The Unfortunate, стр. 74
Having ordered the punishment, Beadurof looked to Awiergan who refused eye contact. But that was not a concern. The king no longer needed to see evidence of fear. He could sense it, and he chuckled to himself before offering, “Fate has no mercy for traitors.”
Rather than leave the dungeon, however, Beadurof remained still. He wanted to be certain justice was obtained. “Begin,” he demanded at last.
The whip slithered through the air like a viper before it finally struck.
Crack!
And the prisoner’s body lurched forward.
Again, and again, and again.
Ten lashes.
The torture continued, and whereas the first several lashes had caused the fighter to grimace, each strike was eventually answered with grunts.
Twenty lashes.
The king continued to watch with satisfaction. Justice was indeed being obtained. The death, for he had never known a man to survive more than fifty lashes at a time, would be slow.
Twenty-five.
And such a death, even though it will never compensate for what has occurred, is fitting for robbing me of my heir and the future of my legacy.
By the thirtieth lashing, blood had streamed down Awiergan’s legs, and by the fortieth it was apparent he was becoming weaker.
Forty-five lashes.
Eventually Awiergan slumped forward and became still.
It was then Beadurof saw a marking on the man’s shoulder. Impossible. It cannot be. The disbelief rushed through him, stampeding to his mind, and infected it with the darkest of horrors, and he exclaimed, “HOLD!”
Even though the chamber was dim, the king found his eyes had not deceived. It was indeed a symbol, and it was one he recognized—a double swirl with an extended tail that curved upward and to the right, and beside it the symbol was duplicated as a reverse. Fate be merciful! The king could not believe what had occurred but more so what he had done, and he frantically yelled, “Untie him! And take him to the physician to care for his wounds!”
“Your Majesty?” The guard was confused.
“DO AS I COMMAND!” Beadurof exclaimed and stormed from the dungeon. My first born, my true heir, is possibly dying, and it is my doing. Fate be merciful. His pulse quickened once again, and he became nauseous. More than anything, however, he feared it was too late.
✽ ✽ ✽
He returned to his chambers and paced to the window from which he could see the Priory of Caberton and its three spires—representative of the past, present, and future—set against the hues of orange and red. Past, present, and future. Events that cannot be undone, events that can be altered, and events that Fate alone decides. Beadurof knew he could not alter the events that had already passed, and he knew Fate was also beyond his control, but the present situation, so he believed, was also hopeless, and all he could do was stare out his chamber’s window. Occasionally he would see individuals depart and arrive, mourners for their deceased Prince, but Beadurof had no intention of joining them or attending the funeral the next day. He could not while his true heir remained near death. For the next few hours, all he did was pace forth and back from one side of his chamber to the other, occasionally looking out the window toward the Priory. Even with the onset of night, groups of mourners still were visible. The torches they carried formed clusters of light, but eventually the size of the groups became smaller until only a few individuals remained, the sworn shields who had assumed sentry duty outside the Priory’s doors where they would remain through the night. Beadurof, however, continued to pace, and he did not settle until early morn, but he did not sleep. As with countless nights prior, he could not. With his mind filled with raging emotions, anger and fear being the foremost, he could do nothing but sit and think and watch the knight’s torches, but the unnerving tranquility was soon disturbed.
“You have been cursed, Beadurof.”
Immediately he recognized the voice of his wife, but when he turned no one was there. The king shook his head, dismissed the words as nothing more than his imagination, and looked back to the window.
“You have been cursed, and it is only a matter of time.”
“Leave me alone!”
The tranquility resumed momentarily only to be interrupted by maniacal laughter. “You do not realize what a fool you are, do you, Beadurof?”
The king quickly pivoted and faced his wife before bellowing, “You are not real! Leave me alone!”
She nevertheless continued to smile before adding, “You have been too blinded by hatred that you have failed to realize the truth.”
“What hatred and what truth?”
Marlisa chuckled again. “Hatred toward me, so much that you forced me to leave.”
No. That was not my fault. He had shown sympathy. He had intended to ignore his advisors and save the queen from the punishment reserved for adultery. It had been she who had introduced hostility. It had been she who had fled in a crazed manner. These were facts, and he reminded, “I did not force you.”
“Then what about your feelings toward Princess Eadlin. Did you actually think I was ignorant? You loved her. You wanted her, and you still do!”
“No! I swore to you a sacred vow—one to which I have remained loyal, more loyal than you!”
The queen ignored her husband, but she did not pause before countering, “And what of your hatred toward Banan?” Her smile faded, but she eventually concluded, “No matter what he did to please you, it was never enough. Was it, Beadurof? And now he is dead.”
He had given the prince every opportunity to prove himself and to behave as a future king, but nothing Beadurof had done had ever altered the youth’s defiance. As for Banan’s death, the king felt little if any responsibility. It had been he who had sent the prince to lead the army but nothing more. Even if I had been there, what could I have