Heir

Chapter 3, Scene 7

Carys sat in the garden of Darkmoor Castle. Verdant greens and colorful flowers contrasted with the black stone walls of the castle courtyard. She sat on a stone bench, with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs, staring at nothing in particular. She wondered if her father were still alive – if she would ever speak with him again. Since her father had fallen seriously ill, over a month ago now, Carys and Roan had only been allowed to visit with him for a short time once each week. Osvald, the royal physician, insisted that the king needed his rest, and Deidra was concerned that whatever plagued their father might spread to the children if they spent too much time with him.

Carys remembered now the last time she had visited with her father. She had sat there in the gloom of his bedchamber. Only a few candles illuminated the area around his bed, keeping the darkness at bay. They had spoken very little that time. He seemed only vaguely aware of her presence while she studied the deepening lines on his face. It seemed he had aged ten years in a week. She had wanted to crawl under the covers with him, to feel his warmth, and to feel his strong arms around her. But she didn’t. She was afraid – afraid that she would hurt him – afraid that he wouldn’t comfort her; that he couldn’t comfort her.

Carys’ mind went further back – six years ago – to the day that she learned that her mother had died. She was eight years old, and Roan was six. They were both playing with the toy soldiers their older brothers had handed down to them. They would line them up in ranks and files, then roll their ball through the miniature army and laugh as it plowed over the little men. She remembered looking up suddenly and seeing Deidra standing by looking very distraught.

“Carys, Roan.” She had said with a quivering voice. “Come here.”

Carys knew instantly that something was very wrong. Roan seemed to pick up on it as well. Deidra knelt down and placed a hand on a shoulder of each of them.

“Children, the queen is dead.” Suddenly everything felt very still. Carys stared at Deidra, her words replaying over and over in her mind. A moment passed, and Roan began crying. Deidra pulled him in close and held his head to her chest while he sobbed. Tears were streaming down her own face now. She matched Carys’ gaze, her hand moving up to caress the princess’ cheek.

“Carys, your mother is gone.” Deidra tried to get through to her. Carys’ eyes slipped past Deidra to the open doorway behind her, and the empty corridor beyond that. She didn’t know what she had expected to see there. She understood what Deidra had said, but for some reason she couldn’t believe it.

The next few days passed in a haze. She could now remember only snippets of what transpired. She remembered hearing Roan cry, a lot. She remembered Deidra always being nearby. She remembered her father holding her and crying with her. She remembered the shiny black casket that they had put up in her mother’s bedchamber before the funeral. She remembered sneaking into the room late one night long after Deidra had put her to bed. She crept up to the casket, almost afraid of it, but she was determined to see her mother’s beautiful face one more time before they put her in the ground. The lid seemed impossibly heavy, but gradually she had lifted it. And then, she had peered down into the empty box. Her mother wasn’t there. Something about that frightened her beyond imagining. She dropped the lid, which fell shut with a thud, and she ran from the room. She didn’t know what she was running from, but when she finally stopped her bare feet were sore from slapping the cold, stone floor of the castle.

She heard the sound of glass breaking, and she realized she was just outside of Kylian’s chambers. She cracked open the door and cautiously peered in. The room was a mess. A table was turned over, chairs were broken. The drapes were shredded. Books and clothes were tossed everywhere. Kylian stood in front of a broken full-length mirror, sucking on his bloody knuckles. His black hair was a mess and shadows rimmed his eyes. He saw Carys’ reflected in the broken glass, and his expression softened just a bit.