Lee’s trials

Is he any fun?

*Lee*

I carry my grandfather through the west bough while three guards clear the way and every servant who sees us turns white.

His head rests against my shoulder. He is heavier than I remember, though that is impossible. Fealor has always seemed built out of things that do not yield, oak trunks, old laws, the sort of certainty that makes rooms rearrange themselves around him.

"Grandfather." I keep my voice low. "Stay with me."

His eyelids twitch.

"Bossy," he murmurs.

A laugh catches in my throat and comes out wrong. "You raised me."

The healer strides ahead, pale robes snapping around her ankles. "The bedchamber. Quickly."

I know the route without looking. Up two levels, across the enclosed bridge, through the carved doors with the gold leaf handles. I spent half my childhood waiting outside those doors while Fealor met diplomats, held council, argued with Fileas, and occasionally remembered that I existed long enough to summon me in for tea.

The room smells of cedar, lavender, and the bitter medicinal smoke burning in the brass bowl by the fireplace. I lay him on the wide bed.

He grips my wrist with surprising strength.

"Lyrian."

"I'm here."

His eyes find mine. For a second, they are clear. Blue, like mine. Like my father's, according to the portrait I am not supposed to look at.

"Listen to the healer," he says.

"I usually do."

"That is a lie."

"It is a respectful lie."

His mouth shifts, the smallest hint of a smile. Then pain folds him in half.

The healer presses both hands over his chest. Silver light spills between her fingers and stains the sheets with its glow.

Thalia stands near the door, very still. Her green eyes have gone dark. I know that look now. She is listening to something under the floorboards, in the bark and roots holding this entire city together.

"What do you feel?" I ask her.

The healer looks up sharply. "Do not distract her."

Thalia's gaze cuts to mine. "Something bad."

That is not reassuring, though it is more honest than anyone else has been.

The healer's jaw tightens. "Lady Maplebloom, please."

"It's all right," Thalia says, but her voice has the strained calm she uses when she is nowhere near all right. "The tree felt him. Whatever is making him sick, it isn't moving like a normal illness."

A shadow falls across the doorway.

Fileas enters without asking permission. His coat is still perfectly arranged. He has not even loosened the silver clasp at his throat. Outside, people are running through halls and whispering behind hands. Inside, he looks as though he has arrived early for a meeting.

"For clarity," he says, "what precisely are we dealing with?"

The healer does not turn from Fealor. "The King requires quiet."

"Then perhaps you should provide an answer before rumors do it for you."

I rise from the bedside.

"Careful," I say.

His eyes settle on me. "You are upset."

"Yes. My grandfather has collapsed."

"And that is why I am asking sensible questions."

I take a step toward him. Thalia's fingers brush my sleeve. Not holding me back. Just there.

The healer exhales through her nose. "His heart has been under strain for some time. I have treated his shortness of breath, the fatigue, the weakness in his legs."

I stare at her. "For how long?"

She pauses.

That pause is an answer.

"Lady Edris," Fileas says, quieter now. "How long?"

"Months."

The room narrows around the word.

I turn toward the bed. Fealor looks older than he did on the street. His silver hair is damp at his temples, his skin grey beneath its warm brown. Months. While he sent letters asking when I would visit. While I was away pretending that the King of the elves was simply stubborn enough to outlive everyone he annoyed.

"You knew," I say.

Fealor's eyes remain shut.

The healer speaks carefully. "He forbade me to tell you."

"Of course he did."

"Lyrian," Fileas says.

"Don't."

He goes silent.

Thalia walks to the window. The glass is grown into the living wall, green-veined and clear enough to show the city below. Dusk has gathered over Eirawen. Lamps bloom one by one in the branches. From here, it would be easy to believe this place has never known fear.

"Can you treat him?" I ask.

Edris's hands glow brighter. Her face has begun to shine with sweat.

"I can stabilize him. After that, I do not know."

The words strike harder than they should. I am twenty-one years old. I have fought three different forms of magical fungus in Yggdrasil's lower tunnels, survived Professor Bellthorn's oral exams, and once spent four hours trapped in a supply closet with Liam Greenstone and a crate of enchanted socks. Not to mention the whole going to save the world with Ariella.

Still, my hands start to shake.

I curl them into fists.

Fileas watches that too. He notices everything he thinks might be useful later.

"The council must be informed," he says.

"No," I say.

His brows draw together. "The King has fallen ill in full view of the city. There is no possibility of secrecy."

"There is a difference between informing them and letting them circle the bed before he wakes."

"You have been home for an hour."

"And you have been waiting five years to remind me."

Thalia turns from the window.

Fileas's expression does not change. That is the worst part of him. He never gives you the satisfaction of seeing where the blade goes in.

"Your father has been absent for five years," he says. "The kingdom has not had the luxury of pretending succession is a private family concern."

My lungs stop working properly.

No one says my father's name. Not in this house. Not in front of Fealor. Not ever.

"Get out," I say.

"Lyrian," Fileas says, as if he has mistaken my words for the beginning of a discussion.

"Get out of his room."

The healer lifts one hand. "Both of you, please."

Fileas looks at Fealor, then at me. His mouth forms a thin line. "I will convene the council at first bell."

"You will do nothing without his permission."

"I am his son."

"And he is still the king."

For once, something cracks through his composure. It lasts less than a breath. Weariness, maybe. Rage. Then it vanishes.

"You are a student," he says. "You may remain one if that is what you want. I have spent the last five years ensuring this kingdom remains governed while you attend dances and collect friends from every corner of the world."

Thalia moves before I can.

She steps between us, not dramatically, just enough to make Fileas address her if he wants to keep pushing. Her hair, usually bright green at the streaks, has darkened toward pine.

"Your father is sick," she says. "Try acting like it."

Fileas's gaze rests on her. "You misunderstand your place here."

"I understand it fine. I'm a guest who has been awake for about thirty hours, and I still have better manners than you."

A sound comes from the bed. Fealor, half-conscious, may be laughing. Or coughing. I cannot tell.

Fileas looks toward him, and something in his face tightens.

"I will speak to the council," he says. "You may choose to attend or continue shouting at healers."

He turns and leaves.

The door shuts behind him with the soft click of carved wood meeting carved wood.

Thalia lets out a breath. "He seems fun."