One flicker of fear and Fulcruchen gained control of his features. Elymas knew this moment of dignity would soon be gone. The poison was relentless in its breakdown of bodily functions, and already Fulcruchen had begun his dance with death. Urine soaked sheets, limbs uncontrolled, a froth of saliva steamed from both sides of his mouth. Soon it would be time for the whimpering, the pleas, the last-minute bargains with death.

         “I can save you,” he lied. “I have the power.”

         There was no antidote for Lud Sellum. Fulcruchen’s leg jerked under him, caught in a spasm. Elymas watched, conceding him a certain amount of respect. He’d seen men beg for the blade at this point.

         “You made a fool of me tonight,” Elymas continued. “You and your trembling King. Did you think I’d allow that?” No response. Fulcruchen’s breathing was harsh. “But I can save you if you ask.”

         Fulcruchen looked not at him but beyond him, focusing on a corner in the room. Elymas turned. There was nothing to see, yet Fulcruchen’s expression had actually grew peaceful. 

         Elymas shrilled, “Look at me, damn you!”

         Surprisingly, Fulcruchen did. Elymas watched as he gathered breath enough to speak. 

         Three words, spoken with clarity.

         “His plan failed.”

         “Whose plan? Mine?”

         Fulcruchen didn’t answer. Elymas nearly struck him but at the last second, he brought down his arm. It would do no good to strike, the man’s nerve endings were dead.

         Elymas thought of another torture.

         “I poisoned Ranald as well. Your king is dead.” Fulcruchen’s eyes were upon him again. Elymas smoothed the sleeves of his robe. “Now, I’ll rule. The sacred garden and the city are mine.”

         The old man was making wet, bubbling sounds. Fulcruchen opened his eyes one last time and with the clarity of those about to pass into the Deep, muttered, “Fool.”

         The Earth Skyll struck. Fulcruchen didn’t feel it because he was dead.

         He’d left the councilor’s chamber immediately and entered the Great Throne Room where he’d rung for a servant to bring him three bottles of Frennin White. The vintage was royal, not served except at the King’s command but the servant, a wizened old man, didn’t raise an eyebrow. He returned a short time later with three bottles and a goblet on a large tray.

         Now, Elymas sat on the throne — where he belonged. The fact that he was sitting in the royal chair while the King lay dead by his hand was an irony only he could fully enjoy. 

         Tonight’s feast had been thick with talk of the earth child. The talk would die down at the news of the deaths, but he knew the respite was temporary. Too many eyes had met his only to look away, too many conversations had stopped at his approach. The latter was not unusual; Elymas knew himself to be intimidating, but tonight’s silences had been strained, the whispers starting up even as he turned to go.

         He’d find the earth child and have it killed. The Whitehair in the dungeon would also be eliminated, though earlier he’d stopped the Red Robes from killing him. It would be simple enough to declare him a traitor and blame him for the King’s death, but that was a stretch. Also, Elymas didn’t want trouble with the Gibbor. Best to release him and allow a stray arrow do its work. Several of the Red Robes were excellent archers. 

         Laveth would hardly be an obstacle. She’d come late to the banquet hall tonight, looking harried and helpless. The Peasant Queen. She was a tender morsel, whom he’d woo with dependency, the subtlest form of control. Every decision made in Casoria would be his, but her seal would be upon the scroll. 

He’d been drinking too quickly for the shadows that skittered on the floor were skittering on the walls as well. Nor were they gentle leaves or darting minnows, but floating monsters with vicious teeth, joined in unnatural ways. A fin where an eye should be, a tail protruding from a gaping mouth. When they swam, their movements were hideous.

         The shadows flattened themselves against the stones, changing into human grotesques. A tightness began in his chest. Elymas placed the goblet on the tray and rubbed his eyes with his fists. Had he seen a woman sporting three boars’ heads at the entrance doors? 

         Dementia sometimes occurred in the final stages of Lud Sellum poisoning, and Elymas wondered if this was happening to him. He visualized himself in the workroom, counting out the drops. Had any spilled?   No.  He shook his head, causing the room to spin. 

         He heard a movement at the doors and focused. The woman with the boars’ heads was gone, but in her place was a form, walking toward him and billowed in purple smoke. It was impossible to tell the gender. Elymas strained forward. He could now make out an arm, a leg, a foot (a rather small one) walking through the shadows which now subsided on the floor. 

         Suddenly, a giant gar leapt up — one hooked tooth, head bobbing back and forth, inches from his face. He screamed, and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the gar was gone, but his high -pitched screams echoed. 

         There was another sound as well.

         Laughter.

         Someone was laughing at him.