Theron glanced around the posh room but saw none of it. “Have you told anyone else this?”
“No. You’re the only one. I mentioned her fading health to the king, but I don’t want to put more stress on him than necessary. He hasn’t seen her since she was returned to the kingdom. I’m afraid her situation could push him over the edge.”
Theron glanced toward the cathedral window and the view of Tiyrns down the hill below. A bird flew over the parapet, swooped low into the courtyard and landed on the fountain’s edge. He followed the flap of its wings as the time line he’d been ticking off in his mind jumped to light speed. He’d spent precious hours with Casey, when he’d been needed here.
“How long?” he asked. “How long do you think she has left?”
“I’m not sure,” Callia said softly at his side. “Could be days. Weeks. Possibly longer. But one thing’s certain, Theron. She’s not strong enough to produce an heir. A pregnancy would seal her death warrant.”
No, he’d been wrong. He did feel something. A shred of impending loss for Isadora. And a low, searing ache at the bottom of his heart for their race. This changed everything.
His gaze snapped to Callia. “This goes no further. The Council cannot be told.”
“You’re the only one. As her future mate, it’s your burden to bring this to the Council of Elders when you see fit.”
He nodded, though it was a duty he didn’t particularly look forward to. He was a fighter, a soldier who commanded an elite band of guardians against those who would destroy their world if they could. He cared little of politics and status and the bickerings of the Council. If Isadora died without producing an heir—even if he did marry her—the Council would never allow him to become king. And the direction of the Argonauts would shift forever.
He looked toward the king’s bedroom door.
“Try not to stay longer than necessary,” Callia said. “He’s frail. If you have any other questions regarding the princess, come find me.”
Callia stepped around him, leaving him alone in the deserted grand hall. When she disappeared from sight, he rubbed a hand over his face, and fleetingly thought of Casey. Staying with her would have been a helluva lot easier and way more pleasurable than coming back to all this.
The king’s nurse rose from behind a large desk when he stepped into the outer sitting room. Theron waited while she checked to see if the king was up for a visitor.
When she returned, her lips were drawn down in a disapproving frown and lines creased the skin between her eyes. It was a look he’d seen often from her over the last few weeks. Not that he cared.
“Not long,” she said. “He needs his rest.”
He rapped on the bedroom door and waited. And told himself that somehow he’d find a way to save Isadora. It was his duty, not only as the leader of the Argonauts, but as her future husband.
“Come in, son,” a weak voice called from the other side of the door. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
From his chair near the window, King Leonidas gestured for Theron to join him with one frail, bony hand. “Come, come. Sit.”
The elderly ándras had lost weight since Theron had seen him only a week ago. His red-checked pajamas and blue silk robe hung on thin shoulders. Hair becoming more and more silver captured the sunlight shining through the tall windows. Lines Theron hadn’t noticed before deeply creased the king’s sagging face.
As Argoleans only began to age during the last twenty-five years of their lives, the changes in Leonidas were amplified more each day. It was to be expected, yet each wrinkle and jutting bone seemed like a cruel death sentence to such a wise and boisterous male, and not for the first time, Theron cursed the gods who gave them such amazing powers but limited their existence to that of mere mortals.
“I’ve been waiting for you, my son.” Leonidas nodded weakly toward the double doors Theron had closed at his back. “The old hag with the thermometer could rule the Argonauts with an iron fist and run Zeus himself into the ground if she wanted. Don’t show fear, lad. She smells weakness.” A mischievous glint lit his eyes as he glanced at Theron’s jacket. “Did you bring me a gift?”
Theron reached into his coat. The king had few weaknesses, but among them was his well-known penchant for Irish whiskey. Whenever Theron went into the human world, he brought a bottle home with him just for the king.
It was one of the things Theron had always enjoyed most about Leonidas—his passion for life, so unlike other Argoleans who were, as a race, more reserved. He suspected the king had developed his desires during his time secretly spent among the humans, but the elder ándras never spoke of those days, and Theron had never bothered to ask.
Theron pulled the bottle from the inner pocket of his leather jacket and handed it to the king. “If she finds this contraband, I’m going to have to turn you in.”