Ian stepped quickly to his mother’s back, placing his hands on her shoulders. Of all the distressing sights in the room, it was her face—aged ten years—that hurt him the most.
“What happened here?” Gareth asked, surveying the room.
Ian was thankful for the question as he had not yet had a chance to hear the events of the morning himself.
“The attack started here,” Onric said. “Magic, I assume, hit the outer tower, causing several stones to come loose.”
Ian looked back up at the hole overheard. It must have been a significantly larger source of magic than the purple orbs the magic user had been casting in the courtyard. Clearly, injuring Frederich had been the main objective of the attack.
“Father was crushed by the breaking table,” Onric continued, “and took an additional blow to the head.”
Frederich’s forehead was covered in bandages. His eyes were closed, and his face was calm. The physicians were still wrapping bandages around a stint on his leg.
“How is he?” Ian asked, squeezing his mother’s shoulders.
“His wounds have been treated,” said one of the physicians. “He may never walk fully again, but his breathing is steady and his heart beats strong. However, he has not opened his eyes once. He seems to feel no pain. It is as though he has retreated somewhere deep inside of himself.”
“Will he awake?” Ian asked, fearing the answer.
“We cannot say,” the physician replied. “It has only been a few hours, so there is yet hope.”
Gareth finally moved closer to the injured king. “Only time will tell,” he said. “Let us hope that all shall be well.” His face was so full of concern that Ian almost believed him.
“This bone has been set, and the bandages are stable,” the other physician said as he finished wrapping Frederich’s leg. “We can move him to a more comfortable place.”
As two more physicians brought in a cushioned board to transport Frederich, Gareth stepped away. “I will see to the safety of the castle,” he said.
While Ian resented Gareth’s inserted authority, he let the visiting king go. For the moment, he wanted to carry his father through the castle himself.
Chapter 11
Ian woke with the dawn, having slept through the entire night and much of the previous day as well. After they had seen Frederich safely and comfortably to his room, Onric had urged Ian to rest. “You can hardly stand without swaying,” he had said as they left their father’s bedchamber. “Erich arrived several hours ago and told us about Gareth’s treachery.”
“Hush,” Ian had warned. “We cannot speak openly about him while he is here.”
Onric grabbed Ian’s arm, stopping him from moving forward. Further down the hall, at the top of the stairs that led down to the back courtyard, stood two soldiers in Chendas purple.
Gareth was already posting his own men around the castle, all under the guise of safety no doubt.
Ian stepped forward, anger fueling him with the need to confront their ally turned enemy, but his body swayed and he fell forward, tripping over his own feet in exhaustion.
Onric’s hand, still on his arm, kept him upright. “To bed, brother. These problems will still be here when you awake.”
So Ian had slept.
He jumped from his bed, embracing the morning chill that combated the fire in his veins. He needed to talk with the council members who would be assembling within the hour. Although, undoubtedly, Gareth would be there as well.
So he needed to talk to Onric first and make a plan.
Leaving his room, he saw that Gareth’s two soldiers still stood at the end of the hall. Ian ignored them and knocked on the door to Onric’s room.
No one answered.
Onric was not one to wake with the dawn and was probably still asleep.
Ian rapped again, not caring if the noise woke his other siblings—they were next.
Running out of patience, Ian threw open the door to his brother’s room like he had when they were young children.
