A Reign to Ruin: The Prince Regent and the Summer King

PART II. A Commodity or a Conundrum

◆ VAMIR ◆

For many years, the west wing of the Royal Palace lay deserted, save for the ghosts of the departed glory of our forefathers. Much of the palace dwellers believed it haunted ground, but three years ago, Isarrel proved us wrong when he moved his entire family—his consort Nenaias, his two children Aran and Braegen, and all their stewards and manservants—to the west wing. Soon enough, the west wing, a place once avoided like the plague, swiftly transformed into a place of intense activity, the brightest and liveliest in all of the Royal Palace, always filled with songs and laughter.

Today, I feel as though I stand on hallowed ground. A tomb, cold and empty, the silence broken only by heavy footsteps, the creaking of shutters, and the rusty hinges of a door. As Orrian and I walk down the dimly lit hallway, a pair of manservants step out of the room at the far end of the hall, carrying with them two large basins and what appear to be strips of bloody cloth. The servants bow low as I approach, faces somber as they quietly explain Isarrel's present condition.

"He is awake, Your Highness," says one of the servants, tone low and cautious. "The physician advised him to get as much sleep as he could. But... the ulcers on his hip and leg are only getting worse. His Majesty is in so much pain, he could barely sit up."

"If the new healing poultice fails to work," supplies the other servant, "the physician strongly advises surgery to remove the dead flesh. Or else, the infection will spread and eat away the bones." He lets out a dreary sigh as he stares down at the bloodied cloth in his arms. "His Majesty is in bad shape, Your Highness. I'm afraid he's not going to la—" His words are abruptly cut off as his companion surreptitiously nudges him with an elbow. "F-forgive me, Your Highness! It is not my place to speak of such things," the servant sputters. "If you'll excuse us, it's almost time for His Majesty's luncheon."

I nod and clear my throat, waving them in dismissal. "Very well, then. Prepare His Majesty's meal, if you please." The servants nod back and scuttle off to the opposite direction before I could utter another word.

Orrian is already at the door to Isarrel's bedchamber. On his second knock, the door opens and we are greeted by Ievos, the longest-serving steward in the palace and my brother's trusted aide.

Orrian pulls to the side to make way for me. "I shall wait for you here, Your Highness. Unless you want me to send word to the royal entourage?" He gives me a telling look, one that says, Forgive me, but you need to make it brief. We are running out of time.

I nod knowingly and turn to Ievos, who gives me a curt bow as he lets me in. Immediately, the sickly, acrid smell of blood and pus, mingled with medicinal herbs, assaults my senses. I scrunch my nose, trying to ignore the foul stench.

Ievos points me to the far corner of the chamber where they had moved my brother's bed closer to the window. My heart stutters at the sight: Isarrel laying propped up among pillows, his consort Nenaias in a stool by his side, holding his hand as he speaks in a soft voice that only two people could hear. Isarrel's eyes are closed, but his eyebrows would move up and down with each word that is spoken.

"Your Majesties," Ievos's voice breaks into the quiet of the chamber. "His Highness Prince Vamir has arrived."

Isarrel opens his eyes and both men turn their heads to look at me. I almost scowl at the steward for breaking the intimate moment before us.

I shift uncomfortably and clasp my hands together, feeling like an intruder. But the moment I see my brother's face light up, a weak smile forming across his lips, the vice on my heart uncoils. I bow and return his smile.

Isarrel holds out a bony hand and beckons me gently. "Mirre." He calls me by my pet name in a breathy and broken voice I am not accustomed to hearing. "How nice of you to come and see me."