Chapter 6: Empathy is a Fault

Ambrose Drak

Looking down, he isn't sure how much of the crimson fluid is William's and how much of it belongs to his now aching, busted knuckles.

"Why?" Shaking William, he wants to rattle loose the answers, a reason. "Why her? She was the one good thing in this realm." He holds the man at arm's length. "You'll tell me why, even if I have to beat every word out of you."

"Nephew." Lord Maxton places an arm around Ambrose's shoulder. "I am sorry to say, he will never speak again. He made sure of it."

"I do not understand." He locks eyes with his uncle.

He diverts his gaze then stares at William's blood-stained, bandaged hands.

Truly seeing the injured man for the first time since his entry, Ambrose sighs. "What is this? Have you tortured him for information without informing me?"

Rage, he things silently, is a dark horse, requiring tempered control.

He must pull it together, maintain his emotions, or risk them ruling his actions once more.

"No, of course not." Lord Maxton shakes his head. "Remove the dressings. Let my nephew see what the traitor has done."

The guards unwrap the bandages, revealing stubs where William's fingers used to be.

"How?" He takes in the scene before him. "Why would he do this? Why would he maim himself?" The scent of burnt flesh wafts in the air, turning his stomach.

Lord Maxton approaches William. "I had a group of trusted men escort him to a cell in the upper level of the dungeon."

"And?" Ambrose stares at the bright-blue irises of the man he once called father. The same man who taught him to ride, to hunt.

"He talked one of the men into fetching water." Lord Maxton pauses. "Come. Let us sit." After releasing William to the care of the guards, he escorts Ambrose to the table.

"Continue, Uncle."

"He killed the guard, a family man." Lord Maxton pulls out a chair. "While attempting to escape, he was forced into the bowels of the castle by the dogs." He sits. "There, he locked himself inside the torture chamber - the pit."

"Am I to believe he did this to himself? All of it?" Ambrose moves his gaze between his uncle and William, whose eyes keep rolling back, then to his uncle, once more.

"He did a fair amount of the damage on his own." Lord Maxton slides his chair closer to the table. "However, a couple of the dogs found entry into the chamber first. By the time the guards opened the door, William had cut out his tongue. The hounds had chewed his hands so badly, his fingers required surgical removal. The open wounds made cauterization necessary."

"Take him away." Ambrose glances outside. "Treat his injuries." He sucks in the brisk air, trying to rid his nose of the coppery smell of blood. "See he doesn't expire before his trial."

"You heard him," shouts Lord Maxton. "Remove the prisoner."

Ambrose lingers by the window peering into empty space. How could this man - a trusted man at that - steal everything from me in a single blow? Now, with his silence, William takes the memory of the Queen Mother's last hours to the grave.

Once the guards lead William out of the chamber, Ambrose wipes his eyes. Grabbing the document, he rolls it into a tight scroll. Paper in hand, he heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" Lord Maxton follows on his heels.

"To my chambers." He pauses just inside the doorway. Holding a hand out, he stops his uncle dead in his tracks. "I need to be alone with my thoughts."

The desire to hold Ebony, to create music, tugs at the strings of his heart.

Making his way down the hallway, silence accompanies him, but he knows - without so much as a word or sound - that Braylin is in silent pursuit, no doubt battling his own inner demons at the grievous loss to the kingdom.

The royal seal weighs heavily upon Ambrose's heart once more, and what it now signifies offers only feelings of suffocation shroud in loneliness. He's not surprised by the sensation, not by any means. Now with his mother gone, he's alone, truly alone.

Braylin says something, and Ambrose tunes out the words.

Finding William had been at the top of his list. After seeing the man his stepfather had become, he felt a tinge of pity.

Empathy is a fault, he knows it is.

The same weakness killed his mother. She should've known what William was plotting; they both should have. The man had been planning a hostile takeover right under his nose.

So, why, even after knowing those truths, does he feel such sadness for the man?

At the door to his room, two guards step aside.

Braylin follows him inside.

"I'd like to be alone." He rubs the tight muscles knotted in his neck.

"Okay. I'll just do a quick sweep before I leave." Braylin examines the room, looking in every dark corner, behind curtains, under furniture. "Stay away from the balcony."

"Why?"

"Because it makes you an easy target." Braylin checks the doors leading to the balcony. "We don't know who friend or foe is outside of this room." He pulls on them and rattles the lock. "If you need me, I'll be outside the door."

"Fine." Ambrose flexes his fingers. His knuckles ache.

After Braylin leaves, he cracks open the doors leading to the balcony and inhales the night air.

Inside the room, he spies Ebony, the viola hanging on the wall. Grabbing her scrolled neck, he inspects the instrument.

The top, made of spruce, contains a brilliant glaze. Hand-carved internal blocks, masterfully crafted out of a willow, line the internal body, whereas, the neck, ribs, and back are maple.

The chin rest, smooth and sleek, fits the angular curve of his face. The feel is familiar against his skin. It offers a comfort he so desires. A connection he both craves and needs.

He grabs the bow and slides it over the strings. The motion produces a B minor note. Playing a minor scale to warm up, he loses himself in the music flowing through fingertips.

A new song comes to mind. Swaying, he allows the purity of the notes to take him away. As he conjures each musical trill, the events of the last twenty-four hours tumble in his mind.

The raw emotions shredding his heart, freely flowing from his fingers, makes the instrument sing.

Darkness shrouds his weeping soul. His chest constricts. Slowly, he translates his heartache, all his sorrow, into the music surging through his body. Of the emotions spilling forth, anger and despair seem to bubble to the surface in abundance.

Why? Why her? She never harmed a living soul.

Ambrose gives in to the sound of the dark music his breaking heart invokes.

The letter his mother left behind offers no solace or closure. Instead, it only adds to the confusion already clouding his life.

With the caress of each string lining the smooth fingerboard, he strums the notes tied to his soul. The last words of his mother, the last she shall ever convey, invade his inner thoughts.

My Beloved Son,

These are treacherous times we live in.

I have tried to shield you from the diseased vein of what humanity offers in its darkest hours. But I have failed.

I brought you into this world as a precious, curious boy. Now, I leave you as the man who will be king. Though I must go, know this, you are not alone. There are others who willfully pledge loyalty to you, to your birthright. However, do not be fooled by the wolves in sheep's clothing, for there are many.

It took me years to decipher friend from foe. In the end, by the time I discovered the wolf's fur among the lambs' wool, it was too late. Now, in my last hour, my last breath, I concede. I did not see the cold hand of betrayal closing in when your stepfather tightened the noose around my neck.

I do not blame him for my death, for it was written in the gods' fated diaries long before I was born. Nonetheless, I do hold him accountable along with his accomplices. So shall you.

With my deepest affection,

Katelyn Debose Drak Stouffer