Thread of Gold

Ch. 4: so rare and lovely

"No, I can't," Ryne said. "You don't understand, Isaac, I—"

The door flew open.

Penny flounced in, resplendent in a floaty green dress. His sister's auburn curls bounced as she curled up next to him on the bed. She smelled of flowers and the garden and summer wine. She was drunk, Ryne realized. But that was hardly a surprise, was it?

"Oh, Ry." Penny lay her head on his chest. "You're in so much pain."

Ryne knew what she was thinking, and he tried to twist away. "No." His voice was sharp. "Penny, don't."

"It's alright, Ry."

"Pen, don't—"

She stripped off her gloves, taking his hand. Soothing heat crept over his skin, delicious and velvety as chocolate. Ryne's eyes fluttered closed. He knew he should protest, but the pain was receding now, replaced by a blissful emptiness.

Penny trembled, but her grip remained firm. Was she in pain? He didn't care, Ryne thought tiredly, and then realized with surprise that his sister must have taken that away from him, too. Ryne had the sense that he would be angry with her later.

How odd.

"Thank-you, Penny." Isaac sounded exhausted. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"I can manage," she said.

"Goodness." The door opened. "I forgot how wild those garden parties can get." He heard shoes hitting the floor. "Did you know that Lady Sarah Tuppenworth is standing on a table with a half-drank bottle of gin and singing And The Lady Ran Away With Her Tailor?"

Someone else climbed into the bed, curling up next to him. Ryne could smell vanilla tea and cucumber. Camille.

"Did she really?" Isaac asked.

"Oh, yes," Camille said. "All three verses. And a healer collapsed."

"She collapsed?" Isaac sounded alarmed. "Is she alright?"

"Yes." Ryne could hear Camille's frown. "Fortunately, a girl at the party recognized her condition. I can't say I've ever seen anything like it before." A slender hand brushed hair out of his eyes. "How is he?"

I'm alright, Ryne tried to say, but he was floating in space. A profound contentment was creeping over him, separate, he suspected, from even Penny's influence. He could die happy right now. He could die right here in this bed, surrounded by the three people that he loved most in this world.

He would never have the joy of being loved — truly loved — by a woman, but that was alright. He had made his peace with that. So long as he had this, he could be happy. This was all he needed.

And to get changed for the banquet tonight.

But he would do that later, Ryne thought, fading back into oblivion. Later. Just as soon as he had the strength to walk back to his quarters.

***

Anna trailed the man to the canopy.

The sunlight was fading, painting the sky with burning embers. Most of the guests were trickling into the palace now, making their way towards the banquet hall for the evening feast. But not her. Not yet, anyway.

The man observed her carefully. "That was an excellent save. You're a talented healer, Miss Holloway."

She inclined her head. "I had an excellent teacher."

"I don't suppose you're from Zarob?"

Zarob. One of the six kingdoms, and the only place with magically gifted healers. She shook her head. "No. I was born here."

Right here, in fact.

At this castle.

The man's face fell. Just a fraction, but she caught it. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." He shifted his clipboard. "I have yet to introduce myself; my name is John, and I'm the queen's advisor. And now, I'd like to offer you a position. At the Castle."

"A position?" Anna kept her voice neutral. "Don't you already have two healers?"

"Melody will be out for a few weeks," said John.

Months, actually. Not that Anna was about to volunteer that information.

"You'll train under June," John continued. "She'll show you how things operate around the castle. I'm not sure how much your— er— previous instructor taught you—"

"My father," Anna interjected. "My father's a healer."

This was something else she had learned at The Mermaid's Scale: always invent a happy family. It made people trust you more. And indeed, John's grip slackened on his clipboard. "Well, the position is yours, if you want it."

She smiled. Held out her hand.

"I would be honoured."

***

Queen Brigid sank into her chair.

It had been a long day, Brigid thought, rubbing at her eyes; Ryne was ill, and the garden party had dragged on for hours. A healer had collapsed. And now, John was going to give her more bad news.

She could tell by the way that her advisor paced around the office, picking up glass paperweights and a silver vase given to them by a Loxian viscount. John always fidgeted when he was nervous; it was a dead giveaway.

"Just tell me, John."

He paused. "Your Majesty?"

"You have bad news." Brigid folded her hands. "I would rather get it over with if you don't mind. I'd like to see my son before the banquet."

The banquet. Brigid winced. Another necessary evil. But she had grown up as a courtier's daughter, and she knew how to smile even when she felt like screaming. To his credit, John didn't waste any time.

"Another Nightweaver has been spotted in Valonde. I'm afraid that this one sound powerful. I've spoken with the Commander of the Guard; he'll ride out tomorrow to deal with the situation himself."

Brigid closed her eyes. "Another one?"

"Yes."

"That makes two this week."

John shifted. "There are rumours flying around, Your Majesty, that Annalise Cidarius is alive. It's emboldened them."

Brigid sighed. A ridiculous rumour, and one that fed false hope. "Well, squash them. The rumours and the Nightweavers."

"Consider it done, Majesty." John turned for the door, and then paused. "Oh, and I hired that healer. The Holloway girl from the party."

"Good." She rubbed at her eyes. "That's good. At least we won't—"

The door flew open, narrowly missing John's left shoulder. A breathless guard stood on the doorstep, sweat clinging to his greying hair. There was blood on his jacket, Brigid noted, her pulse picking up. Blood and a lot of dirt.

"What is it?" She rose. "What's wrong?"

"There's been an attack, Your Majesty," the guard said.

"At the garden party?"

Brigid gripped her desk. Relations were strained, particularly with the Gongo Islands and Zarob; if any of the visiting dignitaries were injured, she would never hear the end of it. But the guard shook his head.

"In the West Tower." He was panting. "A guard went mad, Your Majesty. Hunter. He began lunging with a sword."

Brigid stared at the blood on his jacket. "One of my guards did that?"

"Yes." He hesitated. "No."

"Oh, for gods' sake," John snapped. "Which one is it? Speak sense, man."

"Hunter attacked us," the guard said, his voice grim. "But there's something wrong with him. He kept yelling and flailing his arms a lot. And he was sweating, too. It was as if someone had trapped him in a nightmare, Your Majesty."

Brigid froze. She didn't dare look at John as she gathered up her skirts, hurrying out from behind the desk. "Take us to this guard," she said. "Immediately."