Wet Fire

The Cursed (E9)

Blythe

His dark blue eyes fluttered open. The first thing Blythe saw was the swaying grey drapery above his bed, and the wooden bedposts from which they hung. The balcony doors were open, sending a cool salty breeze inwards.

Blythe felt odd.  He had an intense headache--and he was cold, extremely cold, even under several layers of fur blankets.

"My prince? Blythe?" said a familiar voice.

Blythe turned his head and saw his personal servant, Grisha, standing in the corner of the room. He was just a few years younger than Blythe, but was much more controlled. Blythe had become so used to seeing him stand there in that particular corner that he seemed to bend in with the scenery of the room, even the tunic he was wearing was matched with the deep blue of the velvet curtains. The boy's greasy black hair was wilder than usual, as if he had just woken up from a long nap.

Blythe shook his head and raised his fists to his eyes to rub out the sleep. "I feel--rather ill, Grisha."

"Would you like me to fetch a glass of water?"

"Yes."

Grisha exited the room hastily and left him alone, all alone. There was nothing worse than the feeling of being sick and alone.

What had happened?  He remembered touching the bright green gemstone, and then nothing else. It was strange, very strange.

His serving boy entered the room again, this time carrying a polished silver tray with  glass cup filled with ice and water. He brought it over to Blythe's bedside and stood there, waiting. Blythe reached over and grabbed the glass. The cool water made him feel substantially better, and he quickly drank the whole thing.

"Thank you, Grisha." Blythe said, setting the glass back down onto the silver tray. "Where is my mother? Did she come by, or was she too busy with her weaving?" The queen had been rather fond of weaving lately.

"Your mother was here, but she left about an hour ago. She sat at your bedside for days."

Days?  "Grisha, how long was I asleep?"

The serving boy looked embarrassed, his eyes glancing quickly around the room. "It was about five days, my prince."

"What!? " Blythe sat up in bed immediately.

"No! No, my prince!" Grisha begged, "Stay in bed and rest. You are too weak to be up and about."

That made him angry. I may  be sick, but I am not weak anymore. "What are you talking about? Let me be the judge of that myself." he snapped.

Grisha backed off and lowered his head, "The castle healer ordered me to keep you in bed until further notice, my prince. "

"The castle healer does not command me, Grisha. I will be king one day."

"I--" he stuttered, "I do not..."

What was he so afraid of? Blythe had wondered why Grisha acted like such a child around him. He was always so sweaty and nervous, like if he made one wrong move, Blythe would have his fingers chopped off.  He wasn't that cruel.

Then, Blythe started to hear voices grow louder outside of his bedroom door. Grisha stopped muttering to himself and again descended into the shadows of the curtains, out of sight. There were people coming--at least three, but maybe more--and they were in a heated argument. One voice, he recognized as his father's.

The king entered the door first, his thick blue velvet cape swinging in behind him, his brow was twisted as if he was angry. He was followed the the castle healer, a thick bald man; Sharppe, looking as thin and sly as ever; and two other men, which Blythe did not recognize.