The King bowed his head and sighed. This was the third time Trystan Dryden had requested an audience to complain about his brother. He refused to count the number of times Triton had come to the capitol for the same purpose. When will these boys ever learn? The King thought. His headache that had begun that morning, he could tell, was itching to make a return.
“—and he’s always herding my sheep, milord,” Trystan was saying, “He knows full well that his flocks are all Lincolns not Romneys.” He tapered off, catching the King’s eye by stepping towards the dais, concern draped over his face, and pulling the King from his thoughts. “Milord? Are you alright, sire?”
The King waved him off with a hand. “It seems to me, lad,” he said, “you must sit down with Triton. Have a conversation with your brother, laddie.”
Trystan’s face snapped back to one of indignation. “But, sire –”
“No, Trystan,” the King stood, “Talk with your brother.” He left the young shepherd to wander his way home. The King knew full well the lad wouldn’t make it there until morning rise. There would be no conversation between brothers, there never has been in the history of the Dryden family – even further back in generations. The King sighed again as he exited the hall.
“How was the audience, milord?” The young page asked as he met the King in the long corridor that connected the servants’ quarters and the Royal family’s private rooms.
“It was the same as it always is when the Dryden boys come calling,” the King replied. “Someday I hope they realize if they sat down and discussed their issues they’d have no need to travel to the capitol every time they have a grievance.”
The page nodded, “Someday, sire.”
The King grimaced, grabbed the handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow.
The page looked over with concern, “If you don’t mind my asking, milord, are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Mathias,” the King said. His breath was short. His head ached fiercely, a thousand red-hot knives stabbing at his mind. The King stumbled into the stone wall before collapsing to the floor, shivering.
Mathias rushed to his liege lord’s side and pulled him into his arms. “Sire?” he shook the King, “Sire?!” He turned to the servants that halted in their steps on the far-side of the corridor and called for the Healer. The servants dropped their burdens – linens and trinkets – and raced back down the hall. One servant dropped their basket of flowers and herbs, throwing blue sparks from their fingertips toward the wall closest to them before jumping into the portal they’d created.
Mathias placed a hand over the King’s heart, feeling the rapid beating drum beneath his fingers. “Stay with me, milord, please. The Healer is coming, but you must stay with me.” The King’s eyes flickered open and Matthias swallowed a gasp. The King’s hazel eyes had turned black and was speckled with tiny flakes of gold. “Mathias,” the King said, “Mathias, how did you die?”
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