The officer bowed. “Excuse me, prince.” He was gone the next moment, along with the lantern light. Felix settled onto the stool and waited.
The night crept on painfully slowly after the terror of the evening. The voices continued to rise and fall on the far side of the door, but though Felix knocked at intervals, no one would answer him. Another officer came by after an hour or two and offered Felix a room and a bed, but the prince refused. One physician hurrying from the king’s chamber tripped on Felix’s outstretched legs, cursed him roundly, and then realizing he was the crown prince, endeavored to make amends by telling what was happening inside.
Dragon poison.
Felix had heard of such things before, of course. In stories and legends, principle characters often suffered such poisoning if they breathed in too much dragon smoke. Many a pathetic tale had been told involving such a death for a hero or his love.
Some who breathed in the poison did not die, however. Some became empowered by it and went on to accomplish mighty deeds. But those were always the villains of the tales, men or women who saw beauty in terrible things, who found dragon poison as pleasing as perfume.
Felix shivered. His father would never be one of those characters, not in any tale.
But some who survived dragon fumes were not evil. For instance, the legendary bard Eanrin, who wrote The Bane of Corrilond epic, was supposedly present at the destruction of that kingdom, and he must have been exposed to dragon poison. Yet he neither died nor turned evil but was a hero who figured in a hundred tales, most of which he had written.
“So Father won’t die,” Felix told himself. “He’s too good to die like that.”
Dragon poison.
Felix shuddered from deep inside himself all the way out. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. At first his tired mind jumped around without thoughts, slipping instead from a sense of color to color. Then suddenly a picture of burning eyes filled his mind, eyes that pierced through darkness and gazed at him over the palace wall.
He startled and barely caught himself from falling off his stool. He’d been asleep, he realized, and shook himself. Down the hall, pale light came through a solitary window. Felix got up and strode to the window, looking out on the practice yard of the fort. Soldiers gathered in small groups here and there, talking in muffled voices. Many were cleaning weapons. Some were sparring. Dark clouds gathered in the sky to the north. Felix realized after a moment that they were clouds of smoke.
“Prince Felix?”
A physician stood in the doorway of the king’s chamber, looking up and down the hall. Felix trotted back to him and asked in a breathless voice, “How is my father?”
The physician smiled and patted the boy’s shoulder. “He will be well, I believe. I am, I confess, no expert in these matters, but my colleagues and I are of the opinion that His Majesty did not breathe in enough of the fumes to cause permanent harm. He is dizzy and weak, but he should – ”
“May I see him?”
“It might not be best for Your Highness to look on him now,” the physician said. “His Majesty does not appear – ”
Felix growled something unintelligible and pushed past the physician into the chamber. It was a small, dark room with a low ceiling and a tiny fireplace in one corner. A cluster of black-robed physicians was gathered at the foot of a narrow bed on which the king lay.
Despite protests from the physicians, Felix stepped up to the head of the bed, knelt down, and took his father’s hands. Tears sprang to his eyes at the sight of Fidel’s face, so gray and lined. He had aged ten years, twenty perhaps, in one night.
“Father?” Felix whispered.
The king’s eyes opened, and he turned to look at his son. “Felix,” he said. His voice was weak but, to Felix’s great relief, sounded stronger than it had only hours before. “Where is General Argus?”
Felix blinked. He’d expected something a little more tender from the beloved father for whose life he’d feared these last hours. “I . . . I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve not heard if he’s come to Dompstead. I’ve been so worried – ”
“Go find him,” Fidel said. “Bring him to me, and don’t let these fools” – he waved at the cluster of physicians who stood clucking on the other side of his bed – “stop you. You’re a prince, remember. Now go!”
Feeling more like a page than a prince, Felix hopped up and hurried from the room, avoiding the disapproving glares of the physicians. He stood a moment in the hall, unsure which way to go or to whom he needed to speak in order to find news of General Argus. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned right down the hall, came to a dead end, retraced his steps, and wandered until he found a door out into the yard.
–––––––
Several hours later General Argus came to Fidel’s sickroom. The king was out of bed and dressed, sitting by the fire. He nodded when the general entered and bowed.
“Where is the prince, Your Majesty?” the general asked.