Page 27 of The Curse Between Us

The next few days passed in much the same way. Zephyr drifted in and out of consciousness, his waking moments fleeting and fevered, his body caught in an endless cycle of exhaustion. His fever did not worsen, but neither did it abate, lingering like a shadow just beyond reach. Each time he woke, he found himself in the familiar confines of his chamber, the heavy canopy of the bed enclosing him in dim solitude. The moments of awareness were brief, filled with indistinct murmurs and the cool press of a damp cloth against his forehead.

Edric was by his side more often than not, and when he was not, Victor was a steady, reassuring presence. Zephyr was aware, in his hazy state, of the tension that gripped Edric, the way his fingers twitched with suppressed anxiety when he thought Zephyr was not looking. It was a quiet kind of suffering, one that Zephyr recognized well. And yet, they were trapped in this waiting game, hoping each new sunrise would bring a change that never came.

One afternoon, Zephyr stirred from his restless doze to see Edric sitting at the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tightly together. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, evidence of the sleep he had foregone. His voice, when he spoke, was low but firm. "This has gone on long enough," he said. "I want to bring a healer to examine you. But I will not do so without your permission."

Zephyr swallowed against the dryness in his throat and gave a small nod. He had hoped it would not come to this, but his condition, while not worsening, was not improving either. He had lost track of time, but by his best estimate, he had spent a week in this bed. It was time they consulted an expert.

"Elsie is one of our best healers, and I trust her discretion," Edric continued. "Shall I have Victor request her presence?"

"Yes." The word emerged barely above a whisper, but Zephyr hoped the determination in his eyes conveyed his resolve. He was of no use to anyone in this state—neither to Edric, nor to the Rafrians, nor to his own people. It was a risk, allowing another person to share in the secret he and Edric kept, but if Edric said Elsie could be trusted, then Zephyr would believe him.

As Edric rose to make the arrangements, Zephyr allowed himself to slip back into sleep, comforted by the knowledge that something was finally being done. He no longer dreamed of the destruction of his home—not since the first time he had awoken in this unfamiliar bed. Or at least, he no longer remembered what tormented thoughts passed through his mind while under the fever’s grasp. In that, at least, he considered himself fortunate.

He was uncertain how much time had passed when he heard his name spoken gently. "Zephyr?" Edric’s voice, steady but tinged with something unreadable. "I’ve brought Elsie here to see to you."

With effort, Zephyr pried his eyes open. The room was dimly lit by late afternoon light, and standing beside Edric was a woman he recognized from the council meetings. Elsie, the healer. She was as he remembered—blonde, pretty, with a quiet confidence about her. Her eyes, wise beyond her years, met his with a mixture of professionalism and concern.

"Your Majesty," she greeted softly, dipping into a respectful curtsy.

Zephyr waved a weak hand in the air, finding even that small movement a drain on his strength. "Please," he murmured, "we can dispense with the formalities."

A small smile flickered across Elsie’s face before she resumed her neutral, professional demeanor. "Very well. I am glad to see you awake and aware, but I confess, from what King Edric has told me, I am worried."

Edric made a small sound of distress, and Zephyr turned his gaze toward him. He stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face drawn and pale with worry. "But you can help him," he said, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady.

There was an awful pause.

"I hope so," Elsie murmured. "Now, if you will permit me to examine you?" She held up her hands, encased in white leather gloves. "I have been properly forewarned and forearmed."

Zephyr glanced at Edric, who gave a reluctant nod, though he still looked unhappy. "Proceed," Zephyr said.

Elsie’s touch was gentle as she lifted his arm, her fingers cool even through the gloves. She noted the tremors in his limbs, the unnatural warmth of his skin. She listened to the beat of his heart and asked delicate questions about his energy levels, his appetite, and his sleeping patterns.

"Do you dream?" she asked at one point, and Zephyr hesitated.

"Yes," he admitted.

Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because Edric moved closer, his presence a comforting anchor.

Elsie nodded. "In these dreams, what do you see?"

Zephyr exhaled slowly. "The destruction of my kingdom. Fire and smoke."

Edric swore under his breath before catching himself. "You didn’t tell me."

"I didn’t wish to relive it," Zephyr said simply, though his fingers twitched against the bed linens at the memory of voicescalling out in agony, of Hadden’s condemning whisper: You have betrayed us all.

Elsie’s voice broke through his thoughts. "I had to ask."

"Has it helped?" Edric demanded. "Do you know why he suffers?"

Elsie’s brows knit together. "It is some sort of fever," she said. "But unlike any I have ever seen. Rather than breaking, it seems to come in waves, receding and returning, like a tide." She reached out and gently brushed Zephyr’s damp hair from his forehead. "I hate to suggest it, but—my lord, have you eaten the same food as your husband? Drank water from the same pitcher?"

Edric went still. "Poison?" he whispered. "You suspect poison?"

"It would explain the symptoms." Elsie’s face was grave. "And there may be those within the castle who still harbor resentment toward Eskarven."

Zephyr inhaled sharply, but Edric shook his head, eyes bright with denial. "No," he said. "I refuse to believe it. And even if it were true, we have shared a pitcher of water, though not the same cup. He has barely eaten—broth, fruit, grains. When he has not finished, I have."

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