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Chapter 9

IRIS

I had been moments away from searching the castle for the infirmary myself when Theon informed me that the queen finally permitted me to meet with Kacidon’s healers.

How they expected me to adjust my research to accommodate their population’s presentation without interacting with patients was beyond me.

“How many people work in Arcton Palace?” I asked Theon as we weaved through particularly crowded corridors.

Another week had passed in a blink while I chipped away at any information the Kacidon royal library could provide. I was now halfway through the bottom floor, my notebooks piling up with discrepancies between Kacidon’s recorded history and what I had been taught.

History had a funny way of shifting depending on who was telling the story.

So far, I had found nothing that seemed crucial to a cure, but more notes couldn't hurt.

“Why do you ask?” Theon extended a hand, redirecting a sneering man burdened with several scrolls. The looks of disgust and muttered curses barely registered anymore.

“It’s busier than I expected,” I shrugged. “The rest of Altaerra speaks of Arcton Palace as though it’s a desolate stronghold.”

“The Gavalon family doesn’t allow many outsiders in,” Theon replied as we turned another corner, stopping in front of a large archway marked with the Divinian rune of the healers. “But they trust their own people. They provide accommodations for any workers who wish to live here—this place is big enough to house a third of the inner city. Still, many come and go from the palace.”

Perhaps that was why I had yet to see any members of the Gavalon family since my first day in Kacidon. Though, I hadn’t met many people, beyond Theon and the scribe who manned the library, who’d crossed my path more than once. Aimless wandering wasn’t permitted, and even when I moved between my room, the library, and my spot in the woods, I rarely recognized anyone. Just fleeting glimpses of faces that changed with each day.

Theon pushed through the open door to the healers’ wing, leading me into a passageway toward the infirmary as I braided a piece of hair behind my ear. Large stained-glass windows lined the high-reaching walls, each depicting a different Goddess of the Triad. The characteristic Divinian runes marking their limbs shimmered in the filtered light, casting intricate shadows across the floor.

Lux, with her metallic sheen and gold-spun hair, was framed by widespread wings and a halo of light in the first window. Beside her, Mene’s moonlight locks cascaded over her midnight-blue visage, a staff of shadow clasped in an outstretched hand. The final mural, Haven’s, was the most intricate of all. The Goddess who’d forged Kacidon floated against a backdrop of multicolored flowers, her sage-colored skin and emerald hair that fell around curved horns a vast contrast to the bright colors of the animals surrounding her.

Beneath each window, in swirling silver metal, were the words all Altaerrans lived by:

Protect the Wild. Preserve the Unseen. Pursue the Unknown.

“Ready?” Theon asked as we passed Haven’s rendering, approaching the last door in the hallway.

Another inscription was etched above this entryway:

Blessed be the Goddesses.

“More than I can say,” I murmured, dropping the strands of hair and pulling out my consolidated findings on the Malum.

Inside, a man in pale blue healer’s robes turned from an empty cot, smoothing freshly tucked sheets. The large room was bright, sunlight spilling through an arched window opposite Theon. Rows of cots lined the walls, many concealed behind drawn cloth partitions. A handful of healers, clad in slightly darker robes than the man nearest to us, paused their work to stare.

“My name is Iris,” I addressed the room, stepping forward. “I’ve been working with an infirmary in Vaelithe, and I believe if we combine our findings, we may be able to help one another.”

Silence.

Two healers on the left even leaned backward.

Another turned away completely, returning to dip her fingers into a bowl of green powder. A low hum echoed in the room as she her hand bent and twisted, the soft multicolored glow of a diagnostic charm appearing in the space before her patient.

The others only stared.

Theon cleared his throat, the sound punctuated by a door swinging open to our right. An Ethera of at least half-life, dressed in flowing white robes, stepped into view.

“High Healer Nora,” Theon nodded. “This is the apothecary from Vaelithe.”

“Iris,” I repeated, dipping my head.

“Yes,” she breathed, shoulders sagging. She nodded to the man in pale blue robes. “Walk with us, Healer Cedrin.”

High Healer Nora guided us to the large rear window. She didn’t speak, so I handed her the stack of papers in my grasp.

“These are the tonics we’ve tested in Vaelithe,” I explained. “The illness has been present for just over a year, though its progression was slower at first. We lost our first patient only six months ago. The healers in Vaelithe initially relied solely on Medikai magic and diagnostic charms.”

I motioned towards the healer studying the red glow across a patient’s sternum. “None have had lasting effects. I’ve been assisting with research, and we’ve found that some of our potions, when combined with essence-based methods, help subside symptoms—at least temporarily.”

The High Healer laced her fingers before her as I spoke, steering our group toward the last cot in the right row.

“I don’t have my supplies here in Kacidon,” I continued, facing the two healers. “But if I can obtain the basics and a heated sunflare, I can introduce your patients to what we’ve used so far.”

“I was under the impression your purpose here was research,” Healer Cedrin said brusquely. “We have no need for your concoctions .”

By the way he stumbled over his words, it was clear no one had thought this through.

It spoke to their desperation—their rush to invoke a life debt to bring help here. To force someone they neither trusted nor liked to remain in their halls.

It was reckless.

But how did they know about my research? Who had given them my name?

High Healer Nora lifted a hand toward Cedrin, who pressed his lips into a thin line.

“It is,” I replied, matching his tone. I took a measured breath, reminding myself that a sharp tongue—though useful with foolish men—would serve me poorly here. If I was to gain the healers’ trust, I needed restraint.

“And per the queen, my expertise is why I’m here. How am I supposed to assist you if I can’t brew?”

“With research ,” Cedrin countered, ignoring Nora’s sidelong glance.

“And what good is research without practical application?” I held his gaze. “I’m sure your healers are more than capable, but I wouldn’t be in this palace if my skills weren’t deemed vital. We must work together, no matter how much you dislike the idea. I won’t miraculously unearth an answer in a book that has already been read cover to cover without doing more.” I stepped forward.

There were no guidelines. No recipe to follow. We didn’t even know if a cure was possible, much less what it would look like. We were working from nothing more than our previous failures. But Queen Genevieve saw merit in my help. I just needed to convince the rest of her people.

“Our success lies in merging what I do and what you do, Healer.”

“Correct,” High Healer Nora interjected. “But you must understand our reservations. We don’t use these sorts of…” She hesitated, apology flickering across her face. “Methods.”

“I know. If someone can point me toward the right suppliers, I’ll place an order.” Theon nodded beside me. “And if necessary, I’ll brew in my room.” I looked between them. “I just hope you consider implementing some of Vaelithe’s findings while we search for more answers.”

“I agree,” High Healer Nora said. “And I think you should spend some time with the patients.” She pulled back the cloth partition, revealing a man with straw-colored hair and a wide grin. “Iris, meet Everett Lannish. Our newest resident.”

The man gave a two fingered salute, the dark stain marring his fingertips settling any questions as to why he was here.

“Oh, I get the new one?” Everett winked, his smile widening. “You spoil me, Nora.”

The playfulness in his eyes reminded me of Sarek, and a sudden, unexpected wave of comfort had me rocking back on my heels.

“Iris has some questions about your symptoms. She’ll be checking in on you from now on.” She gestured to the chair beside the cot. “Welcome to Kacidon, Iris.”

* * *

I spent a good portion of the morning talking with Everett Lannish.

His diagnostic charm had been as inconclusive as the ones I’d seen Gideon perform in Vaelithe, the red glow over Everett’s arms and sternum hazy around the edges. The location was indiscriminate, not pinpoint enough to give any real insight, and the color only told us something was a consistent threat to his system.

There was never any hint of the other colors that presented with ailments such as dehydration, physical damage, or magic manipulation.

It was always red, and always vast. With every Malum patient.

But several more pages filled my journal—his history with the illness and rough accounts High Healer Nora had provided. Closing it, I swapped the journal for the novel I’d started the night before and trudged toward the familiar tree line, half-expecting to find it empty.

To my quiet delight, it wasn’t.

Exhaling, I tucked my skirt beneath me and sat across from the man with the moonlight hair. As I pulled at the ribbon marking my place a few chapters in, I glanced up and recognized the cover of the book he held.

“I didn’t take you for someone who reads the stories of the mortals.”

The one in his hands—a tale of a woman who fell in love with a true rake of a man she despised for most of the book—was one of my favorites.

“Oh?” He peered over the top of his novel.

“You don’t seem like one for fiction, is all.” I turned a page, catching his raised brow in my peripheral vision. “Too pragmatic.”

“Many believe the mortal stories are accounts from the other worlds of the Celestos,” he countered, “brought here to entertain us with the fallacies of mortals when the Triad carved the lands.”

“I’m among them.” I shut my book, leaning forward. “By most accounts, they match descriptions of mortal worlds in historical texts—if rather embellished.” I waved a hand. “I just wouldn’t have guessed you believed it too.”

“Because you know me so well,” he drawled, returning his attention to the novel.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t untrue. I hadn’t asked his name, nor had I given mine. We knew little of each other beyond our mealtime meetings, and I was more than happy to keep it that way—some distance from everything else here.

It was easy to be unknown.

“Our world—hells, even our language—was likely shaped by the worlds of the Celestos predating Felviran,” he added. “Classifications of magic, ancient landmarks...all derivative. Historical texts tell us as much.”

“Do you believe, then, that the novels are also accounts of their worlds? Depicting the everyday lives of the other realms the Divine created?”

“That, or the fables they tell. Just as we tell our own fables here.” He paused, considering. “Although I like the idea that they are their stories. That their lives have somehow made an impact here, across time and space.”

“There is a lot to be learned through stories.” I leaned back again, shifting into a more comfortable position as I opened my book and began to read.

* * *

Muffled cries filled the eerie silence that settled over Arcton Palace at night.

Sheets twisted beneath me as I writhed, teeth grinding and sweat beading across my brow, but nothing deterred the nightmare.

Feathers fell from the sky.

They floated on the wind, whistling a sweet ballad.

I reached for them as they drifted, but at the tips of my fingers, they danced away.

Smoke on the wind. A whisper of dust.

The harmony swelled. Soft humming curled into words as incandescent light crept into the space.

First no more than a glimmer, it shifted, melded, grew until it burned—bright and eternal.

“Whisperer of forests,” it called. “Do you see now?”

“Do you hear my song?”

The volume rose as the light inched closer, almost corporeal.

“Wielder of wild. Songsmith of light. Keeper of that which is lost.”

Each feather vanished as it approached the glow, dissolving into another note in the melody.

“You remain,” it sang in a growing refrain. “You remain, Daughter of the Sun.”

As the symphony reached its peak, questions swirled in the air, piercing and clear.

“Have you had enough?”

“Have you run enough?”