The fevers returned, always followed by chills. The portent of death, too. Sometimes he could hear the thoughts of dying men; other times he saw gouged eyes, naked bones, the ripped bellies of horses tumbling down hills. Then there’d be the respite from all aches, and he’d felt well enough to plough his wife’s belly with a son. He’d promptly named the boy Ruse. 

“I’ve out-danced death itself!” he’d shouted tossing the babe in the air. “Who would have thought me capable of such a ruse!”

Then the ague would return and Ranald could hardly lift his head, much less the boy.

Now, he was dying. He thought he’d learned all there was of pain 

from battle, but this was a hunger that gnawed at his bones. The picture of kingly strength he’d hope to present to the populace, as well as the group of acolytes come to try their skills for service, had vanished. Again, he could barely hold up his head. 

            For the past two nights, he’d refused the bitter quince colored tonic carried nightly to his room. His mind was clearer for it, but his body cried out for the relief it brought. Tonight, he knew he wouldn’t dismiss the servant when the rap came at his chamber door. 

            But he could and would deal with the horrific evidence spilled before his throne, now when his mind was clear and the ground solid beneath his feet. He knew much was rotten at court. He knew Elymas took too much upon himself. Had he really given the seal of approval for the Earth Skyll’s  red-robed band? Elymas claimed he had, but Ranald couldn’t remember. 

            The torn sleeve was damning.