Bab 15: heavy is the head.
Like a wave rolling out from the shore, the lively chatter of conversation faded away, and every head turned towards the king.
The band stopped playing, and a sudden hush stole over the room, as though a hundred breaths were being held.
Flanked by two senior members of the Flameguard, King Xavier ambled into the room, his steps uneasy. The king looked about, sweeping his arms wide as though he could embrace the entire room with a single gesture.
The regent smiled and called out in a hoarse voice,
"Come now! Do not let one old man interrupt your fun. Carry on, as you were—your king commands it!"
Slowly, the band struck their violins, starting up a slow rendition of The Ballad of the Starfall. As the music began, the guests overcame their shock, and chatter resumed across the hall.
Damian finished his champagne, put the glass aside, and made his way directly across the room to his father's side.
As he approached, Xavier's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks crinkled deeply as he smiled.
"My boy! Are you enjoying yourself, my son?"
Damian's answer caught in his throat.
He didn't see much of his father these days. Even before Xavier's illness had forced him into near-permanent rest, their schedules had never aligned.
As king, Xavier was always preoccupied with meetings, dealing with sycophantic nobles or problematic officials. And Damian—well, in the years following his mother's death, it was fair to say neither father nor son had been particularly close.
The torrent of misguided rage Damian had unleashed upon his father was not his proudest moment, and in the intervening years, the gap created by that wound had only widened.
It was with no small amount of shock, then, that Damian realized just how sickly his father had become.
Where once the king had sported a fine head of the Roswald's signature flaming hair, now there were just a few tufts of gray. The skin around his eyes was dark and bruised, wrinkled far beyond his years. Despite his attendants' attempts to hide them, there were sores around the king's mouth, and his lips were dry and chapped.
As a child, Damian had sat upon the king's lap, tucked against his broad chest, listening to his father's heartbeat until he fell asleep. Now, Xavier seemed half the man he'd once been, his limbs frail and his body weakened. He wore the plush, fur-lined robes of his station, but the material hung from his bones like a mannikin.
"You look just like your mother when you worry, boy."
Xavier reached out to pat Damian on the shoulder. The hand that grasped him was thin and spindly, hardly befitting a man of only fifty-six years.
Damian swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice cracked.
"It's—it's a pleasure to see you, Your Majesty."
Damian took his father's hand and kissed the Rosa Regalia—the signet ring that had been passed down for generations, since the Starfall itself. The square-cut ruby gemstone entrapped a flickering Cinder, said to be cast off from the Angel's own feathers.
Xavier nodded and withdrew his hand. His gaze drifted over the guests in attendance, the amber flecks in his eyes catching the light of the Flame-blessed chandeliers.
"Have my oh-so-dear family been behaving themselves?"
"As well as could be expected, I suppose. Duke Lombrass was deep in his cups when he arrived and rambling on about his little patch of dirt, as usual. Aunt Laura couldn't make an appearance?"
"Sadly not. My dear sister is heavy with her third child—to be a mother again, at her age, is surely taking its toll. I'm sure Duke Caldith is hoping for a son, this time."
A gentle smile crossed Damian's lips as he thought of Annette and Morgana, his two rambunctious cousins. At fourteen and eight respectively, they were quickly becoming little ladies in their own rights, although Damian couldn't think of them as anything but pigtailed tyrants pulling on his arm.
"I was hoping that Uncle Leon would drag himself away from his desk and make an appearance," Damian confessed.
Xavier raised a thin eyebrow.
"I wouldn't expect to see Leon until sunrise—he stepped out for some urgent business in Tenebrae. He passed on the details of your conversation with the First Seat, though. You do me and our family proud, son. There are few who could hold themselves against a monster like Blackbriar."
Damian inclined his head slightly.
"I'd hardly say I was holding my own. It felt like Blackbriar had the entire meeting planned out well in advance, and we were merely dancing to his tune. I fear what might happen if we look away from Tenebrae for too long."
"And thus, my dear brother must continue to sully his soul with that tainted black magic."
Damian narrowed his eyes. He respected his father greatly, but in truth, he respected his uncle even more—and he wouldn't allow anyone, not even the king, to speak ill of the spymaster.
"Uncle risks his life and soul for our family, Father. Black magic or not, I think we should be grateful for the danger he endures for the benefit of the Crown and Sidralis."
Tension crackled between father and son, and the two Flameguard standing either side of the king shifted uncomfortably. One of the knights was—perhaps rather predictably—unable to keep silent, and stuck out her chest with a proud declaration.
"His Majesty wished to enjoy himself at the festivities tonight. Such quarreling is unfit for his health, Your Highness. Or would you suggest your father is not allowed to enjoy himself?"
"I don't recall asking for your opinion on the matter, Captain. And now that I have your attention, is that really fitting attire for a ball of all places? You look like you might spar with my guests at a moment's notice."
Damian narrowed his eyes at Lynn. The Captain of the Flameguard was fulfilling her duties by escorting the king, and thus was still dressed in her armor from earlier in the day, albeit with the addition of a royal cloak flowing down her left shoulder.
"Oh dear, were you hoping I'd wear a dress? My duties require me to be sober tonight, unlike a certain royal I could think of. I'm afraid if you're looking for some entertainment, you'll have to choose another lady to play with tonight."
Lynn wrinkled her nose in a manner that was both terribly cute and completely unbefitting of her status. Damian bristled, but his retort died on his lips when Xavier gave a hoarse chuckle.
"Come now, children. If you want time alone together, only say the word, I'm sure I only need one guard in my own home."
"Absolutely not—"
"—Not even in his dreams."
Lynn and Damian replied at almost precisely the same time, which only caused the king to chuckle even deeper. The captain huffed and turned her face away.
"Come, Your Majesty, I think we should find a comfortable seat for you, and perhaps some food and wine."
"That sounds delightful, Captain. Damian, would you care to join us?"
Damian hesitated, but an ill feeling was gripping his stomach—perhaps an after-effect of too much wine and too little food. Or was it something else? The darkness in his father's eyes, the heavy way he leaned forward, as if he might topple over any moment…
Throughout their entire conversation, Damian had been intensely aware of one topic that neither father nor son had broached.
"A year. Perhaps less."
Those were Gunther's words. The king himself had been told he had less than twelve months left to live, yet here he was, forcing a smile to his chapped lips, making light banter with his son.
Why aren't you more afraid, Father? Why aren't you preparing yourself? Are you going to leave me like mother? Are you going vanish one day and leave me all alone with nothing and nobody to lean on?!
Damian wanted to scream; he wanted to hit his father, and cry and sob. He wanted the king to acknowledge his illness, to plan for the future, to do something other than stand there making small talk like everything was right with the world.
The anger and fear sent a flood of bile into Damian's stomach, and he had the sudden desire to retch. He plastered a flat smile onto his expression and bowed his head politely.
"Sorry, father, but I've already had my fill. I think I might get some fresh air."
Before either Lynn or his father could comment, Damian turned away, heading for the balcony. He pushed the glass doors aside, his bare cheeks assaulted by the winter night's chill.
The doors swung shut, muffling the noise of the party.
Only then did Damian allow a single, angry tear to spill down his cheek.
Hadiah
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