Seffargo

Chapter 8

'Son, the task was a simple one. So when you say, "You can't remember," what exactly is that supposed to mean?'

Barcley bit back the growing irritation and tried his best to remain impassive. 'It means just that: I can't remember. I don't know why, or what happened, but I only remember last night up to a point; anything beyond that, I cannot recall.'

The King's eyes narrowed, but Barcley refused to back down.

'I stayed up late to read through them, and at some point, I fell asleep. When I woke, I couldn't remember anything beyond sitting down to begin reading.' Barcley spoke slowly, taking care to enunciate his words so that they were as clear as crystal. 'It's bizarre, because I can recall almost everything else that happened that day; from who I saw, to who I spoke to, to where I went. But after that point,' he made a slicing motion with his hand. 'Nothing.'

'Peculiar indeed,' the King said. 'But what I find bizarre is that you'd bother making such a pathetic excuse.' His voice was growing louder with every word, his rage bubbling over. 'If you fail, say so. If you fall, get up. That is what I had hoped of you—to fail, and in doing so, learn how to fail. Yet here you are, still making excuses!'

'It's not an excuse, father. I'm telling you the truth—I can't remember.'

'Silence, son.' The King shook his head, his grey eyes staring into the depths of the room—refusing to meet his son's eyes. 'You had a chance—I gave you a chance. But you chose to waste it.'

Barcley shook his head and climbed the first step to his father's throne. 'I'm not lying.' His voice cracked with the plea.

'Silence!' The King's voice boomed. 'And don't even think of taking another step.' Barcley met his father's eyes, except now he saw the hate writhing behind the grey, like thunder hidden among the clouds. 'I tried with you, son. But you fail me at every turn. You ignored my words regarding that girl,' the word was spat from his mouth and sent a shudder down Barcley's spine. 'Then you lied to me about your standings with her, and now you lie to me about what you do and don't remember.'

Barcley frowned. His father's phrasing made it seem like he did believe him, but only to an extent. His stomach churned as he spotted Margaret hiding in the shadows behind the throne.

'I will not tolerate my son lying. But even worse than that—I will not tolerate my son courting a woman who works for him. You cannot—and will not—force our staff into situations to favour yourself, Barcley—I will not have it!'

'That's not what—'

'Enough!' His father's face was red with rage and dripping with sweat. 'Barcley, I have tried to fend off those who doubt your abilities—but you prove me wrong and them right every damn time.'

Barcley couldn't hide his frown. What was he talking about? Who was doubting his abilities—and why? He was the son of the King; he was the prince!

'I've had it with you! I thought that when you finally did as I said and left that girl, things would change. You were focused, you were busy, you were acting as a King should. You put her safety over your own needs—that's what a King needs to do.' Barcley watched as his father stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. His legs were shaking—but Barcley couldn't bring himself to step forward and help.

'; and you did that. But now ... now I find out that you're using your power to seduce our loyal staff. I could stand and watch as you disobeyed my orders—you are my child after all. But I will not tolerate your disobedience towards our staff.' He paused, his chest rising and falling quickly, his breath coming even faster. 'I thought I raised you better, Barcley. Now get out!'

Barcley wanted to object. He wanted to tell his father what had truly happened—that he and Margaret had simply worked late into the night and fell asleep; nothing else had occurred. But one look at his father's sweat-stained face and rage-filled eyes told him that now was not the time to take that fight.

With a deep breath and a quick glance at Margaret—who kept her head down—Barcley summoned what little dignity he could and stormed from the audience chamber. As he left, he kept his head high and his gait even; he had done nothing wrong. He reached the door, knocked, heard the familiar jingle of armour, then two foreign sounds—a heavy thump followed by a high-pitched squeal.

The familiar tightness formed in his chest and throat—the same sensation he had felt when he watched Madeline leave the café for the last time. Heart thundering in his ears, Barcley turned around and saw the King on the floor, his body draped lifelessly across the stairs.

Barcley stood motionless, his eyes on the King as Margaret lifted his head and spoke to him; but her words never reached him—nothing did. Not the sound of the hinges groaning as the wooden doors swung open, nor the jingle of the guard's armour as they rushed to the King's side. Nothing broke through the fog that claimed his mind. All Barcley could do was stand and watch—even as his father was taken away from him.

/ END /

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