The Blind King (4 page)

W
ithin an hour,
the couple was prepared to leave for the castle. Efren climbed silently into
the carriage, followed closely by Ryshel. Once the luggage was loaded, she
signaled the driver to commence their journey. With Efren remaining lost in
thought, her only company was the rattling of the carriage and the thunder of
the horses’ feet.

Ryshel was startled when Efren finally broke the
silence.

“I wonder how my mother is faring,” he said.
“Gannon will not have time to comfort her, and her only daughter is too far
away.” Though his mother had shown him only slightly more affection than his
father, she had doted on her younger son. Gannon, of course, would be busy with
matters of state, leaving the queen with only her servants to lean on. Would
she seek comfort from Efren at all? He doubted it, but he could no longer bare
the silence. He could find no other words to commence conversation.

“I’m sure your mother is well tended to,” Ryshel
reassured him, patting his leg with a soft hand. “I worry more for Gannon. With
the king’s illness progressing so rapidly, he has had little time to prepare
himself.”

“Gannon is strong,” he replied, “and he has been
preparing for this his entire life.”

They reached the castle grounds early the
following morning. The serving staff had been outfitted in mourning clothes,
and the mood inside the castle was somber. No one would be allowed to laugh or
make merry until a full week had passed. Gannon’s coronation would be carried
out quickly, and he would have to meet with his council immediately following
the ceremony. Efren did not envy his brother the task ahead. He was relieved to
be spared the burden of becoming king.

After stepping out of the carriage, Efren took
Ryshel’s arm. “We should see to the queen first,” he said.

“Of course,” she replied.

Slowly they ascended a spiral staircase and made
their way down the long corridor to the queen’s chambers. To their surprise,
the door stood open. Servants were running back and forth carrying various
items.

“Not that one, idiot,” the queen’s voice sounded
from inside.

Efren sighed and stepped inside the room. Ryshel
squeezed his arm slightly, hoping to give him strength.

Nearing the queen, he bowed slightly and said,
“Your Majesty. How are you, Mother?”

“Terrible,” she sobbed. Her voice was hoarse from
both screaming and crying. Looking Ryshel up and down, she asked, “Are you with
child?”

“I am,” she responded with a slight smile.

“Well, there’s no danger of the child being born
blind,” the queen informed her. “Your husband was born normal. The doctors lied,
but I know it to be true. I believe it was an infection that claimed his sight.
It wasn’t my fault.” She walked over to a chest full of dresses and began
sorting through them, throwing many of them onto the floor. “Not these!”

A servant rushed to her side to collect the fallen
gowns. The queen slumped down onto the floor and buried her head in her hands.
Instinctively, Ryshel went to her side to comfort her. Composing herself, the
queen patted her daughter-in-law’s arm and nodded.

“Are you preparing to leave?” Ryshel asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “My son has seen fit to send
me away. I am only too happy to oblige.”

“Where will you go?” Efren asked with concern. He
had never been close to his mother, but he cared for her well-being.

“To an estate in the east near the coast,” she
replied. “I might do some traveling at some point.” Turning her attention back
to her servants, her face became visibly annoyed. “Can’t you do anything
right?” she shouted. The girls scattered, attempting to avoid the queen’s
wrath.

“Will you stay for the coronation?” Efren asked.

“No,” she replied. “It is to be a small affair,
and my presence is not needed.” With those words, the queen collapsed onto her
bed.

Ryshel rushed to her, followed by the servants who
had witnessed the spectacle.

“What’s happened?” Efren asked. He heard the
commotion but was unaware of his mother’s condition.

“She’s fainted,” Ryshel responded.

“Should I fetch a doctor?”

“No, she’s coming around.”

The queen sat up and stared into the distance
unspeaking. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

Ryshel approached her husband and quietly said,
“I’ll stay and tend to her. Why don’t you go and speak with Gannon? Your mother
will be all right. She just needs rest.” Looking over her shoulder at the
queen, she added, “In time, her wounds will heal.”

Efren nodded slowly. He kissed Ryshel’s forehead
before stepping out into the hallway. There was nothing he could do for the
queen now. Alone he walked along the corridor to his brother’s chambers. It was
easy to follow the stone corridors of the castle in which he had lived all his
life. Though this was his first unaccompanied walk through the castle, he had
no trouble finding his way. Casually, he touched his fingers to the stone walls
as he continued through the hallway.

Gannon saw his elder brother approaching and
rushed to his side. To Efren’s surprise, he grabbed him and squeezed him
tightly.

“It’s good to see you,” Gannon said. “I wish it
were on a happier occasion.” His father’s sudden death had shaken him, but he
had been groomed for command his entire life. He felt prepared to ascend the
throne.

“I have missed you these past months,” Efren
replied. After a pause, he added, “Your Majesty.”

“Not for a few moments yet,” he replied. “The
ceremony will be small, with only a few dozen witnesses present. I have no
desire to overshadow the mourning period for our father.” He paused and stared
at the ground for a moment. “Do you regret being overlooked for the throne?” he
asked in a serious tone. It had bothered him over the years to know how easily
their father had dismissed Efren’s abilities. His blindness had not impeded his
intelligence in any way, and Efren had been the one responsible for most of
Gannon’s political knowledge. His tutors bored him, but his brother had a way
of explaining things that made it interesting to a young boy. In a way, he had
been a more devoted teacher than the king. Though Gannon had spent the past few
years involved in the King’s Council, it was Efren who had a clever mind for matters
of state. Gannon preferred military training and strategy.

“I have no desire for the throne,” Efren said.
“You are my king.”

Gannon nodded, staring at his brother. “I will
need you at my side,” he declared. “You and Ryshel will come back to court and
remain here. I shall name you my First Advisor.”

Efren could not refuse the position, even though
it would cost him the freedom he had recently won. His brother was king, and
his word was law. Though his only desire was to live a quiet life in the
country, he would now be forced to reside at court. Until his brother gave him
leave, he would remain at his side. Once again he was trapped within the cold
stone walls of the castle.

“T
here couldn’t
be a more perfect time to strike!” King Tyrol didn’t bother to hide his
excitement. “King Nilan is experienced, but his son remains untested in true
battle. This period of transition is just what we need.” He clasped his hands
together, a wide smile spreading across his face. All of his plans were about
to come to fruition.

“Good,” Ivor replied.
“My troops are growing restless. What are your orders?”

“Begin invading the
border towns. Make sure there are plenty of survivors.”

“Why?” Ivor was
puzzled by the command. Surely dead citizens would send a stronger message than
living ones.

“We need them to
carry the message of our strength. They must spread fear to their neighbors.
When they speak our names, they will quake with terror.”

Ivor rolled his
eyes. “How could I forget? Your glory depends on such stories.”

Tyrol gave his son
a scathing look. “Indeed it does. Each subsequent village we take will become
easier. Citizens will flee rather than fight a hopeless battle.” He paused a
moment and added, “Make sure you send a strong message. Torture the town leaders,
and make it spectacular.”

“Of course,
Father,” Ivor replied. “We wouldn’t want them thinking you’ve gone soft.” He
turned and strode from the room, leaving the king behind to bask in his own
glory. Outside, the soldiers had begun preparations for a march. There were
horses enough for the commanders, but the majority would have to travel on
foot. The towns along the border were small, and heavy cavalry would not be
necessary.

Ivor stepped inside the smithy near the palace.
Hammers were clanging, and the air was darkened by smoke. The furnaces were
working overtime, as were the metal smiths. At the sight of their prince, the
men stopped hammering and bowed their heads.

“Is my armor ready?” he asked the largest man.

“It is, Your Highness,” the man replied. Rushing
to the rear of the shop, he approached a boy who was lazily polishing a piece
of plated mail. Slapping the boy on the side of his head, he demanded, “Bring
the prince’s armor, you lazy little good-for-nothing.”

The boy glared at his master but promptly rose to
his feet to obey. In a flash, he retrieved the prince’s items and handed them
to the smith.

Inspecting each piece closely as he walked, the
smith presented the armor to Prince Ivor. “Some of my finest work, my lord,” he
said proudly.

The prince looked it over approvingly. “It will
suffice, I suppose.” Though it was well crafted, Ivor preferred not to give
compliments to those who were beneath him.

“You,” the smith said, pointing at the youth.
“Carry this for the prince.” He shoved the bundle of armor at the boy, who
struggled slightly under its weight.

The prince headed out, determined to speak with the
commanders of the army’s various regiments. A manservant spotted the prince and
immediately rushed to his side. Relieving the boy of his burden, he waved a
hand dismissively. The boy rubbed both arms, which were aching from the strain
of the bundle. Shaking his head, he realized there would be no payment for his
services. Why should a prince tip a peasant or even acknowledge him? The boy
trudged away, his head low.

Finding his officers in the armory, the prince was
pleased to see them already dressed for battle. A map lay on the table near the
men, and they appeared to be discussing the movement of their troops.

Ivor stepped heavily to draw their attention. The
men stood and bowed to their prince.

“We will begin our march this afternoon,” he
declared. “Within two days we will reach the border, and my father has
commanded us to raid the villages but not harm too many citizens. The leaders
are to be tortured.”

“He wants us to spread fear,” the eldest commander
said, nodding. “He’s a clever man.”

Ivor scoffed. “Personally, I don’t care how many
survivors you leave. A handful can spread the word as well as a hundred. The
torture will have to be quick if fleeing citizens are to witness it. Drag the
town leaders into the street and gut them before you remove their heads. Hold
them high for all to see.”

“The guts or the heads, my lord?” one man dared to
ask.

“What difference does it make?” the prince
replied. “Have the troops ready by midday.” Turning to his servant, he asked,
“Do you know how to dress a man for battle?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the man replied with
confidence.

“Good. You may have the honor of assisting me with
my armor.” The prince dressed while his lieutenants dispersed.

Outside, the eldest man asked, “Do you think our
prince will make a good war leader?”

A heavily bearded lieutenant replied with a laugh.
“Not to worry. His father won’t stay out of the fighting for long. Let the
prince have his first experience of blood and death. It will do him some good.”

“Let’s hope he’s listened to his father over the
years,” the old man replied. “I’ve ridden with the king many times through the
years. He’s a natural fighter. The prince knows how to handle a blade, but he’s
a poor leader.”

“How do you know?” a third man asked. “He’s never actually
commanded anything.”

“Exactly my point,” the old commander replied. “By
now he should have fought many battles. These years of peace have done us all a
disservice. Our prince will likely charge in without thinking things through.”

“Well, those years of peace are over now,” the
bearded man stated. “Battle has found us once again. Let the prince do as he
will.” The men parted ways, each with more vigor in his step than before.
Battle ran deep in their veins, and they had felt useless in these years of
peace. Now they would once again bathe in the blood of their enemy.

Still inside the armory, Prince Ivor felt his
excitement rise as the servant fastened the buckles of his armor. Each second
brought him closer to the battle he craved. His father’s honor did not matter
to him. It was time for him to make his own name—to triumph in battle as his
ancestors had. He could almost taste his victory.

There would be little opportunity for his
opponents to fight back. They would be too distracted mourning their dead king
to worry about an invasion from the south. He would catch them unaware and
massacre as many as he could. His father’s wishes be damned. Every citizen he
allowed to escape would be a symbol of his failure. His lieutenants would allow
more than enough people to escape. His own regiment would be commanded to leave
none alive.

Stepping out into the sunlight, Ivor’s armor
gleamed. He was eager for the battle and regretted giving his men until midday.
Leaving now would be better, but the men were not prepared. Some of them were
forming ranks on the palace grounds, but many of them were absent. The supply
wagons were still being loaded, and the smithy was still buzzing with activity.
There was nothing he could do except wait. The moment was so near, he could almost
taste the blood.