Page 12 of Kingdom of Feathers

He therefore wasn’t surprised when he was called to his father’s bedchamber just as he was rising from the evening meal. Zinnia sent him a charged look, and he responded with a reassuring nod. Entolia’s monarch had never been good at communicating with his children, but Basil’s position as heir gave him a certain level of information. Sympathetic to his sister’s frustration, he’d long ago made a habit of passing on to Zinnia anything that was personal rather than diplomatic in nature.

The king’s room was dark, and almost oppressively warm. The fire roaring in the hearth was suited to the dead of winter, not the milder weather now upon them. Queen Lucille sat by her husband’s bed, her expression strained as she watched her son enter.

“Mother,” he said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. She swallowed, but said nothing, just rising so that he could take her seat.

He did so, turning his gaze to his father’s wan face. The king’s eyes searched the room restlessly, struggling to settle on his son.

“Basil?” His voice was impatient. “Are you there?”

“Yes, Father,” said Basil calmly, taking his father’s hand. “I’m here.”

“Good, good. I need to speak with you, Basil. This one has done for me.”

“We’ve thought that before, Father, and you’ve always rallied,” said Basil firmly.

The king shook his head, more impatient than ever, and Basil glanced back at his mother. The look on her face made him clench his jaw. Clearly he’d be foolish to dismiss his father’s fears. He’d seen the king worse than this, but that was no guarantee of recovery. The illness had certainly come on quickly this time.

“The Mistrans did this to me, Basil,” King Thorn said, drawing the prince’s attention back to him. “Don’t forget that, once I’m gone.”

Basil said nothing.

“Promise me,” the king rasped, the words sounding painful to utter, “promise me that you’ll win this war.”

Basil took a moment before he answered. His heart wrenched with pain on his father’s behalf, but his mind was quite clear. It helped that he’d been called on to make such deathbed promises multiple times over the last few years. He’d learned not to let the emotion overwhelm him, and he knew better than to make promises he didn’t intend to keep.

“I promise I will seek an outcome that is favorable for Entolia,” he said at last. “In all things, not just the war. I will serve our people and the interests of our kingdom.”

The king’s hand twitched irritably within Basil’s, and the prince could tell his father wasn’t satisfied. But mercifully, he didn’t push the matter.

“And Zinnia,” King Thorn pressed on instead, “she is much too independent. I wish her to marry a prince, and the Fernedellian heir is the only one left. You must promise that—”

“I will do all in my power to ensure thatallof my sisters are provided for,” Basil interrupted firmly. “I will encourage Zinnia to marry someone with whom she will thrive.”

His father let out a frustrated noise, again recognizing that Basil hadn’t given the requested promise.

“Trust me, Father,” Basil said gently, pressing the older man’s hand. “I have sworn to serve Entolia, and I won’t fail my vows.”

King Thorn’s response was lost in a paroxysm of coughing, and Basil winced as he watched pain lance across his father’s features. When the fit had passed, the king lay back against his pillows, for a moment too spent to speak.

He turned his eyes toward his son, his expression softened. “I’m sorry for all that will fall on you, Basil,” he said, his voice barely recognizable in its gentleness. “You’re too young for this burden.”

Basil opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For once he had no words. The uncharacteristic vulnerability in his father’s eyes unsettled him. More than all the king’s words, it made Basil wonder whether this time really would be the last. But as another cough rocked King Thorn’s frame, the familiar irritability returned to his features.

“They’re the ones to blame for the position you’re in—they’re the ones who’ve done this to me. And they should be punished. It will be up to you to punish them now.”

“Don’t distress yourself, Father,” Basil said quickly, unable to bear the impotent fury and desperation on his father’s face. He once again pressed the king’s hand. “Focus on resting. I will see to anything that needs taking care of.”

He didn’t tell his father he would recover. Perhaps he would, but Basil could hardly promise as much. And he didn’t think he would do his father any favors by pretending the situation was less serious than it was. The king knew the truth, after all.

With a nod, the king laid his head back again, closing his eyes as if it was too much effort to hold them open. Gently, Basil released his father’s hand and rose. He gestured with his head, and the queen stepped with him into her husband’s receiving room.

“What does the physician say?” Basil asked, without preamble.

His mother made a hopeless gesture. “What he always says. The old injury has made him more susceptible, and the infection has taken root in his lungs. Nothing can be known for certain.”

Basil nodded slowly. “He certainly seems bad. But we’ve seen him worse.”

The queen said nothing, and Basil laid a hand on her shoulder. Looking into her eyes, he made no more attempt to offer her empty promises than he had with his father.

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