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“I suppose storage is limited. This is a practical solution,” Baris said.
Now that she was up close, the allure of his good looks faded just enough for her to think rationally about the man. The counter jabbing her kidneys also helped keep her mind clear. Yes, he was still handsome. Strong jaw, striking eyes, tall physique, blah blah blah. Handsome people could be boring that way: attractive but otherwise unremarkable.
There were circles under Baris’ eyes, like he hadn’t slept properly in days. It was his only flaw.
“Did you want to see me for any other reason? I’ve got a few minutes until the next patient,” she said.
Baris stepped back, as if she offended him. He tugged on the lace-trimmed cuffs of his sleeves. “No. That is not necessary. A great deal of my personal wealth is in this room. I thought I should visit it.”
He turned on his heel and left in a huff.
“I have no idea what that was about,” she said to the empty room.
CHAPTER SIX
BARIS
The Present
“No improvement.” Harol placed the vial in the tray.
“I wasn’t expecting any,” Baris said, inspecting the blood draw site in the crook of his elbow. The medic was skilled and had a gentle touch. The skin likely would not bruise. The ancestors knew that Baris did not need any more attention drawn to his health.
It was bad enough that he had to sneak in a medic to receive care. Harol was the preferred medic of Prince Vekele, who was notoriously prickly. No one would think twice about the medic updating the king on his brother’s condition. More importantly, the medic understood the need for discretion. “I should ask so we’re not complete liars. How is my brother?”
“Still blind,” the medic answered, his tone barely civil. “I cannot discuss another patient, not even with you, Your Majesty.”
Yes, Baris understood why Vekele trusted Harol. The male was all blunt angles. There was nothing deceptive in his manner.
Harol administered a serum. Warmth spread throughout Baris’ arm. “This will alleviate your symptoms for a time, but you know this is no solution. This can only end in two ways.”
Yes, Baris also understood that. Symbiote Death Syndrome results in either the death of the symbiote inside him or himself. It was a slow-moving catastrophe, two years in the making. Until recently, Baris had been able to ignore the symptoms.
Harol flashed a smile, a moment too late to be comforting. “Fortunately, you are on the younger side. Only the truly elderly are at risk of death.”
“I wouldn’t call forty-two on the younger side.”
“You’re not falling apart just yet,” Harol said. “How is your pain?”
“Tolerable.” The pain of the dying symbiote kept him awake at night. Just below his skin, he felt it writhing in its death throes. Cold sweats swept over him randomly. His missing thumb still hurt after two years. His head pounded more often than not, making it difficult to concentrate in tedious meetings and even more difficult to maintain a placid expression, as if he were not ill at all.
Somehow, the medic knew all that Baris would not admit. “Are you sleeping?”
Damn him for asking the correct question. “Eventually,” Baris admitted.
The medic made a thoughtful humming noise. “Muscle spasms?”
Baris fought the urge to slip his hand under his thigh to hide the tremor. Reluctantly, he admitted, “Infrequent, but they occur.”
“Fever?”
“Yes.”
“Headache?”
“Yes,” Baris said.
“It will get worse before it gets better.”
