Page 96 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

The halls I’d walked through to get to this space were resplendent with hung tapestries and banners, but the king’s room was luxury itself. What didn’t glitter looked outrageously lush or ancient.

There, at the center of a four-poster bed with a canopy, a solitary shape was curled into a ball. I barely held back a gasp as my feet started moving toward it of their own accord.

When I heard feet rapidly following, I flinched, fearing I’d done something to trigger the guards to restrain me. But it was only Camrick, moving to my side.

“What, do I need to curtsy or something before healing him?”

“No, just—”

“Quiet then,” I murmured, not focused on Camrick. My magic was already trying to reach out through the space between me and the king, distracting me beyond reason. I couldn’t take more input from conversation.

Camrick let out what I hoped was a surprised huff but kept walking alongside me.

Closer, I could sense the king. He was mageborn. So why did his aura feel as threadbare as a hedgewitch’s?

“King Berian is a mage, right? Why is his aura so weak?”

“He was stronger when he was younger. It seemed to fade over time.”

Auras did dim when a person was ill. Could Berian have been sick for a long time and no one—not even him—noticed it getting progressively worse? But the deeper I searched, reaching through every nook and cranny of his damaged organs, the more convinced I became that that was only part of the truth. The most significant injuries had occurred far more recently.

I pushed the suspicion aside. One crisis at a time. If my magic chose this moment to falter, a king would die.

Please don’t fail me now.

Reina stifled a gasp of surprise as I immediately climbed onto the mattress next to Owain’s brother. Even before my fingertips brushed his face, I knew his skin would be too cold, like his body was having trouble keeping life in it.

I took a moment to look at the man whose fate had brought me here. The similarities to Owain were obvious. Same nose, same hair, but a weaker jaw and less facial hair. He might’ve been handsome if he hadn’t been swollen from illness.

Magic unfurled from me in a controlled sweep, thin as silk. I hadn’t used magic in days—had specifically been forbidden from it—and it showed. Strong, searching threads slipped beneath skin and bone, moving through tissue and blood to map what mortal eyes couldn’t see.

What I found, I immediately didn’t like.

“Does he drink? Whiskey? Mead?” I asked flatly.

Camrick stiffened in a way that suggested he didn’t want to answer that question.

From across the room, Reina answered quietly, “As much as any noble.”

“Does that mean he passes out from it regularly?”

“No.” She didn’t move from her spot across the room. It was almost as if she was intentionally keeping her distance. With a small surge of magic, ribbons of shadow coalesced to shut the door in the faces of the guards standing watch outside.

I inhaled slowly, nerves frayed, but also slightly more confident with a smaller audience. Camrick walked a bit closer, taking off his leather gloves and putting his hands on his hips, looking at a loss for words.

The king’s liver was wrong. I’d seen something like it once before in Selmont in the village drunk, but his had been filled with pockets of fat as well. The damage to Berian’s body looked like a webwork of scar tissue strangling the healthy tissue around it.

They’d been incredibly tolerant of my lack of reverence so far, but would that extend to their king? I had to choose my words wisely. “His liver is damaged. Have his eyes turned yellow?”

Camrick’s head shook, his eyes wide with disbelief. “How could you possibly know that without cutting him open?”

I felt a surge of impatience, but the worried, owlish expression on Camrick’s face urged me to take pity on him. “My magic paints a detailed picture of what’s going on inside.” He started to open his mouth for another question, but I continued, cutting him off. “His kidneys are failing as well. That’s why he’s so bloated.”

Reina took her first steps toward the bed as if pulled there unwillingly by her curiosity and concern. “Please, keep going.”

Now came the real negotiation. The moment every alliance eventually arrived at: what is your limit, and how close can we push you to it? I already knew what the answer would be: until I had nothing left. “How much do you want me to give?”

“Whatever you deem appropriate, Lady Lunette,” Camrick said.