Page 4 of Elemental Affections

Jeron—KingJeron—excelled at giving the impression of a disappointed parental figure. “I’ve been back since yesterday. When were you last at the house?”

“Recently.”

The house, because Jeron abhorred staying in the palace unless necessary and hadn’t been able to give up the Sor’vahl manse. He was a king in name more than practice, limited in power as he worked to extricate Rhell from a monarchy—a venture Ezzyn supported, as it didn’t interfere with his mission to save the wellspring. If the Assembly wanted to view it as his way of working for the kingdom, then far be it from him to complain. It was a duty every citizen of Rhell shared, as far as Ezzyn was concerned.

“You can’t do this, Ezzyn. Out here by yourself, pushing too hard?” Jeron gave an aggrieved sigh. “Would you at least pretend to be responsible?”

“There’s a team out here.”Somewhere. “Why aren’t you at the capital?” Ezzyn stood up, brushing dirt from his hands. He hissed as pain flared out from his left arm.

“Stubborn bastard.” Jeron sandwiched Ezzyn’s hand between his own, golden light glimmering in his fingertips. The touch was gentler than his voice, though that didn’t stop the flash of healing from having its own sting.

“Language,” Ezzyn said without feeling. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Jeron kept his gaze on Ezzyn’s arm. “Gaz had a relapse. He wants to see you.”

Ezzyn swore, earning a mocking, “Language,” from his brother. Garethe, the middle Sor’vahl, was the only mundane one of the lot of them, and perhaps ironically the one most absorbed in magical study. Gaz was supposed to be down in the Valley at Sylveren University, teaching a specialty course on environmental restoration. He had been on about it for months, so for him to have to cancel…

“How bad?”

Jeron led the way back to where his horse and a trio of guards waited alongside Ezzyn’s mount. Ezzyn noted that his brother, who was still a king even if he insisted on it being ceremonial and therefore would cause a political headache if assassinated, had come in person to deliver a simple message. Granted, it had been decades since the last assassination attempt in Rhell, and Eylle was much more content to let their poison do their dirty work, but the danger was theoretically still there. But it was Gaz, and Rhell was hardly a prize in its current, withering state. Ezzyn kept his mouth shut.

“He’s resting now,” Jeron said. “It’s trying to get in his lungs. The chief mender got it out, but Gaz can’t … he has to stay home for a bit.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know that,” Jeron snapped back, with a quickness that suggested knowing and feeling weren’t the same.

Ezzyn let him be as they started the hour’s ride back toward Talihn, Rhell’s capital city. Those with an affinity for light magic hadn’t proven very effective against the blight in the land, but they could use their skills to heal those affected by the poison. Jeron chose political duty over healing studies, for Rhell was still his homeland, and he its ancestral keeper, even if the changes he’d championed meant that the governmental burden was well-shared. It meant entrusting the care of his family to others. Ezzyn didn’t think he could’ve done it if his specialty had been in the school of light magic rather than fire. Couldn’t sit on the sidelines, helpless, and wonder if he’d have been strong enough to defeat the poison. It was an irrational thought when one considered the gifts of Rhell’s chief healer, but Ezzyn knew himself well enough to admit that rationality wouldn’t change how he felt. Jeron’s sharp replies suggested the same.

Yet even healing had its limits. Garethe’s illness from no more exposure to the poison than either of his brothers was aggressive. Unfair. The two siblings knew it. No point in wasting more breath.

Once back at the Sor’vahl mansion, Jeron was called away by an attendant, leaving Ezzyn to make his way to Garethe’s room. His brother rested in bed, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth stark. His Rhellian pale blond hair was free of the bun he so tragically favored, robbed of its innate luster such that it looked dead white, and he’d aged much more than his thirty-six years.

But he smiled when Ezzyn knocked on the open door, his usual cheer doing much to animate his face.

“Ez!” he said, his boomy voice tempered by a hoarse finish. “Good, Jer found you.”

“How are you feeling? Jeron said you had—”

“Theatrics. You know how he fusses.”

Ezzyn took a bedside seat. “You wanted to see me?”

“I’ve got a favor to ask.” Garethe pushed himself up in bed until he could lean against the headboard, a pillow at his back. He flapped his wrist when Ezzyn protested. “Syvrine’s blessed tits, I’m sick, not dying. Makes me feel like I’m on my deathbed with you hovering over me.”

Ezzyn bit back a retort. It wouldn’t come to that. Jeron would assert every morsel of his royal power and beggar the kingdom pleading for aid. Ezzyn would pour his godscursed life into the ground before Eylle’s poison could claim his brother. It wasn’t fair, but that was hardly news. Simply another addition to the story of Rhell, who had lost so many of her children.

Since Ezzyn couldn’t protest, he helped Garethe with another pillow instead. His brother, ever sharp beneath the jolly exterior, noticed how he favored his left hand.

“Doyouneed a lecture?” Garethe said.

“Our dear king already beat you to it.” Ezzyn settled back in his chair, tugging his sleeve down to cover the medicated bandage upon which Jeron had insisted. “What did you want to talk about?”

“That eager to go back out, eh?”

Always. It was his duty. Jeron had the crown, and his mending would always be needed even if his wasn’t the strongest. Garethe was ill, and when his health wasn’t completely gone to shit, he had his studies and his teaching and the diplomatic relationships that had grown from them. That left Ezzyn. What was a third-born prince of a small kingdom with ever-increasingly limited monarchal powers but expendable? Jeron’s hereditary line was secure with four children. Ezzyn had health and magic, and since he wasn’t allowed to cross the border and incinerate every Eyllic in sight, why not be out doing everything he could? At thirty-four, he wasn’t old, but no one was jumping to secure alliances with a sickened kingdom by sending marriage proposals, and Jeron hadn’t tasked him with trawling for an influential wife. Out in Rhell was where he belonged.

“You mentioned a favor?” Ezzyn said.

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