Queen Savella had been clad in full Centaur armor that day, ensconced behind the rock wall. She’d drawn her sword, demanding the barricaded door be opened so she could fight alongside her people. Thankfully, Templar Khristos convinced the enraged monarch her brain would be put to better use than her brawn.
Rhy breathed in through his nose and out from his mouth. Those days are over. His battle-scarred armor, packed in the trunk, hadn’t seen the light of day for years.
But he’d kept that armor. Just in case.
At the base of the craggy cliff, Dryas’s equine body gleamed in the mid-morning sun. Rhy stepped to match strides beside him.
Dryas gave him the once-over. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.” He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I might have two legs right now, but they’ll keep up with your four any day.”
“Your respiration has increased, and you’re sweating. You weren’t out of breath on the way over.”
Yeah, tell me something I don’t know. The thought of heading through the opening in the rock wall, into the realm of Queen Savella, set his teeth on edge. He took a deep breath and held it, but the pressure in his head kicked the damn tic into action on his cheek. Air left his lungs in a hard exhale.
“I’ve been checking out your ass for the past hour. Maybe I’m turned on.”
Dryas wrinkled his nose and flicked his tail, the course strands smacking Rhy in the back of the head. “Go to hell.”
Living there now . . . .
Gentle winds whistled far above the canopy, fresh scents of pine filled the air. Insects droned among the carpet of wild flowers celebrating the warm spring day. Except for ambient sounds of the forest, all was quiet.
Just like back in the day when survival depended upon hearing the approach of sneaky Nymph warriors camouflaged in their tree form. Back then, anticipation accelerated his heart and sped up his breathing—much how it reacted today.
Rhycious hitched the backpack higher on his shoulders and switched his medical bag to his other clammy palm. The last psychology article he’d read on how to temper emotional control suggested finding a neutral zone in which to retreat within his mind.
A happy place, of all things.
With the boulder gateway only feet away, he dug deep into his psyche and came up with—
A dark haired, doe-eyed Nymph. Her smooth column of neck begged his lips to caress its length. Shadows along feminine collarbones teased his tongue to investigate. An ample cleavage hinted at what lie hidden beneath her soft blouse. And all that creamy skin between her firm rounded breasts, and long supple legs.
“Well, fuck me, it worked,” Rhy thought aloud, amazed at himself.
“Huh?”
“Nothing, ignore me.” Any other time, he would have enjoyed taking a moment to dissect why his mind switched gears, but the boulder ahead pivoted inward on silent hinges.
The passage open, and they hurried inside without delay.
Pleasant humid temperatures embraced his body like the steam bath caves of southern Boronda. He inhaled, pulling the familiar fragrances of spice, beeswax, and citrus deep into his lungs. The tunnel’s natural lighting glowed from embedded specs of thermoluminescent minerals.
Rhy rebuked the ideology of Trolls building the palace. Any Centaur worth his fighting hide knew the lowbred creatures were incapable of architectural magnificence in any magnitude.
The low hum of a hundred voices echoed through the hand-carved entry. Dirt covering the downward slant muffled their foot and hoof steps to a dull thud. Rounding a sharp turn, the path opened to the ground floor vestibule.
A sea of thick bluegrass grew underfoot, grand as any Persian carpet. Sunlight sparkled through cracks in the cave’s ceiling, spotting the grass in a sporadic design. It reminded him of recessed canned lighting used in Willow Bay restaurants.
Rhy glanced down. Grass blades grew to his booted ankles. “Is Ralphie still the landscaper?”
“He . . . is no longer employed in that position.”
The hesitant answer wasn’t missed, but neither was it his business. If Ralphie found a better job, may the gods bless him. If he’d gotten his ass fired, well—surveying the overgrown lawn, it wasn’t surprising.
Dryas led him through the enormous jade archways and turned toward the left half of the double staircase. He galloped up the stairs, taking them four at a time, and pawed an impatient hoof on the landing.
Rhy followed at a jog, and waved him on.
From there, a volley of twists and turns down more hallways brought them to the outer sanctum of Queen Savella’s private rooms.
The exterior door guard knocked quietly, and then bade Rhy to enter.
Dryas brought his right fist to his chest and bowed from the waist. Straightening, he slapped a friendly hand on Rhy’s shoulder. “Please let me know if you require my assistance. Bastian here will know how to find me.” He turned on a back hoof, and trotted down the hall.
“Well, alrighty then.” Rhycious noticed Kempor Hippolyte beyond the doorway. Tall and sleek, her human body moved with warrior grace, chestnut ponytail swinging in time to her steps. She carried enough weaponry to weigh down an ox, but it wouldn’t dare encumber the inner sanctum guard. A personal bodyguard to Her Majesty for more than fifty years, Hippy and Savella were the best of friends.
There had been a time when Rhy thought he and Hippy would be good together. She didn’t expect more than he offered and handled his most explosive mood swings. Months passed before he realized Hippolyte’s first duty would never be to him, or any other romantic love. It would always be to Queen Savella.
She was forever the devoted guard.
The few times they’d shared lip-lock action had been nice. Not Richter scale magnitude, but friends-with-benefits good. One night when she had woken him unexpectedly, his startle effect caused him to grab her by the throat. Spears of bruising marred her neck for days, crushing his appetite, and weighing heavily on his mind.
How she had managed to stroke his face while almost being choked to death was beyond him. Her training of remaining calm in the face of danger was a testament to the skilled soldier she’d become. Hippy knew immediately he’d been blind in PTSD and saw her as a Wood Nymph enemy. They never spoke of it, but they were never again intimate either. Nonetheless, he remained thankful for her friendship.
Another visual sweep of the room showed it clear of Templar Khristos, the crusty buggar of the old school and ancient opinions. For a clergyman, his heart wasn’t forgiving, and Rhy was glad to not be blessed with his presence.
“Rhycious! Thank Bacchus and Pan you’re here.” Worry creased Hippy’s brow, the edges of her flattened lips whitened. “Come, Savella’s getting worse and says the pain is unbearable.” She hurried into the royal bedchamber.
“How long has she been ill?” He shrugged off the backpack and dropped it on the grass floor near Savella’s bed.
“She didn’t feel well after breakfast with the Protectorate of Domains and her advisors.”
Meeting with the liaison of Boronda Forest’s mythological creatures would curdle anyone’s stomach. The newly elected Satyr acted too full of himself these days, neglecting to remember his position was an appointed one, not anointed.
Rhycious sat on the edge of the queen’s bed. She was facing him, curled in a tight fetal position, covered by a thin sheet. Drool leaked from the corner of her mouth.
“Your Majesty.” He touched a palm to her forehead. “Hippy, I need cool cloths.”
Quick boot heels thudded across the soft floor; Hippolyte gave her orders out the sanctum door. A light touch on his arm brought his attention back to the queen.
“Rhycious.” Savella’s dark brown eyes searched his, pupils dilated, flushed with fever. Suddenly, her mouth twisted in a fierce grimace, both eyes screwed down tight. She moaned and rocked inward, curling her arms around her middle.
“I’m here, Your Majesty.” He slipped off the mattress and searched for a container th
at would hold liquid. Not finding anything nearby, he hauled himself to the other side of the bed, glancing beneath the bedside table.
His gaze flew to areas farther away, near the grouped sitting chairs.
Irritation crawled up his spine, enflaming his anger every step of the way. In his haste, his foot caught the edge of a potted plant on the floor, knocking it over and scattering dirt everywhere.
“Shit!” He righted the plant, ripping leaves off in the process.
“What the hell are you doing?” Hippy stood in the chamber’s doorway, clean cloths and small pan of water in her hands. Confusion mixed with aggravation, her blue eyes flashed a warning.
“Where is it? I can’t find the bucket.” He spoke fast and moved faster.
“What bucket are you—”
Stepping over the ruined plant, he rushed to look behind a deep red feinting couch. He jabbed his fingers through his hair, scraping back the loose strands. I’ve got to have it. Where, where, where . . . . He felt the roar of frustration at the back of his throat.
“Rhy, stop.” Hippy stepped in his path and forced him to look at her. “What are you looking for?” She held the washcloths against his chest, little pawns in an effort to subdue him.
“I need to see what the contents of her stomach were. I need to find that barf bucket.”
His breath came quicker. He couldn’t look about the chamber fast enough. Squeezing muscles contracted his chest and worked up into his esophagus. The pressure of time, slipping away like hourglass sand, ratcheted his anxiety, and increased his heartbeats per minute.
“I hope to hell someone hasn’t thrown it out.” Savella might be dying! His pulse raced, pounding the speed of a drum roll. He needed to examine her internal contents, and he needed to do it now! Did no one else feel the annihilating burden but him?
Crushing weight of anxious pressure tore into him, screaming at him to hurry. His fingers ripped paths through his disheveled hair.
“Rhy.” Hippy nudged his arm. “Rhycious!”
His legs turned to rubber and both eyes throbbed like they’d detonate out of his head at any second. He scrubbed his face with both hands and took a deep breath, then focused on Hippolyte.
She spoke in a low, slow voice. “Easy, bud. It’s all good. I tucked the container off to the side, over there.” She pointed to a chair near the head of the queen’s bed, the bucket in question beneath it. “I put the water and towels you wanted on the table. A cold washcloth is on Savella’s forehead.”
Rhy nodded his thanks. Gods, he felt like an ass. He couldn’t even hold it together for an hour to treat the queen of his people.
His fucking head. That damn war. All the shit people expected of him. Anger bloomed, exploding anxiety out of the way. He rubbed his brow and came away with sweaty fingers.
“I’m going to get you something to drink—” Hippy began. He glanced at her sharply. “No, not alcohol,” she said, immediately reading his expression. “Stop giving me that look, I know better than that.”
Hippy disappeared from the chamber and left him to calm his frantic thoughts. Slow things down, one item at a time.
A low groan floated out and pulled him back to work.
Isn’t it ironic, treating those in sickness and misery when I’m filled with both?
Retracing his steps, he picked up his black medical bag and opened it with shaky fingers. From inside, he removed Savella’s patient chart and a thermometer. “Your Majesty. Could you keep this under your tongue for a moment?” It was time to move on and check her vitals.
His fingers on her inner wrist, he counted pulses off against the black face of his watch. Accelerated heartbeats, and then decelerated. Irregular in every way.
Lowering her hand, he took her pulse along the carotid artery. Again, there was strong evidence in the alterations of her cardiac rhythm thumping beneath her skin.
He removed the thermometer and read the black numbers: one-hundred and ten point two— five degrees above normal for Centaurs. Cramping and fever, mental notes.
Rhycious lifted the sheet and peered down at Savella’s curled body. Angry red dots freckled her upper chest, adding to her growing list of symptoms. He was sure if he lifted her beige tank top, she’d have them covering her torso, as well.
Rhy took a moment to write his finding down on her chart. After scanning over her previous history, he put the chart aside and picked up the barf bucket. Holding his breath, he examined the sloshing contents.
Amidst whatever Her Majesty had eaten and the drifting yellow bile, tiny bits of flotsam bobbed in and out of the goo.
The outer door closed, followed by fast moving feet. Hippy’s boots stopped a few feet away.
“Oh, my gods. What are you doing?”
He thrust the container at her. “Look, see the pieces of green?”
“Ugh, no. And no, thank you.” She set his hot tea on the side table. Crossed silver crescents emblazoned the side of the steaming black mug. The same symbols he wore on his armband.
Rhy ignored the tea and grabbed his black bag. “Do you know what she ate today?” There wasn’t much in the vomit, except liquid.
Hippy folded her arms and gazed at the mosaic crown molding, gathering her thoughts. “Water when she first arose, and tea with a croissant breakfast.”
He dismissed the bread. There wasn’t any of it in the bucket. “Who made the tea?”
Hippolyte’s back stiffened. Her eyes pierced him in narrowed slants. “It came from the kitchen, as all the prepared food does. What the fuck is it?”
“Poison.” Rhy opened the aluminum bottle, thankful that Odigos the spirit guide had led him to bring it. Stress peeled off him and shed as if it were snakeskin. Licking his dry lips, he pushed himself to get back in the game.
He popped a straw into the bottle. “Hippy, help Her Majesty sit up so she can drink this.”
“What’re you giving her?” She came around the bed and slid in behind the queen to lift her shuddering, cramped body. Savella’s face grimaced, her stomach muscles heaving.
“It’s a chloral detoxifier. It’ll offset the glycosides of digitalis and convallatoxin—whichever poison this happens to be.” At Hippy’s blank stare, he added, “It neutralizes the toxins she ingested.”
Savella opened her watery eyes. Deep lines bracketed the sides of her twisted mouth. “Poison? Hippy . . . . ”
“I’m already on it. Drink some of this first.”
Satisfied when a few sips managed to slide down her throat, Hippy nodded to Rhy to take over propping Savella’s back.
Rhycious moved into position, supporting the queen as she curled in on herself. “You’ll be fine, Your Majesty. Whoever did this missed their mark.” He held the canister while she slowly sipped more remedy. Her body relaxed, cramped muscles unfurled, responding to his herbs.
Poisoned by toxic flowers.
He’d bet his new hoof pick that someone in the royal kitchen was responsible. Someone had extracted liquid from the plant’s leaves, and mixed it into her tea. Each plant contained a different amount of toxins, so potency would vary. The killer wouldn’t know how many leaves to press to make a deadly brew. Too much, and the taste is affected. Too little and … the gods saved the queen.
Hippy stopped at the room’s threshold and turned toward them. “Bastian is right outside the sanctum doors. Would you like me to send Mariam in for you?” Savella’s grooming assistant would no doubt be wringing her hands in worry somewhere.
“No, thank you. But please find Khristos for me.” Savella lurched forward and groaned, almost knocking the bottle out of Rhy’s hand. Doubled over, she gritted out, “I need to speak with him and Rhycious together.”
“Sip some more, Your Majesty.” Rhy coaxed her. “The tea will ease your nausea and fever.” The herbs in the remedy were already working; her cramping had lessened considerably.
Fist over her heart, Hippy bowed low. She flicked her eyes over him and the prone regent, and then left on quiet feet.
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br /> “Rhycious, thank you for coming so quickly.”
“There’s no need to thank me, Your Majesty. I’m honored to serve you.” And that was the truth. Without Savella’s unwavering leadership in the face of intense warfare, the Centaur clans would have been reduced to double-digit numbers.
Clutching her aching gut with one arm, the queen used her free hand to pat his arm with affection. “You may not be so honor bound after I talk with you and Khristos.”
* * *
It was well after dark before Rhycious left the royal palace on four stiff legs. During the briefing with Templar Khristos, he’d excused himself from the sanctum of Queen Savella’s room to transition in private.
He’d stayed longer than necessary in her opulent restroom. He’d needed space to calm his raging temper before rejoining their conversation.
Politics. Investigations. The same as most other governments, Centaur legislation passed laws according to whomever was most influential. There was nothing new in that department, except what Savella had asked of him.
Rhycious tried on one idea after another to present his argument of why he wasn’t qualified to help lead the investigation into the political unrest.
First off, he didn’t have enough experience for the job. Allow someone with the education to perform the delicate task. Secondly, the busy Festival of the Trees celebration would start in a week. There wouldn’t be time to concentrate on finding the party responsible for undermining the Queen’s authority. His last excuse—he and the High Priest didn’t see eye to eye. They never had, and they never would.
His prepared ten-point disqualification summary fell on deaf ears. “Khristos will work alongside you in an advisory guidance position.” Savella waved her hand, dismissing his excuses.
He’d been duly appointed, and his gut sank.
The ever-present rage had threatened to spew forth. He’d clamped his mouth shut, taking his royal commandment on the chin.
While she sipped the last of his herbal remedy in her quarters, Queen Savella had continued with their meeting. “According to my spies, the corruption lies within the House of Unified Species.” She kept a network of operatives strategically placed throughout the kingdom. “Rhycious, I trust you to find the culprits and avert an uprising.”
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