Death was closing on his father.
Hayne could see in the listless flutter of his eyelids, the way he stared right through the prince by his bedside. His body disappearing under a mountain of furs. The way the thin fingers were cold in his. He squeezed, anyway, and King Athner’s pale eyes focused, briefly, on his son’s face.
“You sent for me,” Hayne reminded.
The servants were all looking carefully at walls and brushing down their skirts. They were used to ‘not noticing’ the king’s state, by now. And it had been a long time, for them to practice - a slow, slow ebb over months. Even now, the old man clung to life by the fingernails, trying to scrape his way back. Hayne’s mouth had set in a grim line, like a good stoic, but the nails of his free hand were biting into his palm. His chest hurt.
Spit crackled in the king’s throat before he could speak. “I need you to talk to a spy. He’s been looking at our friend Earl Ingles for me.”
“You wish for me to speak in your place?”
“Mm.” His father’s head had turned away again, breathing going slow as his eyelids drooped.
“Father,” Hayne mumbled.
It was no good - the king had drifted into one of the rough, delirious dreams again. Hayne slightly loosened his grip, but couldn’t help kneeling there longer, slumping slowly against the side of the mattress. A spec of rust-coloured mucous had dried on his father’s lips, but it seemed pointless to wake him for that.
After some long time, Hayne breathed out harsh through his nose. He straightened his coat as he stood, shrugging his cloak around his shoulders.
“No one will hear about this,” he told the men by the door.
“Of course not, your highness.”
----
Hayne went directly - what else could he do? His feet echoed as he went from lush carpet to bare stone, rebounding in the empty halls. Breath fogged in front of him whenever he passed a candle, and he shivered even under the fur cloak.
He knew where to go, yes, but not what the hell he would do when he got there. How should a third son know these things? His brother Iver would have known what to do - cunning. Trained in state matters. The dishonourable things a ruler might need to handle.
Dead… as well.
Now there was only the ailing king, and a successor who never should have been near the crown,
Hayne’s feet veered from the aristocrat’s path into shoulder-width servant’s runs, and then again, he stopped at a hatch in the floor. Then he had to double back a spell - no light. Now holding a candle stolen from the wall, paused to stare at the ceiling and breath deep. Then he threw the hatch open, descended into pitch black.
Hayne could see in the listless flutter of his eyelids, the way he stared right through the prince by his bedside. His body disappearing under a mountain of furs. The way the thin fingers were cold in his. He squeezed, anyway, and King Athner’s pale eyes focused, briefly, on his son’s face.
“You sent for me,” Hayne reminded.
The servants were all looking carefully at walls and brushing down their skirts. They were used to ‘not noticing’ the king’s state, by now. And it had been a long time, for them to practice - a slow, slow ebb over months. Even now, the old man clung to life by the fingernails, trying to scrape his way back. Hayne’s mouth had set in a grim line, like a good stoic, but the nails of his free hand were biting into his palm. His chest hurt.
Spit crackled in the king’s throat before he could speak. “I need you to talk to a spy. He’s been looking at our friend Earl Ingles for me.”
“You wish for me to speak in your place?”
“Mm.” His father’s head had turned away again, breathing going slow as his eyelids drooped.
“Father,” Hayne mumbled.
It was no good - the king had drifted into one of the rough, delirious dreams again. Hayne slightly loosened his grip, but couldn’t help kneeling there longer, slumping slowly against the side of the mattress. A spec of rust-coloured mucous had dried on his father’s lips, but it seemed pointless to wake him for that.
After some long time, Hayne breathed out harsh through his nose. He straightened his coat as he stood, shrugging his cloak around his shoulders.
“No one will hear about this,” he told the men by the door.
“Of course not, your highness.”
----
Hayne went directly - what else could he do? His feet echoed as he went from lush carpet to bare stone, rebounding in the empty halls. Breath fogged in front of him whenever he passed a candle, and he shivered even under the fur cloak.
He knew where to go, yes, but not what the hell he would do when he got there. How should a third son know these things? His brother Iver would have known what to do - cunning. Trained in state matters. The dishonourable things a ruler might need to handle.
Dead… as well.
Now there was only the ailing king, and a successor who never should have been near the crown,
Hayne’s feet veered from the aristocrat’s path into shoulder-width servant’s runs, and then again, he stopped at a hatch in the floor. Then he had to double back a spell - no light. Now holding a candle stolen from the wall, paused to stare at the ceiling and breath deep. Then he threw the hatch open, descended into pitch black.