt.
"No, damnit!" Julian hissed, rising to a sitting position with a grimace of pain. "It's something you wouldn't take very well, if you could take it at all!" He flushed. "Damnit, Rowen, why do you always have to be so damn stubborn about some things?"
"Because I know 'some things' involve me!"
"This isn't something you can just talk casually about! A sensitive subject like a li- like that can't just be out in plain sight until both parties have agreed!"
"Well how can both parties agree if one party doesn't know anything about it!" Rowen shouted.
"Because I'm still trying to come to terms with it, myself! This is something that could kill one or the both of us, Rowen, and I personally think that if you found out about it right now, it would definitely kill both of us!"
"Julian," Rowen growled. "Stop dancing around the subject and just tell me! I know you want to!"
"I can't!" the Bard cried. "I can't! Stop pushing me to tell you something that's killing me from the inside out! It hurts so much, and you keep pushing me to tell you, and I can't!"
Tears ran down his face in streams as he yelled. "I hate this, Rowen! My Empathy is going out of control, you're screaming at me, which is making it worse, I just almost died, I'm going to be scarred for the rest of my life, and I'm so alone!"
Rowen eyed him. Julian was almost screaming now, but his voice was still barely above that of a loud whisper, and it was growing hoarser.
"The shields are barely working. I can feel every emotion in this whole damned castle except for the precious few mages and Healers! I can feel that the horses in the stable aren't fit to ride, and everything in the castle is still afraid! Someone I consider a really good friend is too annoyed with me to see how messed up I am, because I'm trying to protect him, and I don't have anyone that actually sees me for who I am here."
'What?'
"Tremane sees me as a spare Envoy, Sendan sees a mentor, the Councilors in both countries see me as a way to control the big, bad Changechild. Selenay sees me a Bard, Masaan sees me as an attraction, and you obviously see me as something to vent at! I'm tired of it, Rowen. I'm always alone, but now... now all I want to do is be left alone!"
Even though Julian's words stung, and he probably was as stressed as he claimed, the reasons had little truth behind them. Sendan obviously cared for Julian as a close friend, as did Masaan. Selenay understood that Julian was a person, and had always treated him accordingly in and out of Council meetings, even though Julian hadn't been needed after Rowen had begun to take the initiative to show up to meetings on his own. But the Councilors and Tremane did see him as both Envoy and a way to get to Rowen. And even Rowen himself had been treating Julian as an anger outlet during the past few minutes, and the poor man had just been tortured. Perhaps he had been pushing Julian a little too far.
"Julian," he began awkwardly. "I'm- I'm sorry. We've all been under a lot of stress, you especially, and I'm frustrated at not being able to help with the retaking of the towns, and I'm ready to kill myself because I failed you. I let you get hurt, let him torture you, and I'm taking it out on you." Shame overtook him. "I failed you, Julian. I let him get to you, and now you bear the scars for my mistake. I'm so sorry."
All of the feelings that he'd been holding in check burst out of the cupboard where he'd stowed them, flooding his heart and mind. Anger at the fact that Julian was hurt; sorrow that he'd not stopped it. Absolute and total rage at the bastard who had dared to torture the now-weeping young man in front of him; shame that he'd been taken in by the illusion that Ormus had woven, and last of all, longing. But longing for what? He'd felt longing before, as a child for toys he could not have, and later as a teenager for the parents he'd lost, as an adult for the body and life that had been lost to him. Most recently was that strange, undefinable longing- that had intensified exponentially during the torture session, and now blazed up like the lights whenever he looked at Julian. Longing, perhaps, for the life that the Bard led with such ease and undeniable grace? No- it couldn't be that. Rowen fit into his own self-defined niche nicely, and he had no intentions of moving. Longing for the skill and elegance with which Julian performed? Rowen didn't think so. Possibly- was it Julian's innocence? His cleanliness- he'd never killed another human being, after all. But somehow, that explanation didn't exactly fit the frame either. And it certainly didn't explain the... tightening... of certain key points in his body that occurred when he so much as glanced at Julian. Oh, for the easy camaderie they had once had- or had they ever had it?
"Your move," Julian said, alerting Rowen to the fact that it was his move.
The Changechild studied the board and smiled, reaching for the gaze-hound and captured a courser with it. "Your courser is done with," he said happily. "My gaze-hound took the one on the far left."
His smile faded as Julian took a year-stag and proceeded to capture that hound and then move it on to capture Rowen's pack leader- the only hound left other than three coursers and an attack-hound.
"I win," he said with a mischievous grin.
Rowen groaned and reached for his wine. "So you have. Now what?"
The Bard shrugged. "What do you want to do?"
Rowen perked up as an unusual idea appeared in his mind's eyes- but would Julian go for it?
There was only one way to find out. "Drinking contest?" he suggested tentatively. It was such a juvenile idea. Surely the refined Bard wouldn't want to-
"Drinking contest?" the Bard asked curiously. "I haven't been in one of those since my Trainee days... but why not? Let's go."
Rowen had slapped him on the back and put an arm around his shoulders, letting Julian lead them out of the ekele and to one of the common rooms in the Bardic Wing of the Collegium.
Four hours later, Rowen could barely make it down the lawn to the ekele, one passed out Bard slung over his back. Any awake Companion wouldn't be able to tell the actual outcome of the contest, but it was the exact opposite of the way it looked. Not only had Julian drunk Rowen under the table; he'd managed to drink several older and larger Bards under the table as well. Unfortunately, by then he'd been drunk enough to accept a contest between himself, Bard Gretel, and Bard Temas, both of whom were from areas of Valdemar famed for people with great ability to hold liquor. Gretel had passed out before the end of the contest, but Temas was the winner; Julian had toppled off his seat and begun throwing up on the floor only minutes before Temas began to do the same. Rowen had woken up by then, and purged his system of much of the alcohol, and had been watching the competition as well as a drunk who'd slowly been regressing into a heavy buzz could. So Rowen had picked up Julian and staggered out of the room, fully intending to walk back like a civilized Changechild, and not a drunk-off-his-ass idiot Shin'a'in with a projectile-weapon Bard on his back.
Two steps from the door, Julian rolled over on Rowen's back and vomited again. All over the Changechild's croup and tail.
Then he turned his head and grinned weakly at his half-drunk ride. "Shorry 'bout tha'. Shoulda shtopped when I had th' chansh, but I couldn'. I forgo' how good I wash at theesh..."
Rowen felt like pitching the Bard into the river, but settled for placing him in the area of the ekelemost likely to become filled with bright, early morning sunlight.
"And you said you hadn't played that game since your Trainee days," he said to the Bard, trying to shake off some of the vomit that was now trickling down his legs.
"Lied," Julian groaned as Rowen stepped over an artfully placed log.
"I know." Rowen shook him off in the spot he'd decided on, leaving the Bard to sprawl limply in the grass, while he went to scoop a bucket of water out of one of the pools so he could get some of the vomit off.
"Heyla, Julian!"
"Yes?" the Bard replied, not bothering to look up from the lute he was tuning- not that he needed to look. After much trial-and-error, Rowen had finally managed to figure out how to navigate the slippery staircase- very, very carefully, but it had been worth all the bruises and scrapes to see the smile light up Julian's face at his arrival, and hopefully the smile that would make this one seem like a frown.
"Surprise!" The flung case landed on Julian's bed on the second floor of the ekele
"What's this?" Julian asked in surprise, then placed the lute carefully back into its case and felt his way over to the bed. Rowen grinned. "Present," and carefully stepped over the seemingly messy floor covered in the lute strings and bridges and tuning pegs that Julian needed- that were actually ordered very neatly, although Rowen failed to see any sort of pattern- to stand next to the other man.
"This is- oh!" Julian's face shone with delight as he opened the large case and ran his hands over the instrument within. "A guitar! And this is-" Shock suffused his features as his voice dropped to a reverent whisper and his fingers began to tremble. "This is one of the original guitars made by Rolf Dawson. Where did you find it?"
"Oh, around," Rowen said casually. In fact, it had been exceedingly hard to get, and he'd had to submit to telling his story multiple times over to one of the ancient Master Bards so the old man could catalogue it, and had to empty his coin-purse completely. But the look on Julian's face was worth all the trouble. "Happy Birthday."
"How did you- no, I don't want to know. But- thank you, Rowen. Thank you so much. I really don't know what to say, except for thank you." Julian was an avid collector of anything that had to do with Rolf Dawson, who was the original creator of the guitar. "These are so rare," Julian said in wonder. "I can't believe you actually managed to find one that wasn't in a collection or a showpiece in some wealthy home."
"I'm glad you like it, Julian."
Julian had liked it so much that he'd taken the time to contact Sa'heera to find out the date of Rowen's twenty-sixth birthday. He had then proceeded to conspire with several friends among the Heralds and resident Shin'a'in to throw Rowen the best party he'd ever had, considering that the Shin'a'in didn't emphasize birthdays, and he'd been unable to do much of anything involving anyone for the last five full years.
Yes, Rowen decided. They had been good friends. But somewhere along the line, it had changed. Some element had become more intimate. The friendship was still a friendship, but it was at a point where it was at the strongest, where two people could stay at that easy almost soul-sibling relationship- or become something more. And it might well be evolving into something warmer. The ease with which Julian had entered Rowen's mind when he'd been in comas, or the way that they'd become such close friends so fast; all 'only-friend-in-all-of-Valdemar' issues aside, Rowen wasn't the kind of person that trusted easily. It had taken Sa'heera three years to breach his formidable defenses, yet Julian had been at the 'I-can-vomit-all-over-you-and-you-won't-destroy-me' stage within months. And Rowen had a vague idea that he'd gotten under Julian's skin just as quickly. Anyone that knew the Bard know that he didn't trust very easy; perhaps because of his uneasy, seldom mentioned relationship with his father and brother. The only people that Julian truly trusted were Heralds and their Companions, lifebonded partners of Heralds, and people that he'd been able to see into with his Empathy and determine their true character, like Masaan and Sendan. And the gryphons, kyree, tyrill, and ratha, who were no more able to conspire against the Alliance than a Companion would be. So why trust a Shin'a'in Changechild that was possibly crazy from no human contact and bring him into the very heart of Valdemar? There was something going on here that everyone seemed to be aware of but him, and it was starting to annoy him. Julian trusted him to not ask questions about it, but all the frustration with everything else had eroded Rowen's thin barrier of patience.
Julian had trusted him. And he'd just ripped the Bard's fragile mental state to shreds over a simple issue of pride.
Julian's voice was muffled from the within the circle of arms and legs that he'd worked himself into, but understandable enough.
"Rowen, an excuse is an excuse. That was the truth. But why would you have failed me?"
There was genuine puzzlement in his tone, and Rowen knew he'd have to answer.
"I failed you when I let him torture you. You are, to put it bluntly, my best friend. At least as close as a brother." He missed the small, defeated sag of Julian's frame at those words. "I truly care about you, and when we left Valdemar, I pledged to myself that I wouldn't let anything harm you. I thought you would be safe enough here. Instead, you had to risk your own life to save mine to bring my mind back. Then you risked your life to expose Ormus as a traitor, and now you've been scarred for life because I didn't understand the hints you kept throwing. And just now... just now I've gone against my own oath and began screaming at you."
"But you were frustrated, Rowen. And I just added the last bit of fuel to make it explode. I really should have understood how you were fee-"
Rowen held up a hand. "Stop taking the blame for everything and just let me own up to my own mistakes! I'm the one who messed up, and now I'm the one who should pay for it."
"But I-"
"Stop volunteering yourself as the cause of every problem that comes along! No more 'buts,'" he added as Julian opened his mouth to protest. "I am going off to try and siphon off some of this frustration into either a set of pells, or I'm going to go burn it off in practicing with this Gift. I'm sure Tremane has some semi-flammable material taking up space somewhere in this great hulk of a castle."
And with those words, he took himself off to go find something to throw his rage and despair at.
x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x
Melles breathed his magic upon the mirror carefully. The idiot Opener had gotten himself killed while sowing the seeds of chaos among the minds of Tremane's guests, and Melles had no Projectors to spare; he'd only had five to begin with. Now one was dead, and of the other four... One was an adult with the mind of a child; he was the most pliant, but unfortunately he was currently busy projecting into the midst of the Haighlei Empire on the other side of the continent and trying to find out if they would be receptive to allying with the Empire and making an attempt to crush all of these troublesome countries between the two larger ones. Right now the boy was working with a linguist, faithfully relaying everything he saw and heard, and the linguist was attempting to make sense of the gabbling of the boy and the even stranger words of the Haighlei. Two of the other Projectors were completely involved in spying on rebellions within the Empire; the rebellions were serious enough to warrant attention by the Army, but Melles wanted to know everything he could about the men heading the rebels before he made any moves.
The final Projector- ah, she was sweet, and Melles could force her to dance any which way to his will, but she was working on a private project for Melles; spying on those who were secretly working to undermine him in his own Court, and reporting who and where they would be at what time. Most of those pests he left to his assassins, but there were a few he intended to take on himself. The few that were intelligent and ruthless enough to have caused several of the rebellions to truly make the Court restless with him could not be trusted to the assassins; silver tongues coupled with charm and no small amount of coin could and had bought off Emperor-sent killers in the past; they would not while Melles was Emperor.
He breathed on the polished-silver mirror carefully and whispered his enemy's name onto the smooth surface. The mist swirled, smoothed, and swirled again, as if unsure where to go. Melles whispered Tremane's name again, impatiently, and the mist churned swiftly.
The fog cleared rapidly to show Tremane's hated visage, but not the way Melles had dreamed of seeing it. No, Tremane's face was not the pallor-gray of a corpse lying in state, but the ruddy, slightly angry color as he ordered mages to search the spy-assassin's chambers thoroughly for any trace of magic, or for anything suspicious. Melles swore, then threw the mirror against the far wall of the Throne Room, where it clattered to the floor to lie cold and unresponsive.
"That man!" he seethed. "How does he manage to slip every trap I've set for him? How?" He fumed about the room for a few moments under the cool and impassive stares of his Guards, cursing Tremane of Lynnai, and wondering what in the name of the Hundred Little Gods had happened to his assassin. He could kill the man immediately, of course; the hair and blood that the assassin had unwillingly "donated" would be an easy enough way to get rid of someone who was willing to talk in exchange for his life. But what if the man was dead?
That seemed to be the obvious answer, Melles thought as he paced the room, but what if the man had turned his coat and was now working for Tremane? It seemed unlikely, but no one, not even Melles would have thought Tremane capable of turning the entire army sent to conquer Hardorn into the new army for Hardorn, then becoming Hardorn's new King.
It would be best to just spend the energy and be sure of the man's death than to risk the possibility that the man had turned songbird and was now spilling everything he knew.
Melles sighed and summoned a page over to fetch the required package from his suite. It was going to be a long night.
x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x
It was going to be a long night, Tremane thought, as he glanced around the suite of rooms that Ormus, lately traitor to Hardorn, had called home. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were no dyrstafs, nor any other insidious objects that could incite any sort of chaos within or without the walls of the castle.
The only thing that anyone had found had been something that one of the mages had termed a 'blow tube,' which was a long, hollow tube made of a strange type of wood, discovered with a set of small darts of a nasty variety; they were enspelled with a single set-spell that targeted the victim's family with a slow-acting curse that caused the cells in the brain to multiply out of control very, very rapidly. None of them had been used; something that Tremane and he was sure every Healer was thanking every god fervently for. Now the tube and its accessories were being Fetched to Valdemar as carefully as possible so that one of the Heralds with the Gift of Touch-Sensing could attempt to identify who it would have been used on.
Now all he needed to do was be himself and look around for anything that the multiple waves of mages searching the rooms might have missed. As he passed into Ormus's bedchamber, a glint of silver caught his eyes, and he glanced at the seam where the doorframe met the surrounding wall. Something shiny winked there in the wavering light of the oil lamps suspended on the walls; something metallic, a flash of wicked yellow-white. He reached for it, intending to draw whatever it was into clearer light, but instead his fingers ran right over it, and he felt a stab of pain in his index finger. He staggered back a pace, feeling something sweep through his finger and into his arm like a dark shadow. He cried out- or thought he did- as numbness spread through his fingers and up his arm, following the strange wave that emanated from his finger. It reached his shoulder and his arm dropped to his side. His lips lost their feeling, and he found that he suddenly couldn't blink; could barely breathe as the wave hit his legs and he toppled to the floor. The loud thud he made upon meeting the stone must have alerted the two guards that stood outside the room, for one of them stuck his head in- and gasped when he saw his King lying on the ground, lips barely moving as he tried to convey the message that he had been poisoned somehow!
The second guard ran for a Healer, his cries calling for other men to take his place as the first guard dashed to Tremane's side, urgently trying to read the words that were forming and dying on Tremane's lips.
He put his ear to Tremane's lips, and the King knew that this was probably going to be his last chance, if the darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision was any indication.
"Poison," he whispered hoarsely, lips frothing. "Doorframe."
The last of his strength failed him as the guard's eyes widened, and a purple-black curtain fell between him and the rest of the world.
All feeling ceased, and then- nothing.