His image, something he was always thinking about, did not matter.
Nothing else mattered but Sirillia.
“Move aside,” he told one of the physicians bent over her.
And there she was. Her eyes were half-open, and she was still breathing, which was a kind relief. However, she looked worse than Emery had ever seen her before.
Sirillia smiled upon recognising her husband before hunching over and coughing violently.
Emery grabbed some pillows and sat them behind her back to help make her more comfortable as she wretched and hacked for several seconds.
The air was humid, thick with the scent of incense and herbs. Most of the curtains had been closed to help the queen get some rest, dipping the room into a harsh dimness.
Emery sat by her side on the edge of the bed, his battered armour clinking as he did. He took her hand between his. “I’m glad you’re alright. I was so worried for you.”
Sirillia squeezed his hand back, trying her hardest to keep her eyes open.
“Did… did you find…” Sirillia murmured.
“Petir is safe and sound. He arrived back to the capital with me. We are fine, love.”
Sirillia made a sigh of relief. Her breathing was wheezy and shallow, as if her lungs were being compressed under an immense weight.
“What… what about Ciana?”
Emery could only shake his head. Their daughter was still captive to the Seynards, possibly in more danger now than she had been before the attack.
It was a horrific feeling, not knowing if she was safe, whether she was being treated fairly and kindly. But the worst part for Emery was knowing that in the moment, there was nothing he could do to help his little girl.
Sirillia began to cough again. Drops of blood sprayed onto the embroidered duvet.
Emery looked to the physicians surrounding the bed. “What happened to the queen?”
A healer stepped forward wearing thick spectacles and with a distinctive, curly moustache. “My king, we believe the events in Tellersted have weakened the queen. The smoke and ash are toxic for anyone’s breathing, let alone someone who is already suffering with lung disease.”
Emery glanced back to his wife, sweeping some stray hairs away from her forehead. Her skin was hot, and beads of sweat was dripping down from her hairline.
He felt his chest tightening and his eyes beginning to sting. He felt his confidence beginning to shatter.
Creator, forgive me. This is all my fault.
“I should never have taken her to Tellersted,” Emery realised.
Ser Yelin stepped forward with a comforting hand upon the king’s armoured shoulder. “There was no way we could have known what would happen.”
“The fault… is mine… and mine alone,” Sirillia insisted between struggled breaths.
She groaned and cried as she heaved. The pain in her airways was becoming too much to bear, Emery could tell.
Eventually, her eyelids grew heavy and within seconds she was back to unconsciousness, completely exhausted by the toll the disease was taking on her.
“Is there anything we can do?” Emery begged.
The physicians muttered to themselves, avoiding eye contact with the king wherever they could. Another of the doctors spoke up this time, a younger woman in a grey robe.
“All we can do is manage the symptoms. The lungrot is not curable, my liege.”
Emery’s head sank down in despair. The words were difficult to hear, even more difficult to comprehend. He knew that her condition was one that would eventually take her… but not this soon, and not so rapidly.
“There must be… something? Anything?”
The physicians shrugged awkwardly, remaining silent.
“How long?”
Again, they stayed quiet.
Emery felt his fury take hold, swiping at a glass from the end table and sending it flying across the room to shatter on the adjacent wall. The physicians all took a sudden step back in surprise.
“What’s the point in having healers around if you can’t fucking heal my wife?!” Emery screamed, dropping his head into his shaking hands.
One man stepped forward.
“I believe I can help the queen,” muttered a low-toned, mysterious voice from the back of the group of physicians.
Emery lifted his gaze from his hands, attempting to see between the bobbling heads of the other physicians to identify the owner of the strange voice.
“You there, step forward.”
The hooded figure in dark robes walked up towards the king, clasping his hands together. His hood covered the top-half of his face, but Emery could make out the shrivelled mouth and white beard of an older man.
Ser Yelin grew immediately concerned, as he often would when it came to the king’s safety. He steadily approached the king and the man in robes with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Emery raised a hand to signal to Yelin that it was fine. The hooded man stood before the king, still clasping his hands.
“You’re a new physician to Alderhall?” Emery said.
“Yes, your grace. I come from up north.”
“And you can save my wife?” Emery asked, refusing to break eye contact with the strange man.
The hooded figure smirked before nodding just once. The other physicians whispered to one-another, giving strange glares towards the mysterious man.
Emery sighed. “Everyone else, leave at once.”
Yelin leant in to whisper into the king’s ear. “Allow me to stay, my king. I don’t think this is a good-”
Emery turned and glared directly at Yelin. “That’s an order, soldier.”
The other physicians began to funnel out from the room. Ser Yelin shut his mouth before bowing to his king and following them close behind with a suspicious expression upon his face.
The hooded figure remained motionless as everyone else left the royal quarters, closing the door behind them.
“Speak,” Emery said, growing increasingly desperate.
Who knew how long Sirillia would have left?
