by Megan Derr
Laughing, Noire swept her a half bow from his seat. "It would an honor, your grace."
"Marvelous, and thank you," Verenne said. "Now come, dinner will be a few minutes more. We can play a couple hands of cards and gossip shamelessly about our paramours. No word of protest out of you; it will make me feel better and keep me cooperative."
Noire rolled his eyes before he could catch and stop the movement, but obediently stood with her and moved to the card table nearby. "You are not playing fair."
"Only country folk and foreigners play cards fairly," Verenne said cheerfully and began to shuffle the deck.
Chapter Ten: Sensitive
Ailill looked around the bedroom, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sex and too-sweet flowers. It was strong enough it triggered a mild headache. Ignoring it, Ailill examined the room.
He hoped Ciel and Justin had enjoyed their final moments, because he did not envy them the misery to which they would awake.
If they did awake. Ailill wondered how much longer he had before he became a victim. It was a thought he preferred to avoid, but that was becoming increasingly impossible. He was a Beast, and the Beasts were all being steadily poisoned. It was only a matter of time.
He scoured the room, but came up with nothing. It made no sense. Poisoning an old woman in her temple, alone save for a manservant? Not hard. Poisoning a man alone in a room right across from a crowded ballroom? Trickier, but by no means impossible—and probably still easy for someone of such ominous skill.
But poisoning a couple while they were in the throes of passion? Ailill would be the first to admit that he noticed very little of his surroundings when he was with Ivan, but he would have noticed somebody entering his bedroom uninvited. He would have fought back. So they hadn't noticed, or they hadn't had a chance to fight back. Or, he supposed, they hadn't realized there was any need to fight at all.
The sound of familiar footsteps drew his attention, and Ailill looked up with a brief smile as Ivan joined him—carrying a familiar jewel case. "You brought the jewels?"
"You keep forgetting them, and I know you were meant to meet with her majesty about them days ago," Ivan said. "I thought it was worth seeing if you could finally hand them over. It'll be one last thing to worry about, especially if Beasts keep falling." His mouth tightened.
Ailill quirked one brow. "Are you worried about me, Vanya?"
"Should I not be?" Ivan asked. "You are being asked to investigate this matter. In my experience, that makes you a greater target. There is also the fact that you have been badly hurt by poison before—"
"That was magic," Ailill countered.
Ivan shook his head once, sharply. "You were poisoned all the same, badly enough we had to send you home. Poisoned by shadow magic, and if this poison is the same thing that killed the Tsar then it's shadow work as well. Poison, illness—when people suffer these things, they remain permanently affected. Some people come out of it stronger, less vulnerable, and even immune. I once knew a man who was felled by bitterbright poison. Most people die from it, but he survived and ever after was immune to it. But some people wind up weaker—"
"I'm not weak," Ailill bristled. "So I was struck down by shadow magic. That does not mean I am now some delicate greenhouse flower that must be fussed over."
"I didn't say you were weak," Ivan said, voice still even, though Ailill knew the temper was there just beneath the surface. "I said the poisoning in Pozhar might have made your body weaker in terms—"
Ailill wanted to hit him. He was a lot of things, but weak wasn't one of them—not in any way. "So I was laid up by the attack for a while. Prince Gael purified me and I've recovered just fine. I'm not weak—"
Ivan's patience finally broke, and there was a hint of growl in his voice as he said, "What is with you? You are not usually this quick to anger. I'm not trying to accuse you of being weak; I'm saying you might be more susceptible to the poison because it once almost killed you!"
"I'm fine," Ailill snapped. "I don't need you fussing over me. Since when do you fuss over anyone?"
Hurt cut the anger on Ivan's face for a moment, and then his face shuttered. He thrust the jewel case into Ailill's arms. "You should not have to ask that question, Ailill. If you do have to ask it, then perhaps we are not what I thought." He stormed out before Ailill could reply.
"Fine," Ailill said bitterly. He'd just carry on investigating alone. It wasn't as though he'd needed Ivan's help to begin with—and he certainly didn't need the help of someone who thought him weak.
Turning away from the door, Ailill started toward the dressing table in the corner to set the jewels on while he worked—and wound up on his knees from a wash of dizziness. He tried to stand, but the dizziness struck again, worse than ever, his vision blurring and going dark in patches. Ailill scrabbled at the wall and tried to get to his feet, to go for help because it was clear something was wrong.
It took everything he had to make it to his feet again, but as he turned to the door it struck again, and he went crashing to the ground. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't move. "Van—"
Ailill woke up to a pounding head, as though he had overindulged in wine and would be regretting it for at least the whole day. It felt as if someone had removed his stomach, turned it inside out, and then tried to put it back in place.
He stared uncomprehendingly at the bed canopy, not recognizing it. His bed was definitely not maroon trimmed in gold. Where was he? Why was he in bed? Had he really been drinking so much?
Groaning, pressing the heel of his hand to his aching head, Ailill slowly sat up. Ah, the palace. Of course, he was in the palace. Then it all came rushing back. The White Hawk and the White Owl. Fighting with Ivan. Passing out. But why had he passed out? He'd been fine. Had someone tried to poison him? That made no sense, and he certainly had not interacted with anyone except Noire, Gael, and Ivan since entering the palace.
So if he'd been poisoned, it had already been in the room. Ailill balled his hand into a fist and struck the mattress with it. The poison had been in that room, and enough of it had still remained that it had almost gotten him.
And instead of realizing that and finally solving the mystery, he had collapsed like the weak fool Ivan believed him to be.
Ivan. Ailill's anger faded beneath a wash of guilt, an ache of longing. Where was Ivan? Had their stupid fight really driven him off so thoroughly that ...
Oh, whatever. He did not have time to simper and sulk; he needed to figure out how long he had been out and what had transpired in the meantime. Sliding out of the bed, he looked around for the rest of his clothes.
He finally saw them piled neatly on top of a dressing table—
Jewels. The crown jewels. He'd dropped them when he'd first gotten dizzy. Fear seized him, and Ailill quickly yanked on his clothes, then shoved his feet into his shoes and straightened his hair as he walked toward the door. Pulling it open, he stepped out—
And crashed into someone, sending him falling back on his ass, which caused his stomach and head to protest loudly. Ailill bowed his head and willed his stomach to stay in his body, feeling hot and dizzy and entirely fed up with the world.
"Sorry, Ailill," Noire's soft voice came. "Are you all right?"
"I'll be fine," Ailill said tightly, and he finally dragged his gaze up—and froze when he saw Noire's black eyes, a scratch on his cheek, and more bruises that his collar and cravat did not quite hide. "Forget about me—what happened to you?"
Noire helped him to his feet, then back into the suite and over to the sofas in one corner. He then went back outside and spoke to someone in the hall—a guard, Ailill assumed.
"I've ordered tea and some light snacks," Noire said and sat down beside him. "We thought you'd been poisoned, at first. But if you were, it wasn't enough to do to you what it did to the others. By the time we found you, the poison itself was gone. Her majesty said you were merely unconscious, not comatose like the others. We were relieved—especially since a few hours af
ter you fell, we found Lord Honore. That makes five now."
Ailill's mouth tightened. "So why were you in a fight?"
"I was running an errand in the city and tried to break up another street fight. Instead of backing down like they normally would, the culprits just ... they just went mad. More people got involved and before I knew the entire street … It was awful," Noire said, voice not quite breaking. "Finally, Lady Seraphin showed up and was barely able to calm everyone. But the Triad has ordered out the army and instilled curfews."
"How long have I been asleep?"
"A day and a half, give or take a few hours," Noire said. "The poison did come very close to getting you. We honestly do not know how you managed to escape it."
Ailill frowned, puzzled. But as confused as he was by the poison, as distressed as he was by the rioting, one thought was louder than all the rest in his head. "Where is Vanya?"
"I don't know," Noire said. "I have not seen him—but this is the first time I've been in the palace for any length of time. I have mostly been running messages all over the city since the Beasts are pouring all of their magic into keeping the peace."
Ailill nodded and tried to act casual, but it hurt to hear that Ivan had not once come to see him. Had not wondered where he was, had not even sent a note. Fine. Whatever. It was not as though he needed or wanted to be accountable to anyone; he had depended on himself nearly all his life. He didn't need to depend on anyone else and clearly he was too weak for Ivan to bother with anyway.
But the words rang hollow, and the more he tried to pretend he didn't care, the more they hurt. He wanted Ivan, but he was the one who had driven Ivan away. The worst part was that Ivan had been right: it wasn't like him to get so angry so quickly. Ailill had no idea why he'd overreacted; he just hoped he would get a chance to apologize.
"So what is going on now?" Ailill finally asked. "I suppose I should examine the room of the latest victim, but I do not know what good it would do. Where was the White Stag found?"
"The garden," Noire replied. "It looks like he was speaking with someone else, exactly like Lord Lyall."
Ailill drummed his fingers on his thigh. "So whoever is poisoning the Beasts, it is someone we know. Someone we trust. Who do we all know whom we would trust and never suspect of poisoning us, even now when we are alert to the threat?"
A thought flitted through his mind, quick and darting. He tried to seize it, hold fast—but then it was gone, and he was left feeling only more frustrated than ever. He rubbed at his aching temples, and wished he was still asleep. "I suppose I had best get to—"
"Sit," Noire said and pushed him back down. "You've been asleep the better part of two days. What you need is food—" He stopped as someone knocked on the door, then smiled. "Good timing."
He went to the door and opened it, ushering in a footman bearing a tea cart. Wheeling the cart over to them, he efficiently arranged everything on the low table, and then left as quietly as he had come. Noire poured a cup of tea, added sugar, and then thrust it at Ailill. "Drink."
"When did you get so bossy?" Ailill asked with a soft chuckle.
"One has to learn it when ordering around recalcitrant nobles," Noire replied. "Too many seem to think that my age makes me easy to push around, instead of seeing that I am the Voice, young or not." He shrugged and poured himself a cup of tea, adding sugar and the 'cream' made from a plant that foreigners absolutely hated.
Ailill laughed quietly and obediently drank his tea—and nearly choked on it when he realized he was a moron. "The jewels—Noire, where are the crown jewels? Ivan brought them to me, and they were with me when I collapsed—"
"And now they're locked up in the treasury," Noire cut in, eyes wide with alarm. "It's all right, Ailill."
Sighing in relief, Ailill tried drinking his tea again. "Sorry. After so many years of locating the bloody things, and now with the Beasts falling and the ceremony at risk ... "
Noire smiled reassuringly. "Well, you need not worry about the jewels. I was the one to find you, and I immediately took charge of them until I could hand them over to Gael—I mean, to his highness."
Ailill nodded and finished his tea, not arguing when Noire promptly refilled it. "The ceremony is less than two months away now. I am starting to truly wonder if we are going to survive that long."
"We don't have a choice," Noire said, running his finger around the rim of his teacup. "If the ceremony fails ... " Silence fell because there was really nothing to say to that.
Setting his tea aside, Ailill picked up a small cucumber melon sandwich. When his stomach did not rebel, he finished the sandwich and picked up another stuffed with grilled peppers and mushrooms.
Where was Ivan? Had ... had he gone home? No, as upset as Ailill was, he knew Ivan would not leave without saying he was leaving. Ivan did not cower from unpleasantness of any sort.
So where was he? Worry began to nag at him because the more he thought about it, the more out of character he knew it to be. Ivan would have wondered where he was after a couple of days, especially with the way the Beasts were being poisoned.
Ailill ate a last sandwich, then finished his tea and stood. If Ivan wasn't going to come to him, he would find Ivan—and apologize. It wasn't as though he could deny being weak. Sighing, he fussed with his clothes and then smiled at Noire. "I am going to see if I can find Vanya; then I'll return to carry on with the investigation."
"I'll walk with you a ways; I should be checking in with G-his highness, anyway."
Chuckling at the way Noire kept accidentally slipping into informality when normally he was so stubbornly formal, Ailill opened the door and slipped out into the hall. They were halfway down the hall when Noire froze, and Ailill recognized the signs of silent communication. From the look on Noire's face, it wasn't good, and he had a feeling he knew what was wrong. "The White Ram has fallen," Noire finally said. "Come on."
Ailill followed him through the halls, all but running until they finally reached the library. Noire threw the doors open and raced across the main floor to a set of spiral stairs, pounding up and then down a row of bookshelves to a small work area—where Lord Lioc Giles, the White Ram, was slumped over in his seat, his face in the book he had been reading.
No sooner had they reached the area than dizziness struck Ailill like a fist. He grabbed at a bookshelf, but only succeeded in pulling a book free, sending several others tumbling down on top of him as he once more collapsed, chased into darkness by a cloyingly sweet smell.
When he woke again, he was once more assaulted by a head and stomach bent on rebellion. Ailill groaned and turned over in bed. What in the Oak was wrong with him?
"I hear that you are beginning to make this a habit," said a gruff, familiar voice.
Ailill jerked up, heart going from normal to in danger of bursting in a moment. "Vanya. You look terrible." He frowned as he really looked at Ivan. "You look like ... you."
Ivan laughed softly, scratching at his ragged goatee; it was clear he had not been able to trim it for a few days. To judge by the scuffs and tears and singe marks on his leather armor, the sword that rested at his hip as though it had never ceased to be there, he had been entirely too busy. "Indeed. I like to think I always look like me, but I know what you mean."
"What's happened now? I collapsed when we found the White Ram."
"Yesterday, the White Bear became a victim. You've been asleep almost three days this time. They think that you were still recovering from the first time—" Ivan broke off and abruptly surged forward, dragging Ailill close and wrapping his arms tightly around him, face buried in Ailill's hair. "I'm sorry. I should have stayed."
Ailill just held him, breathing in the familiar scents of smoke and metal and leather, the scents of the mercenary he had first begun to care about. "You shouldn't apologize. I was the one who got angry for no reason."
Ivan drew back, kissing him so hard Ailill's lips throbbed. "I was not explaining myself very well, but his highness also theorized that the ang
er could be a side effect of all the chaos in the city. With now six beasts fallen, everything is getting increasingly out of control. You could not have known that while we were in that bedroom, a fight had already broken out in the city. Gael thinks you are not as used to the controlling elements of being a Beast as the others and the emotions got the better of you, at least a little."
"Wonderful," Ailill said frustrated. "I'm weak to poison and to my own people. I cannot even seem to figure out or stop the attacks on my peers. I'm beginning to think that I am no longer good for much of anything."
"Well you certainly will not be if you keep feeling sorry for yourself," Ivan said gently and then kissed him before he could reply. "I know I could have used your help the past few days. I am sorry I was not here. I went to take a walk to calm down, and see if I could better figure out how to explain myself, and walked right into a street brawl. They were attacking foreigners, mostly, and I could not abide that. By the time that riot finally stopped, another broke out somewhere else. An entire district of the city is burned and broken nearly beyond repair. I went home and you were not there; I figured you were still working and decided I was of more use back on the streets. I changed and went back out, found the royal soldiers who had helped finally stop the first riot. Only this morning did I run into Noire, who told me what happened to you. I came as quickly as I could."
Ailill drew him in, kissed him hard, and tried to draw Ivan onto the bed with him. Ivan broke away laughing, and Ailill glared at him—until Ivan began to remove his sword and armor, throwing it all on a nearby chair. "I called for a bath. Let me have that, cat, and then I am all yours."
"By all means," Ailill replied, watching appreciatively as Ivan stripped completely, then walked off into the bathing chamber, eyes lingering on Ivan's well-shaped ass. He stripped off his own clothes, tempted to clean up himself, but not trusting that he wouldn't further humiliate himself with another bout of fainting.
Falling back on the bed, he closed his eyes and drifted off. He should have been doing other things, but opening his eyes, getting up, and doing them seemed entirely too difficult. He couldn't be selfish forever, but he could be selfish for another hour or two, surely.