Albrecht would have followed the fleeing figure, had the heart monitor not blared an alarm. The king had flatlined. “Get help!” he exclaimed. While Giselle ran off to do as he bid, he pulled back the blankets covering King Horace. There was no blood nor any visible wounds on his body, yet he was dying. Albrecht could sense a miasma radiating from him. Poison? The IV hooked up to his arm seemed an obvious culprit. Albrecht yanked the needle out, then closed his eyes and concentrated. The Jedi had taught him how to deal with toxins, but he’d only practiced it in a controlled setting—and certainly not with the leader of his homeworld’s life hanging in the balance.
Moments passed like hours while the Padawan focused his power. A dark green liquid began to trickle from the hole in the king’s arm, though Albrecht had no way of knowing if it was poison or medicine. He couldn’t differentiate between all the substances floating around in His Majesty’s bloodstream, so he simply drew them all out, willing the king to survive…
The heart monitor finally began to pick up a pulse, albeit with an irregular beat. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Albrecht dared to breathe a sigh of relief—then nearly jumped out of his skin when the king awoke with a sudden gasp. This was followed by a coughing fit and a hoarse attempt at speech.
“What is it?” Albrecht rasped.
Ignoring him, King Horace tried to grasp a cup on his bedside table, but was too weak to reach it. Albrecht peered into the cup, sensing nothing. It was just clear water in a plain vessel.
He looked at the king with scorn. Clean water was a luxury for many Ukatians now, what with the city’s infrastructure destroyed in the bombings. So why should the king have access to it, while the people went thirsty?
He didn’t have to do anything about it, of course. Saving the king’s life had been his duty, but he was under no obligation to give him water. Perhaps he could give it to someone else in the camp. Any one of them would be far more deserving of it, he thought. But there were thousands of displaced people in this camp alone. They couldn’t all drink it, and he didn’t know how to choose which was most worthy.
He seized the cup in both hands, with half a mind to pour it out. Let no one know that it had ever been here. Instead he stared at it, feeling cool ceramic against his palms. A sense of shame washed over him, and he began to feel tears pricking at his eyes. He grit his teeth, trying to force himself not to cry. Where was Giselle? Had she gotten help? Or had the assassin found her first?
He looked at King Horace. This man had shaped the course of his life, and who knew how many others. He was the corruption of their world personified. Albrecht owed much of his suffering and heartache to this sick, old, fat man wheezing in his bed. The cup of water wasn’t just a cup of water, and withholding it wasn’t just about denying the king’s request. It was petty revenge for a lifetime of pain.
So why was he weeping like a child? His throat burned. Maybe he should drink it all himself. He was thirsty too. But he knew in his heart that if he did, he would be no more worthy of it than the king. Nor could the people be saved by this draught. Pouring it out on the ground would solve nothing.
If I can pretend for a moment that nothing lies between or behind us, I will let you drink, he thought, trying to convince himself as he gazed upon the frail monarch. As if you have done nothing to me, and I know nothing about you. I only know that you are thirsty, and this water is clean…
Slowly, carefully, he brought the cup to the king’s lips. At first Horace did not react, and Albrecht wondered if he had fallen back into a stupor. But then he stirred and his mouth opened to let the water in.
Clattering armor and booted feet rapidly approached. Albrecht turned just in time to see Wilhelm the Marshal arrive with his sword drawn, followed by Giselle and a third man who must have been the royal physician. He immediately rushed to the king’s side and began examining him.
In the meantime, the Marshal seized Albrecht by the arm. “I know your face,” he said sternly. “You’re a student of the Jedi. How did you get in here, boy?”
His grip was like iron. Paling, Albrecht faltered at the thought of admitting he had used a mind trick on the guards. “I sensed something was wrong,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “The soldiers weren’t cooperative, so I tricked them into letting us through. If I hadn’t, the king would be dead. I saved his life.”
The Marshal’s gaze flicked toward the doctor. “Well, is he alive?”
“He’s perfectly fine, if a little groggy,” the physician replied, turning to Giselle. “You made it sound as if he were at death’s door.”
“We saw the assassin make his escape,” she said. Spying the severed hand on the ground, she knelt to pick it up, holding it aloft like a gruesome trophy. “Albrecht cut off his hand!”
The Marshal finally released his hold on Albrecht’s arm, snatching the charred hand from her. “This is a Mystic’s dagger,” he said, prying the weapon from its death grip.
“How many one-handed Mystics do you expect to find?” Giselle asked.
Still frowning, the Marshal turned to the physician. “Was the king stabbed?”
“They poisoned the king,” Albrecht was quick to answer, trying not to sound as desperate to be believed as he felt. “His heart had stopped beating. I used the Force to draw the toxin out…”
Eyeing them both, the Marshal walked over to a table at the side of the tent, where food would be laid out. Currently it was bare save for a cooler full of bottled spirits. The Marshal pulled out the drinks and buried the severed hand in the ice. “You two are coming with me,” he said, lugging the cooler under one arm. “Gods willing, the assassin will be in a cell before dawn and dead by dusk.”
Albrecht was still holding the cup, now almost empty. Carefully setting it on the table, he followed Giselle out of the tent, the Marshal trailing behind them.
