44. Brett

"So," Killian said to Helena when Paris had gone in the other room. "Why did the king want to rid himself of Paris?"

She blinked at him in shock, considering, shaking her head, then freezing in the middle of the gesture, eyes going wide and lips forming a little "oh" of surprise and understanding. She looked back up to Killian, wrapping her arms around herself. "Paris was... involved with the king's son." She glanced back toward the room Paris had gone into, then to Killian again. "He's announced that I'm to marry him. A week ago."

Killian quirked an eyebrow. "The prince?"

She pursed her lips at him. "Who else? Do you think we marry our brothers in Urial?"

"I thought you might mean the king," Killian corrected. "You're young and pretty. Old men in power have done more surprising things."

Helena stared at him, open-mouthed and horrified, as though she'd never imagined such an eventuality.

I followed Paris into the other room, rather more concerned about him than who his sister was going to marry. Though... that seemed wrong, having her marry the man Paris thought himself in love with. The king had been getting Paris out of the way, I supposed.

I found Paris standing frozen, right there in the doorway, staring in horror at a very sick man. Hector, then. He looked about my age, and—well, Helena had been right to send for Paris. He looked near to death, his cheeks sunken and hollow, skin pale and sweaty. It was awful, and the smell of the room reminded me too much of Paris's own recent sickness.

Clearly, though, his brother did not have Avianitis.

I wrapped a gentle arm around Paris's waist and led him into the room, to a chair sitting next to the bed that Helena had clearly been using. Killian and Helena were speaking in soft tones behind us, but I ignored it, helping Paris into the chair and then grabbing his hand and pressing it to the man's free one.

His skin was damp and clammy, and at the feeling of Paris's hand, his eyes blinked open, glassy and unfocused, but present. When they found Paris, he frowned. "You're supposed to be in Nemeda," he rasped. Then, quieter, he muttered to himself, "Safe, in Nemeda."

And that... well, that meant something. When we had a reputation for getting diplomats killed, and Paris himself had believed that, but his brother had thought sending him to Nemeda was safer than keeping him home? Something was very wrong here.

I thought back to the rude, angry king, and his clear dislike for Paris. Even stronger than his dislike for Killian and me.

I was distracted a moment later, when Killian swept into the room, still talking. "—at different times than yours?"

"Yes," Helena answered. "I don't understand. Why is that important? Hector isn't eating as much, so they're only bringing him soup twice a day."

Killian turned and gave her a look I recognized all too well. He'd given it to me once, when I'd said something innocent and naive about making peace with the southerners. Esmerelda did the same, and it was always accompanied by the term "poor sweet child."

"And what they bring you, it's always different?"

"Well... yes. Hector is struggling with anything more than soup." She motioned to a tray. "Honestly, he seems better when he doesn't even bother eating."

Killian snorted, like that was the most obvious thing he'd ever heard in his life, but Helena still looked confused. I had to admit, I was confused too.

"Killian?"

Hector turned, with some difficulty, onto his back, to look at where Killian was standing over a tray of food. Killian dipped a finger into what looked like a cold bowl of soup, then touched it to his tongue and made a face like the stuff was poison. He turned toward us, and... froze.

At the same time, so did my mind.

Like it was poison.

Sick man.

Poison soup.

And Paris's sister saying the people were bringing their food at different times.

"Hello," Killian said, and there was something very strange in his voice. Something I'd never heard before. A smoothness. An... interest. "You must be Hector."

He was giving Paris's sick brother the most intense look I'd ever seen on his face, and for Killian, that was saying something. His pale eyes were piercing at the best of times, and this was—well, I'd have been overwhelmed if he'd looked at me like that.

Hector swallowed hard but seemed to handle it well enough. "I am. And you"—he cut off with a wracking cough that took a moment to recover from, wheezing and making a strange wet noise that was downright unsettling—"you are?"

Killian, unfazed as ever, sat right on the edge of the bed, picking up a cloth, giving it a sniff, and then holding it out to Hector. "I am Killian. Chief of the Crane Clan. You are Hector. Thorn in your king's side."

Hector blinked for a moment, just staring at Killian.

"That would be me, actually," Paris said, sighing and leaning against me, looking like the sky was falling around him. "King Albany sent me away because he wanted me gone. It wasn't Hector's fault."

Killian turned to Paris, then inclined his head in agreement. "Of course. He thought getting rid of you would be enough to get what he wanted. His useless son was in a relationship with you, and he wanted to end it so that he could make a match he approved of. But it turned out that there was another obstacle to that." Once more, Killian turned to Hector.

Hector, who stared at him, then shook his head, not so much in disagreement, but a shocked sort of wishful denial. His expression was horrified, like he agreed with what Killian was saying, even though he didn't want to.

Paris opened his mouth and closed it, obviously wanting to demand answers, but hesitant because of his brother being so ill. And maybe hesitant because part of him knew the answers were going to be awful.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded on his behalf.

Killian and Hector stared at each other for a moment, then Hector seemed to deflate. "I'm not that sick."

"Because you're not eating," Killian said, his tone agreeable. "If you were eating that twice a day, you'd be dead inside a week."

We all turned to the tray Killian was talking about, and Helena made a tiny, squeaky noise. "But—but I've been feeding it to him. I?—"

"You are a child who wouldn't—shouldn't—know what poison tastes like," Killian finished for her, before turning back to Hector. "You got your brother out of the country because you wanted him safe from the king's wrath. You didn't realize until later that the king had designs on your sister."

"What?" Paris demanded, shocked and possibly for the first time since I'd met him, angry. "He's ancient! He?—"

"Tybalt," Helena corrected. "The king wants me to marry Tybalt."

And that, finally, got through to Paris. Everything went out of him, and he collapsed against me. "Oh."

He couldn't even look at his sister.

"But you protested," Killian told Hector. "Like any good brother would do when told his sister was to marry a useless wastrel."

Hector glanced at Paris from the corner of his eye, but nodded. Then he scowled. "But the king isn't poisoning me. That's ridiculous. I protested, but he's the king. He didn't have to listen to me. He certainly didn't have to kill me to have his way."

That, finally, made even Killian pause. He glanced at the soup once more. "You're sure of that? The soup is poisoned. I know the type all too well."

Hector swallowed hard and gave an uncertain nod. His voice was weaker when he spoke. "It doesn't make sense for it to be the king. He really could just ignore my protests and have his way. There's no reason to kill me."

Killian wasn't convinced, but he nodded. I'd gotten that attitude from him many times, when he'd decided I had to figure out the truth for myself. He stood and walked out, and for a moment, I was confused. Just because he knew he wouldn't convince Hector didn't mean that he would give up.

Particularly after the look he'd given the man.

Hector was, admittedly, beautiful. So was Helena. They both looked rather like Paris, so I presumed they had gotten their looks from their father, all three with dark brown hair and warm, glowing brown eyes. But Paris was the most beautiful.

Though... I supposed that could have been a bit of a bias on my part.

Killian came back a moment later with the pack we'd brought with us. He dropped it on the bed next to Hector. "Then we'll stay and work on figuring this out. But for now, you eat only from this."

Hector looked in the bag, and for a moment, his expression said he wanted to argue, but then his belly rumbled. Clearly, he was hungry.

Had he known, in some way, about the poison, without realizing?

"What if we don't figure out who's doing it?" Paris asked in a small voice, like a child asking why justice wasn't universal—why bad things happened to good people sometimes. I tugged him tight against me, squeezing his shoulder.

Killian looked up at him with that roguish smile of his, that had been melting hearts harder than Paris's for decades. Then he turned it, full force, on Hector. "Well, there's always room for one more in Crane lands."