The Doors of Stone

The three-part plot

A few weeks later, the heat of summer was in its fullest grip. Everywhere in the commonwealth, from the taverns, to the docks, to elevated dining establishments - weather-related oneupmanship seized an almost ceremonial place in communal discourse. There is no clearer evidence of unusual weather than its nearly galvanic pull on stories of bigger storms, more horrific floods, or longer winters common folk once lived through. As if determined to join this illustrious club, the heat bore down on the commonwealth with all the subtlety of a vice. With each passing day, more people succumbed to the heat, making the Medica a very busy place. Mola and her fellows had taken to sleeping at the medica, a practice generally reserved for containing infectious spread. But with the main ailment being heat stroke, the medica was allotted extra heat pumps, meaning the physickers were less likely to become patients if they slept where they worked. The artificery was closed to new projects - the only kilns still in use were those master Kilvin deemed uninterruptible; after a re'lar collapsed and nearly fell into a safety hood, only master Kilvin was allowed inside to mind the ongoing flames.
This wasn't the first time I wondered if master Kilvin knew the name of fire, nor would it be the last.
To the disappointment of many, even the deepest, darkest parts of the archives offered no escape. The scrivs had received consent from the chancellor to allocate all available heat pumps from the artificery to stacks and tomes, trying to prevent humidity from warping the precious records. Typically unreadable Master Lorren was visibly agitated, barking orders at scrivs, students, and even his fellow masters. Though I harbored no fondness for Master Lorren, my reverence for the books he protected bordered on fanatical. When the archives called for help with two sluggish heat pumps, I hurried over to assist. The repairs I made brought their functioning so close to the efficiency threshold, that Master Lorren favored me with the barest hint of a smile. I hoped this might help close the chasm that had existed between Lorren and I since the unspeakable candle incident.
Other than book-protecting scrivs, no students had been allowed in the archives for 2 days now, leaving Sim and I with little work to do, and even fewers means of enjoying our unexpected free time. Fela had joined us after a particularly grueling shift at the archives - even her unquestionable loveliness was wilting from the heat. Sim moved quickly to get her fresh water, but the difficulty of her day saw her finish his beer before he even returned to the table. So, there we sat at Ankers, willing our beers to be just a little colder as they made their way to our stomachs.
We were on our second round, accomplishing as little towards cooling us as the first, when to our surprise, Wil quietly pulled a chair to our table and sat down. We hadn't expected him for hours. His face was weary with work and obvious worry.
Sim broke the silence that hung around Wil's entrance.
"Gods body, but you look awful. What happened?"
A distressing thought came to me, so I spoke next. "Is it the archives? Please tell me the heat pumps are still working."
"It is not a problem of heat pumps," Wil said darkly. If he hadn't held the attention of everyone at the table before, he had it now.
"Ambrose was sharing some 'good news' with friends in Tomes. His father is now tenth in line for the throne. This is good news for few others, least of all, the King of Vint."
A stunned silence washed over us. Simmon again was the one to break it.
"WHAT?" he gasped loudly. Fela put her hand on his, gently shushing him as her eyes darted around at the other tables. A loud wagon passed by at just that moment, keeping our conversation from drawing the attention of other customers.
"The second prince regent is dead," Wil explained. "Apparently he had been sick for some time. Trouble walking. Stomach problems. They are saying he has had 'poor constitution' for some years, and that his brother's death finally broke him. If the rumors are to be believed, in the days before his death, he had taken to babbling incoherently, screaming at things not there. The King is not in his right mind, either. They say he sent his royal guards to retrieve his last son from his part of the city, and will not let him leave the royal estate."
Fela looked to Sim, and they exchanged dark, knowing looks.
"What's so strange about that?" I asked, looking back and forth between them. "Wouldn't the King want to protect his only remaining heir?"
"Well, yes, of course," followed Sim. "But it's not as simple as that. Things have been getting out of hand in Vintas ever since Prince Regent Alaitis died in that infantile duel. It's not safe to go anywhere in Vintas now without a full guard. Even with one, you still can't be sure of safe passage, not even in the nobles' lands. It's.. it's been bedlam." His voice trailed off, and Fela nodded, picking up the thread Sim has dropped.
"It's spilling all over," she added seriously. "Even things in Modeg are... strange now. I got a letter from my father only yesterday. He warned me not to travel anytime soon." She looked strangely resigned. Seeing practical, unflappable Fela looking so grave did more to unsettle me than Ambrose's smug joy.

The news hung heavy and quiet at the table - too many thoughts to make space for words. 

Prince Regent Alaitis had died only 3 span ago. It was quite the scandal. When I first heard the news, my thoughts had jumped unbidden to a conversation I once had with the Maer. He had said the vintish custom of allowing arms at court was "barbaric", and that it would bring the king "grief in time" - words more prophetic than either of us likely anticipated.
My thoughts touched again my time spent with Alveron... and all at once, the second prince regent's illness rung a sound in my head like a great brass bell. It sent a chill down my spine that did nothing to sooth me from the heat.

The Maer, wasting away for years. Staying ill, but not dying.
I recalled the symptoms of lead poisoning. Stomach issues, neurological impact, impaired gait.
And... Infertility.

Up until that moment, I could never imagine a plausible motive for what Cauticus had done. He had a lifestyle and court position any archanist would envy - lavish to the extreme.
Any archanist - but not every archanist.
Thoughts crashed in my mind like hailstones on a wheat field. The Surthen family, lost at sea. Devy's strong suspicions that Ambrose's family had somehow been involved - all the more plausible, given their well-whispered ties to piracy. Simmons' certainty that Ambrose had caused the shipwreck that nearly ended me on my way to the Maer.
The Jakis family also had ties to Cauticus.
The thought of Ambrose on the throne had me on my feet without realizing I had stood. All three of my companions looked up at me in alarm. At that moment, I could hear nothing over the realizations deafening my mind.
"Kvothe?" Fela rose and tried to meet my unseeing gaze. In a second, Sim was at her side, placing one shoulder and his arm between her and I. That protective gesture - as if to protect her from ME - startled me enough to snap back to the room.
"Careful," warned Wilem, rising tentatively to his own feet. "Good news does not follow his eyes looking like that."
"Shhhh!" spat Simmon, "He's alright now, I think." He turned back to me. "Kvothe?" Sim spoke slowly, softly, and deliberately. "I'm asking you three times to sit back down." I glanced around and saw a patron or two watching me warily. I sat back in my chair. Sim casually feigned cleaning something off of Fela's shirt, and as she played along, onlookers lost interest.
"That was cleverly done," Wil whispered to Sim before turning to me.
"What happened? You have that look. The one meaning I will not be sleeping much."
Him and me both.
I had questions. And if I was right, there was only one person I could think of who might have answers.
I needed to find Threpe.