A message was waiting for Jaime when he stumbled from his bedroom the next morning. Greaves was tapping the folded paper on the table as he read through a stack of paperwork. A hot mug of tea and a plate of scones filled the air with their delicious scent, and Jaime gratefully accepted the breakfast when Greaves tipped his head toward it. The tea was black and full of honey, and the heat banished the last of the winter chill from his bones. A storm had moved in from the ocean overnight, and the temperature dropped across the palace.
The late night had been spent tending to patients in the infirmary—the flu and falling injuries were at a high, but the healers were equipped to handle the worst of it. Some guards got frostbite on their noses and extremities, and Jaime was learning fast how to heal the hurts. Frostbite was something he’d only read about and never seen in person before he came to Pyrderi.
Jaime finished his tea and accepted the folded paper from Greaves. “Who’s it from?”
Greaves lifted a brow at him, and Jaime flushed when he saw the paper was sealed shut with a bit of wax, imprinted with a gryphon in flight. “Sorry.” Greaves went back to reading, content to keep to himself. Greaves was reserved in the morning, usually quiet unless they had a patient to tend.
Jaime broke the seal and read the note. It was from Maxim, begging Jaime’s forgiveness. King Llyr wasn’t doing well with the downturn in the weather, and Maxim and his siblings had been called to attend their father. Maxim was sorry for the late notice and wished to make it up to Jaime soon. Jaime gasped, afraid for Maxim. His own heart hurt, remembering his father cremated and gone weeks before he managed to get home from the academy. Jaime never got to say goodbye to his own father.
“What’s wrong?” Greaves asked.
Jaime handed Greaves the note, heart thumping. Greaves read the note, going even more still than usual. “Is this normal for the king? I know he’s far older than usual for a man with children Maxim’s age….is the king….” Jaime was unable to finish.
Greaves didn’t answer, instead standing, motioning for Jaime to follow. Jaime caught up to his mentor, and they went out to the hall between infirmary and the great room. “Master Eames may know how the king is—” Greaves stopped at a door, and knocked. “He’s the king’s chief attending healer. He may not be here if the king isn’t doing well.”
A soft call bid them enter. Greaves opened the door and went inside, and Jaime followed on his heels. Master Eames was indeed inside, but he was with a servant who held a satchel open while Master Eames was adding vials, jars, and some small books. “Ah, Healer Greaves and our newest resident, what brings you to my door this early?”
“Master Eames,” Jaime gasped out, worried for Maxim and his father. “Is the king…is he dying?”
Master Eames turned from the servant and his bag and fixed his gaze on Jaime. Jaime gulped, afraid his impertinence would get him in trouble, but Master Eames’ expression eased into one of sympathy.
Greaves put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder in support. Master Eames smiled at the gesture, a faint twist of his lips. Jaime all but vibrated, needing an answer.
“His Majesty, King Llyr, has been dying for the last ten years, or so he complains quite frequently. He was strong in his youth, but old age has been hard on him, especially since he refuses to leave the north. His twilight years would be better lived in the summer capital or even at Hearthstone, but our king loves the north. I’m on my way to see him now, as it happens. How did you hear?”
“Prince Maxim sent me a note,” Jaime said quietly, holding it up. “We had plans today during my free time, but his father…I understand. I do. I’m just worried for Prince Maxim. I lost my own father to a bout of early autumnal fever. I wasn’t there for my father, but maybe I can be there for Maxim.”
“Ahh, I see.” Master Eames nodded to the servant, who bowed and carried the satchel from the room. “As I am on my way to see the king, and his children are likely by his side, perhaps you should come with me. Both of you, in fact.”
“Both of us, Master Eames?” Greaves was as surprised as Jaime.
“I’m getting on in years, and our dear royals will need to become accustomed to seeing more than my wrinkled face at their bedsides in the years to come. Come now, get your best robes on. I’ll wait.”
Greaves wasted no time, pulling Jaime out of the room behind him, and they walked fast back to their own bedrooms. Jaime splashed water on his face, washing away the remnants of sleep and a too late night, and he pulled on his best set of robes. He ran back into the hall, all but crashing into Greaves, who quelled him with a sharp glance.
They met Master Eames at the main hallway and followed him out into the grand foyer. It was still early hours, and most of the people about were guardsmen, servants, and people Jaime assumed worked in the palace, like clerks and stewards. A woman walked by dressed in dove gray robes, long brown hair pulled back in a myriad of braids, and she gave Jaime a glance from depthless eyes. Jaime moved closer to Greaves, who looked back for a moment to see why.
“One of the magi who resides here in the palace. They don’t bite. I barely understand a thing they say about magic, but we have many of the same skills. Magi say that the healer’s gift is magic, too.” Greaves thankfully didn’t tease Jaime for his nerves.
“Eistreans, the common folk that is, don’t care much for magic. Unless one wears the robes of the high king’s magi, anyone with magic is driven out of their homes or killed. I was thrown in chains and sold.”
Greaves put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder, and Jaime took heart from the affection. Before his enslavement, he had enjoyed the casual and heartfelt touch of a friend, a teacher. He was learning again how it felt to be cared for, to have someone interested and concerned about him. It was strange readjusting to human touch and empathy, only in that he had reached the point on that ship of believing he would die in chains, a wretched soul deprived of life and love and friendship.
He blessed that storm with every smile, every kind word, and every kiss from Maxim.
Thoughts of his prince held back the nerves. He worried for Maxim—his prince always acted as if he were unaffected by anything negative, a smile not far from lips and eyes. Maxim carried himself like the prince he was, shoulders back and chin up with his hand on his sword in a comfortable, unconscious gesture.
Master Eames was no young man; so their pace was too slow for Jaime’s nerves, but Greaves’ hand on his shoulder tempered his impatience. If he had been alone, he would have been running the entire way. He also would have gotten terribly lost and likely accosted by guards, since he had no earthly clue where he was going.
The halls passed in a blur of opulence and light as the rising sun flashed through windows and skylights. He did notice a gradual increase in the guard population, pairs in fine armor at entrances to new halls and what he assumed to be the royal residence wing of the palace. Their robes and the master’s emblem embroidered on Master Eames’ shoulder gave them credence, and Master Eames was greeted by name when their group reached two tall wooden doors with two guards in ornate armor, one on each side of the doorway. One of the guards gave them a short bow, knocked on the door closest, then opened it. He stepped through and quietly announced them before gesturing for them to enter.
The room was large, wide, and the ceiling was taller than Jaime was expecting. Colorful rugs covered the marble floors, and the walls were adorned with beautiful tapestries and paintings. The furniture was opulent and luxurious. There were low tables covered in metallic candlesticks and small figurines, and bowls of hothouse fruit littering every open surface.
“Jaime?” A familiar voice cut through his fascination, and he was suddenly engulfed in a tight, warm hug. He breathed in Maxim’s heady scent, pine and that gentle warmth he associated with his prince. “Oh, Jaime, I’m sorry I canceled, but my father…”
Jaime pulled back enough to look up into Maxim’s face. His poor prince looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and the light in them shadowed with worry. “There is nothing to be sorry for, Maxim. Your father needed you. I was worried about you, and how you were doing. You look tired.”
“My little brother sat up with Father all night,” a deep voice interrupted, and Jaime was reminded they weren’t alone. Prince Janis stood near another door, one that presumably led into the king’s private chambers. Master Eames and Greaves were just going through the door that the crown prince held open, murmuring their thanks. Prince Janis closed it behind the healers with a soft click. Janis came into the sitting room and sat on an elegant chair, one that Jaime half expected to fall apart under the prince’s large frame. It held, which probably had something to do with the quality. “Father fell ill late in the evening. He said it was nothing and sent his servants off, but his valet, thankfully, came to us and tattled on Father. We’ve been taking turns sitting with him all night. Maxim stayed the whole time.”
“You both look very tired. Is it an illness? The flu? Can either of you catch it? If you’re exhausted your body won’t be strong enough to fight off a sickness if it’s catching.” Jaime put a hand on Maxim’s cheek, who leaned into the touch, eyes closing, humming softly. Jaime let his power go and sent his awareness out.
Maxim was strong, and tired. Solid arms held him close, and Jaime realized just how intimate their embrace was when his gift spread along Maxim’s body. The prince burned, but not with illness. Jaime blushed and was helpless to resist his own body’s desire to get closer. He found himself leaning on Maxim, who opened his eyes and placed a gentle kiss on his palm. Jaime sighed, amazed to be feeling Maxim’s desire, his affection, with his gift. He never knew he could do that.
“You are a dear love, Jaime,” Maxim said with a smile. Jaime’s palm tingled, and he closed his fingers on the kiss, pulling his hand down so it rested over Maxim’s velvet doublet, just above his heart. Warmth suffused his whole body, not just his cheeks, and it felt like static was sparking off his skin.
“Maxim, your boy blushes hotter than a midsummer sky,” Prince Elric said as he left the far room, having come in while they were distracted. “Perhaps he can convince you to get some sleep? Such delicious and distracting company may well take your mind off Father.”
“I’ll not leave until Master Eames tells us what is going on with Father,” Maxim said. “And keep your vulgar comments to yourself. Jaime is worth more than a brief tumble and a nap. He is a healer, gifted, and a kind and gentle man.”
Maxim sounded aggrieved, angry, and Jaime widened his eyes, concerned. Elric didn’t get mad, though, instead chuckling and shrugging. He went and sat near his older brother. Janis gave Elric a stern frown, and Elric made no sign it had any impact on his future behavior.
“Peace, little brother. And forgive me, Healer Jaime, for impugning your honor with my suggestion.” Elric gave him a fast wink and a sly smile, and Jaime was certain that Elric was a troublemaker. Whether he was a malicious one was yet to be determined.
“Just a novice still, Your Highness,” Jaime found his tongue. He ducked his chin, daring to make eye contact with Elric for a heartbeat, before burying his face in Maxim’s shirt. A soft kiss was pressed to his hair, and Maxim gave a weary, relieved sigh as Jaime settled deeper into his embrace.
Maxim ran a hand up Jaime’s back along his spine and cupped the back of his head, cradling him closer. Jaime returned the embrace as best he could, daring to wrap his hands timidly around Maxim’s waist. Jaime had yet to rein in his gift, and Maxim’s weariness, a deep-seated fear for the king, and an effervescent enjoyment at holding Jaime so close careened along his senses. Jaime could feel just how much Maxim got just from a simple hug—strength, comfort, happiness.
He heard Janis talking quietly to Elric, though he paid little attention. He heard something about sending a mage message to recall Diana’s ship to the city. His heart, mind, and body all hummed with tension, and the desire to ease Maxim’s pain.
Jaime was reluctant to pull back from Maxim. In fact, his prince was just as reluctant. Jaime had to make himself pull back on his gift and leash it once more. Jaime had an unfair advantage. He could sense how Maxim was feeling, but Maxim could not do the same for Jaime. He pulled his gift away completely, and he sighed as his awareness returned to the confines of his senses and body. Jaime was left with one thought above all others—Maxim cared for him. Jaime, the orphaned former slave from a backwater city across the sea.
He had never felt another’s emotions before—he could sense physical sensations, like pain, sickness, nausea, weakness, but never had he felt emotions. He was both afraid and curious as to what that meant—had he never tried before, and therefore didn’t know he could do so? Maxim slipped under his defenses, and Jaime wanted to help his prince. Perhaps how he felt for Maxim was enough to take down the walls hiding this last piece of his gift.
“How are you?” Jaime asked quietly. Maxim kissed the top of his head again, and Jaime smiled.
“Worried and a bit frightened, actually,” Maxim replied, and Jaime was a bit surprised by his honesty, and pleased Maxim could share with him. “His health has been failing for a long time, but I never believed he would be gone one day. Is that foolish of me?”
“No,” Jaime answered, lifting his head a bit, looking up at Maxim. “I never got to see my father before he passed. Some days it feels like I’ll look up and see him walking out of the crowd, waving to me. My mother died when I was too young to remember her, and my father raised me alone. Our parents are always there for us, and so we have trouble seeing a future without them.”
Maxim gazed down at him, pensive. The door to the king’s chambers opened, and Greaves appeared in the doorway. “Jaime.”
Jaime gently disentangled himself from Maxim but held tightly to his prince’s hand. “Yes, sir? Can I help?”
“Our king would like to speak with you.”
The world dropped out from underneath him. He was thankful for the grip Maxim had on his hand. Greaves motioned to him, and his feet walked of their own volition towards his mentor bringing Maxim with him. Jaime was both terrified and proud he would appear before the king, Maxim’s father, holding his son’s hand.
The room was well lit from tall windows that overlooked a snowy vista, but the bed was shadowed by a heavy velvet canopy, closed but for one side. A mature woman, dark hair the same color as Maxim’s and piled in riotous curls atop her head, sat beside the bed with an empty chair next to hers, both angled to be close to the occupant reclining on a sea of pillows. Jaime’s guess that she was Queen Amal was confirmed when she turned her head and looked at him with eyes identical to Maxim’s. She gave him a small, polite smile before turning back to her husband.
King Llyr was old. Older than Jaime had thought. Perhaps late into his ninth decade, a rarity for any man, even a king. He held himself in a stately manner, remarkable for a man in such fragile health. Skin thin, papery, lined with wrinkles, and pale, King Llyr wore his advanced age clearly. One thin hand was held lovingly in Queen Amal’s, fingers clinging.
“Should you not be sleeping, my son?” King’s Llyr’s voice was raspy, though Jaime was uncertain if it was from ill health or old age. Perhaps both. The king’s eyes were bright, though clouding over due to his advanced years.
“I’ll sleep when you sleep, Father.” Maxim replied, sounding cheerful, but his grip tightened on Jaime’s hand, and he could feel fine tremors running through the prince.
“The older I get, the less sleep I need, or want.” Affection laced his words, and Maxim gave his father a watery smile.
“Is this our wayward foundling?” King Llyr beckoned with his free hand, fingers curling slightly. Jaime gulped and approached the bed, stopping a pace back from the queen’s chair.
Jaime sketched out a short bow, at a loss as to how to address the king. He went for simple. “Yes, Your Majesty. My name is James Buchanan. Most call me Jaime, though.”
King Llyr gave him a sharp stare while Jaime fidgeted, humming quietly before he spoke. “Your accent is Eistrean, from the southern shore if I am not mistaken.”
“Yes, Majesty. Marlec Pointe. I went to school in Corinthia at the Academy, though.”
“I can hear the relief in your voice, young man. In my far away youth, I’ve been to many places, but none were quite as backwards or strange as Eistrea. How does our fair frozen land compare to the endless golden fields of Eistrea?”
Jaime snapped his mouth shut, thinking, but he answered quickly. The king looked to be exhausted. “Pyrderi is new and different, though much like the Hellebore Empire and Corinthia in the manner of her people and customs. I am grateful for the kindness given to me every day since the rescue at the docks.”
“Slavers,” the king sneered. “Foul beasts! Worse than beasts. A pity Eistrea has always been our closest neighbor—their willingness to profit from the slave trade has made it almost impossible to stamp out the horrible practice. We would have resolved the abomination of slavery centuries ago if we shared the Straits of Dylan with the Empire. And don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t answer my question, young man. A diplomat’s instinct, to avoid insulting those not present while flattering the person in front of you. A sharp mind, and I suspect kind as well. Master Eames tells me you’re one of the gifted, as well.”
It wasn’t a question, but Jaime answered regardless. “Yes, Majesty. I have the healing gift.”
King Llyr shifted on his pillows, gaze gimlet, a fierce and powerful personality only hampered by a failing body. “Come then, healer, use your gift and tell me what you see.”
“Me? I…” Jaime was shocked, and he looked around helplessly. He was still a trainee, despite his gift. And there was Master Eames by the window, making notes in his book. Master Eames spared him a short glance, and a tip of his chin towards the king settled it. “Yes, Majesty.”
Jaime reluctantly let go of Maxim’s hand. His prince gave him a hesitant smile and nodded. Jaime approached the bed and gingerly sat in the empty chair beside the queen. She let go of her husband’s hand with a soft pat to his knuckles. The king lifted his hand to Jaime, fingers shaking, and Jaime took the king’s hand, instinctively supporting the fragile bones and flesh. The king took his hand in a fierce grip and met Jaime’s nervous gaze with his own.
For all the king’s sharp wit and unconcerned demeanor, he was still a man on his deathbed, and it was there that even the bravest of men felt fear.