Silver and Coal

The goblet rolls from Silovar’s grip, clattering to the floor. The effect is immediate. Delegates spring to their feet. The king’s guard swarm the table. His Majesty’s attendant immediately removes the monarch’s goblet, the king following out into the hall flanked by two of his personal guard. The commotion drowns to a low ring in Osthryn’s ears.

The world slows around her. The crowding guards and the flustered commotion blur into a haze with her surroundings, Silovar the only one remaining stark clear. She lurches from her seat, catching him just in time to spare his head hitting the edge of the table as he collapses, gasping for air and grasping at his chest. Osthryn hooks her arms under his shoulders and pulls him clear from the table. As she sets him down, his breathing seems to stop and his body twists into convulsions.

Time speeds up again, and Osthryn acts quickly with practiced hands. She rolls him onto his side keeping a steady hand on his shoulder. She has often seen convulsions as a healing witch in Bettramon – but this was atypical. As far as her knowledge stretches, Dragons do not become ill or suffer the same fits as humans would. She holds the palm of her hand under his nose: still no breath. She needs to act quickly, but what to do? There is no way for her to pass what she needs to do off as anything other than pure magic.

“You are not in Bettramon.”

Silovar's voice rings almost audibly in her mind. She is not in Bettramon. She is in a room full of practicing mages in a city that embraces magic. It doesn’t matter what it looks like, or who sees it. She needs to save him.

The convulsions are still ongoing, but there is no sense in waiting them out. Osthryn throws her arms around Silovar, holding him tight. She closes her eyes in concentration – she needs to visualize two systems, the lungs and the mind. The benefit of being a shapechanger herself is knowing that once transformed, albeit still possessing all the magical attributes of their true form, a Dragon’s human body will be indistinguishable from a true human body.

"Stil, wees stil. Wees salig deur jou asem. Haal asem deur die saligheid. Stil, wees stil."

 There is no catalyst, no item to which her healing magic can be attributed. Osthryn has just openly cast a spell of her own, and it feels as if she had disrobed herself publicly. If she had held anyone else in her arms, she would not have done it. But this is Silovar, the only Dragon who has been gentle with her, the friend who persisted despite her. He is the one who believed in what she could be despite what she believed herself. She cannot let him fall away. She still needs to show him why Glasswood trees are Glasswood trees.

The stillness flows through her and into the writhing body she holds. His body quietens. Gingerly, Osthryn lifts her hand to hover over his face. A tear and a choked laugh emerge when the warmth passes over it. Breath. Shuddering, and weak, but steady.

Osthryn’s relief soon turns to dread. What caused this? Why? What could cause a Dragon to react like this?

Movement catches her eye. The commotion had died down, and Osthryn had hardly noticed that the mages and scribes had gathered around them. One of them taps the fallen goblet with their foot, and it rolls, drawing her eye. The movement alone is not what keeps her gaze – there, in the wine that spill from it is the unmistakable sheen of silver powder. Osthryn’s eyes flash with both fear and accusation when she whips her head around to study the faces of those gathered around her.

A guard steps forward, and Osthryn instinctively tightens her grip around Silovar. He does not move to touch Silovar, however, instead turning around and sternly waiting for the mages and scribes to step back. “This meeting will be reconvened at His Majesty’s discretion," the guard states evenly, his unmoving gaze matching his monotone delivery. The guard raises his hand. “Please disperse, and remain within the Keep’s bounds for questioning."

Two other guards begin to move forward, and the mages need no second instruction. Her eyes continue to study them, noting their expressions. She glares at Frederick, who seems to watch Silovar with great interest as he turns to leave. His eyes meet hers for a second before flitting away, dismissing her. Osthryn watches him leave, and notices again the powder-covered lines etching Frederick’s hands. No one made any mention of them, or seemed to notice them, but recognition itches at the back of Osthryn’s mind. Silovar’s robe creases slightly between her fingers as she tightens her grip, unsettled.

No one save the guards remain behind, the meeting hall falls eerily silent. Osthryn’s eyes find the spilled wine again.

“Charcoal," she murmurs, her voice thin.

“What did you say?" the first guard asks, the golden Dragonscale trim on his armour contrasting with his dark skin clearly marks him as the commander.

“Charcoal," Osthryn states again, her voice strengthening. “I need charcoal. It will neutralize whatever he took in."

The commander nods. “You drank from the wine too. Do you feel anything strange?"

“No," Osthryn confirms.

“Whether a curse or a poison, someone here must have done it, and he was likely not the only target," the commander sighs.

He turns to the others. “Take Silovar to his rooms, and take his companion with him. Send for the court healer and some charcoal. Theofinn, Aldrin, make sure each of these goblets are brought to the King’s medics. We should know if this was aimed at Silovar alone, or if there were others."

He turns back to Osthryn. "We will wait until Silovar has stabilised, and then you will both be questioned. Keep an eye on yourself for any symptoms and report them immediately. Do not leave the Keep until this is resolved. Even if His Majesty was not the target, a member of his court being poisoned is as much as threat on his life as Silovar’s."

Osthryn nods her understanding. The commander motions for the two guards flanking him and turns to leave.

The first of the two, Aldrin, places a hand on her stiffened shoulder. Reluctantly, she relinquishes her grip on Silovar, his chest rising and falling with thin, shallow breaths. A servant arrives with a stretcher, and they lift him on it. Osthryn follows their every move, resisting the urge to jump in and correct their motions. Aldrin gives her a small, understanding smile, before motioning her to follow and taking up the stretcher with Theofinn.

Osthryn numbly follows them down the winding corridors, not noticing which route they take as she cannot tear her eyes from Silovar, straining to see the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. She fiddles with her gloves, feeling as if they continue to tighten on her hands with every breath she takes.