Feena’s hands clenched on her lap. “My lord… I did all I could. Herbs can only do so much. A wound needs time, rest, and proper tending. I am but a simple healer?—”
“A simple healer?” the king snapped, cutting her off. “A simple healer does not mend wounds overnight.”
Feena’s breath hitched. “That… I cannot explain. I did nothing with Muir’s wound beyond what I did to Adira’s wound.”
The king’s eyes flared hot with frustration. He wheeled around, his long coat whipping behind him like a dark banner.
“So, you are not the one,” he said sharply, each word falling like a blow. “You are not the healer who defies death. You are not the one I have sought.”
Feena bowed her head, anxious over what the consequences of her failure would mean. “Nay, my king. I never claimed to be.”
The king’s fury simmered just beneath his skin. He turned sharply toward Tavish. “This is a waste of time. They will all remain here in Caerith until I determine their use.”
Tavish nodded, though a faint rise of his brow hinted at disagreement.
Elara felt Dar’s arm tighten around her as though bracing for the king’s next command.
The king’s gaze fell upon the newly wedded pair, cold and calculating. “You two are bound now. You both will remain here until I decide otherwise.”
The words struck like the clamp of a shackle around their wrists.
Elara inched forward before Dar could stop her.
“My king,” she said, her voice steady though her pulse raced. “There may be another way to find this extraordinary healer.”
Dar hissed her name under his breath, a warning, but she ignored him.
The chamber turned silent as all eyes focused on her.
King Dravic tilted his chin ever so slightly and regarded her with a razor-sharp stare. “Speak carefully, herb-scribe. I am not in a forgiving mood.”
Elara met the king’s gaze with a bravery she barely felt. “I offer an alternative.”
She held the king’s interest, her breath steady though her knees wished to tremble. She felt Dar’s presence beside her, solid, simmering with a protectiveness he struggled to contain, since no doubt he thought her foolish for even suggesting she could somehow solve this.
“My king,” she began carefully, “if you allow me to use my visions, I can help you find the healer you seek.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Tavish’s brows rose. Muir shifted uneasily. Even Feena’s eyes widened in warning.
“Visions,” the king repeated, his voice low, his interest sharpened. “You offer visions as aid? Explain yourself.”
Elara swallowed, her mouth dry, but she would not falter… too much depended on this.
“My visions come often when something near is about to happen,” she said. “When danger approaches, when a truth is ready to be revealed, when a path is shifting beneath my feet. They do not arrive by my will, but by something… greater.”
The king stepped closer, his eyes narrowing with assessment. “This sounds like the dark craft of Driochmor.”
“I cannot speak for its origin, my king,” she said quickly. “I only know it has never brought harm—only warning. Only guidance.”
“And you would use this… blight… to find the impossible healer?”
“Aye,” she said firmly. “The one whose touch mends beyond nature’s means is out there. If Muir’s wound healed with such speed, then she walks somewhere in Caerith even now.”
Muir puffed up proudly, lifting his arm. “That was no simple healing, my king. Feena told the truth, her salve was naught more than herbs and honey, yet I woke nearly whole.”
Feena bowed her head. “I did nothing extraordinary, my king. Nothing that would explain such a speedy recovery.”
The king’s attention snapped back to Elara. “Continue.”