"Do you understand how may she interpret your absence? With a little help from one of those bastards, she will believe you are denouncing the execution of her father's killers."
"She already knows that." Masolon shrugged again, smiling. "I told her myself yesterday."
Ziyad shook his head in disapproval. "I can't believe what you are doing to yourself. You are jeopardizing what you have just won."
"I understand your worries, brother." Masolon would tell him later about his marriage. "Tell me, how is Darov?"
Ziyad exhaled. Probably, he thought Masolon was taking his concerns too lightly. "The old Rusakian has never been better." He leaned to the opposite side of the table. "He was enjoying his warm meal when I left him. Convincing him to leave the palace will be hard, I have to warn you."
There will be no need for that. Darov deserved a chamber in this palace. The cannon he had made was just the beginning. Masolon could hear rattling armors, clashing blades, and whinnying horses. More blood was coming.
"We will need more men if we want to wage war against Daval." Masolon stared at Augarin on the map. "Hiring mercenaries will be our only option. And hiring mercenaries will cost us much more coin."
"Rona must reopen her trade routes with all other kingdoms," Ziyad suggested. "She shouldn't let the clash with Daval hinder anything, suppose he fights her."
"Us you mean," Masolon corrected, his finger pointed at himself, then at Ziyad. The Murasen fellow chuckled.
"Are we not going back to Subrel soon?" asked Ziyad. "I bet you have many pressing matters to take care of."
More pressing than you think. Masolon had armies to raise, walls to be repaired, and forts to be built. "We are staying in Paril for a while, brother. The Queen needs me near her in the royal palace, and I think she will need your services soon."
"Anything for the gorgeous queen. How can I help her?" Ziyad grinned wickedly.
Masolon ignored his sly hint. "The trade routes issue; can you handle it?"
"Maybe," Ziyad mused. "Let me start with the Skandivians. We are on good terms with them already."
"Good. See what we can sell them."
Ziyad sighed. "Another journey to Kalensi."
"You are not meant to settle down, brother." Masolon chuckled. "I guess more journeys are waiting for you."
"To Rusakia, I hope."
"The kingdom is not in a dire need of their honey in the time being."
Ziyad smacked his lips. "But I really miss their honey, brother."
"Rusakia's turn will come." Masolon grabbed him by the arm. "Let us go out for a ride."
Ziyad kept asking about their destination as he followed Masolon downstairs until they reached the courtyard to mount their horses. Escorted by twenty knights, Masolon and Ziyad rode to the city streets, the wind blowing in their faces. The scattered clouds in the sky did not hide the golden sunlight from falling upon Paril in this cold morning.
"So, you listened to me in the end," said Ziyad, trotting next to Masolon.
"What did you think? We are not going to the execution."
"Please." Ziyad looked disappointed. "You've picked an awkward time to ramble in the city."
"What about rambling outside?"
The clouds were thicker after four hours of riding across the plains east of Paril. "A beautiful sight." Masolon stared at the Green Hills looming in the distance.
"You didn't ignore the execution to contemplate the beauty of Bermanian nature in this weather." Ziyad gazed at the grey sky. "It's going to rain at any moment."
Part of Masolon missed those days of wandering with his gang without the worries he bore now. Only now he realized that those past days were his best times ever, although he apparently had today what he had never dreamt of. What else could he ask for? Sometimes he envied his Murasen fellow's peace of mind. To Ziyad, life was too short to worry about the consequences of his deeds. Unlike the other two fellows, Frankil and Antram, Ziyad had not had their concerns about deviating from the path when he had decided to join Lord Masolon. Living the moment was his only code.
Among the Green Hills, Masolon chose the one with the flattest top and steepest sides. Frankil had told him before that Bermanian chargers were the sturdiest in Gorania, yet they protested with their whinnies when they ascended the hill. After scanning the way uphill with his eyes, Masolon steered his horse to the right and to the left several times, following the less steep parts. In one hour, all riders were atop the hill. "We camp here tonight," Masolon commanded.
"Tonight?" Ziyad looked astonished. "What are we going to do here until nightfall?"
"Scouting each hill, brother," said Masolon. "We must be sure of the location we pick for the castle we are going to build."
"You want to build a new castle." Ziyad nodded. "Well, I understand it is an order from the Queen, but shouldn't you be concerned about Subrel, your castle? You must rebuild its walls if you want to protect it."
Masolon motioned Ziyad to approach. "Subrel, Ramos, Paril; all are mine." Masolon lowered his voice, his hand gently pressing the nape of Ziyad's neck. "I am to wed Rona in three days."
Ziyad gaped at him, paralyzed for a few moments.
Leaving his friend in his astonishment, Masolon pressed his horse with his calves tilted inward to start moving. At first glance, any hilltop would seem a perfect place for a fort—Di Galio had managed to turn the Green Hills into an impregnable post with a band of archers—yet Masolon wanted to inspect every inch himself. After he was done with the first hill, he took Ziyad and a few of his men to scrutinize the other hilltops; a task they only completed at dusk. And it was raining.
"Why do you insist on spending the night here?" Ziyad protested when they returned to the top of the first hill. "You traveled hundreds of times in moonlight."
"Maybe I am longing for those nights when we used to chase the desert brigands." Masolon grinned.
"Stop talking nonsense. Longing for what? You barely spent a night in the royal palace."
Masolon now remembered that he had not informed anyone in the royal palace about his unplanned ride outside Paril. Rona must be mad at the moment. Surely, she thinks I have run away. "You," he called out to a knight of his. "Go to the royal palace, and tell Her Grace that Lord Masolon is patrolling the western plains in the coming two days."
"You can't be serious," Ziyad muttered, shaking his head. "What on earth are you doing? You ride to her yourself and apologize for making her worry about you."
"We cannot afford to waste time. So many actions are waiting for my decision." Masolon wanted to see his realm with his own eyes, not through a map.
By next sunrise, Masolon and his horsemen were moving to the southwest of Paril. A threat from that side was not likely, but if an enemy thought of sailing across the Endless Sea, he would easily disembark at the unfortified port of Lizabona at the far west and then march unopposed to Paril. Masolon wanted to decide whether building defenses for the coastal town would be enough, or he would need to construct a fort between Lizabona and Paril.
"You need too much stone for your ambitious plans," Ziyad pointed out while they were on their way to Lizabona, and he was right. Unfortunately, most of the Bermanian stone mines were located in Augarin; Masolon had heard that in one of those dull meetings with Rona's vassals.
Ziyad had no complaints about the full day ride to Lizabona. At least, they could find a roofed shelter to spend this rainy night in. However, the owner of the only tavern in the small coastal town was dubious about his armed night visitors. "We paid our taxes last month to King Wilander," he said curtly, standing behind the counter.
"Wilander is no more ruling the realm," said Masolon firmly. "I am Masolon, Queen Rona's lord in Subrel."
"Queen Rona," the tavern owner slowly echoed. "So, Charlwood's daughter has won that bloody war. May the Lord bless her reign," he said mockingly.
"You have to watch your tone," Masolon warned.
"We did nothing wrong, milord," said the owner impassively,
his arms folded. "We always pay our taxes when they are due. The royal palace expects nothing more from us."
"We? Us?" Masolon squinted at him.
The keeper rolled his eyes before he said, "No king has ever sent a governor to our wretched town. Paril always wants its silver, and it is my family that has always ensured it is delivered on time. "
Masolon wondered how much silver could be obtained from a town of fishermen. Not a merchant's caravan would pass by a port at the edge of the world.
Masolon looked over his shoulder, watching diners devouring their meals, residents ascending and descending the stairs.
"What sort of fishermen come to your tavern seeking food?" Masolon asked doubtfully.
"They are not, milord," came the answer from one of Masolon's knights. "Most of these men are Byzonts."
"Merchants have nothing to do with the conflict between Bermania and Byzonta," the tavern owner said tightly. "Besides, we had an agreement with King Wilander. Byzont merchants must not set foot anywhere beyond this tavern for any reason."
"Sure," Masolon said dryly. But what about Byzont spies? "Listen, you. . . what do they call you?"
"Caetano." The tavern owner looked uneasy.
"Listen, Caetano. This place is anything but a tavern." Masolon smirked. "And I believe you are smart enough to realize that a new agreement must be made."
"We are the servants of Paril, milord." Caetano pressed his lips together.
"That is what I thought." Masolon nodded, holding Ziyad's shoulder. "The Queen's Advisor, Master Ziyad, will make sure this matter is settled. Now, do you have enough rooms for all of us?"
Caetano provided Masolon and his company the best chambers he had in his place, or so he claimed. Truth be told, Masolon preferred a rainy hilltop with fresh air than his smelly room. He was not sure of what smell was that; a mix of fouling food, smoke, and humid air.
Next morning, Masolon knew he had to hurry if he wanted to return to Paril before the wedding. Lizabona can wait, but Rona cannot. Without waiting for Ziyad who was still asleep, Masolon paid the seaport a brief visit, resisting his curiosity to inspect those anchored galleys. One day, he should come again to learn more of the secrets of this town and its mysterious people. Someone like Caetano was one of Di Galio's men, no doubt. In another occasion, Masolon should spend much more time with him.
As Masolon's company started their journey back to Paril, Ziyad approached Masolon, handing him a small leather pouch. Masolon opened it and took out a lozenge-shaped golden brooch decorated by gems of four colors; purple, green, orange, and blue. When he shot Ziyad an inquiring look, the Murasen explained, "Your gift for the royal bride. It may make her forgive you for your unexpected journey."
"How did you get that?" Masolon looked Ziyad in the eye.
"A simple token of goodwill from Caetano. I spent an hour with him this morning, and I have to tell you; those Byzont merchants bring really interesting goods from their lands."
"Goods? This jewel is probably stolen from some Byzont lord."
"We don't know that for sure." Ziyad shrugged. "But I am quite sure I didn't steal it."
Masolon stared at the brooch for a moment. "Take it, Masolon," Ziyad insisted. "You should not refuse a gift."
Imagining Rona's face red with fury settled it. Masolon put the brooch back into the leather pouch and listened to what Ziyad had learned from Caetano. The tavern owner had agreed to pay a bit larger amount of gold—not silver as Caetano had mentioned in the beginning—in return for Paril 'disregard' for his business.
"We should have arrested that scum," said Masolon.
"Not before you know what he knows." Ziyad shook his head. "And this will never happen unless we gain his trust."
So, this is how it is going to work, Your Grace. You will have to befriend thieves and smugglers, and even accept gifts from them. Frankil had been right when he had refused to join him, Masolon reflected. He was becoming Masolon the King faster than he had expected.
It was another rainy night when Masolon passed through the gate of the royal palace in Paril. Here comes the quarrel, he told himself. The watchmen must have announced his arrival, and she must have received the great news by now. He hoped the brooch would be of use tonight.
Payton was the first one to meet him as he stepped inside. "Welcome back, Your Grace," said Payton impassively.
"Why are you here?" Masolon asked. "Should you not be with the Queen in the throne room?"
"She went to her bedchamber early tonight," Payton justified. For someone who knew Rona well enough, that was a bit surprising. Masolon had expected she would be fidgeting, waiting for him. Was she confident of his return on time?
"Anything of import did I miss?" Masolon asked.
"An announcement was made today to the soldiers about the Queen's wedding and the new King's coronation."
So, it was not a secret now. Everybody knew he was the soon-to-be King. "I will see you tomorrow, then." Masolon thought of going to his bedchamber as well to have some rest after three tiresome days.
The moment he woke up next morning, he heard the hasty footsteps echoing in the corridor outside his chamber back and forth. He wondered if anyone was still asleep in this bustle. From his window, he spied an army of servants fetching lumber and barrels of water to the palace. No doubt, today was a big day in the kitchen.
With the brooch in his hand, Masolon headed to Rona's chamber, but she was not there, and the guards had no idea where Her Grace had gone. The great hall was the first place that came to his mind. She should be there to oversee the preparations.
On his way to the hall, all servants and guards greeted him with 'Good morning, Your Grace,' the clamor getting louder as he approached. But the Queen was not there too when he arrived. The servants, who occupied the hall, bowed to him, but he motioned them to continue what they were doing. All tables and chairs were gathered at one side of the hall, clearing the floor to be cleaned. A group was bringing water barrels, another was mopping the floor, and a third one was still moving the hall furniture to one side to clear more space. From the mettle they showed, he presumed that Her Grace had just been here. Somehow, Masolon thought he might look a bit ridiculous if he asked them about her. What was the name of her maidservant that always followed her where she went?
"Why do I not see Sacura here?" he firmly asked the nearest servant to him. Less ridiculous, but still ridiculous.
"She left with Her Grace to the gardens, Your Grace," she bowed.
He nodded with a stern face and strode toward the main door of the palace, leaving the hall behind. As he stepped outside, he spotted Rona returning with her maidservants and guards, the gentle wind playing through the mauve cloak she wore over her white gown. When their eyes met, she smiled from a distance. The smile before the mother of battles.
"It's good to see you back, Your Grace." She looked cheerful when she approached him. Guards and servants stood aback.
"Nothing is lovelier than the sight of your smile, my queen." He held her palm and kissed it.
"How was your hunt?" she asked, tilting her head.
"You are not mad about it?"
"Of course I am." She folded her arms, still smiling though. "Yet I understand you needed to say 'farewell' to your old life as a lone, wandering warrior."
He laughed. "Actually, I was saying 'welcome' to my new life as King Masolon," he opened his palm, showing her the golden brooch, "husband of the prettiest queen ever."
Rona's mouth dropped open, her eyes widened in joy. "Oh, sweetheart! This is for me?" She took the brooch in her hand, her delighted eyes fixed on it. "It's a beauty." She turned her alluring eyes toward him before she laid a soft kiss on his cheek. "You are the best, Your Grace."
Thank you, Ziyad! Masolon cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his head. "How are the preparations going?"
"Everything is fine." She nodded. "Anyway, we were short of time and coin to make something huge. All I could do was ensuring that our guests find a cl
ean venue and plenty of food."
"Forget about all those guests." He stroked her hair. "All is about you and me."
She glanced over her shoulder at her retinue and turned to him, caressing his chest. "I ordered for your bath to be ready after you have your breakfast. I must go now to see to the feast."
His eyes followed her until she got out of sight. That gorgeous lady was going to be his tonight. He could not wait for the sun to fall.
With wide steps, Masolon returned to the palace to have his breakfast, and then, his royal bath; a bath of lavendered water. After he had finished, his servants helped him with his outer garments; a black surcoat decorated with an embroidered golden lion, black woolen breeches, and a dark-red hoodless cloak.
As he exited to the corridor, he found Payton waiting for him outside. "You look great, Your Grace." The Royal Guard Captain smiled.
Masolon doubted that Payton mocked him. "Not greater than I look in my armor if you ask me."
"In case you don't know, Your Grace, your attire depicts the Bermanian banner and sigil during the reign of King Charlwood," Payton pointed out.
"Is that so?" Masolon was not impressed at all. I am the tyrant resurrected. "Tell me, then; how is this day supposed to go?"
"Today we have two great events. First, Master Petrilius, the High Cleric of the Great Temple of Paril, will run the marriage rituals. Then, he will proclaim you King of Bermania. Then, lords and commanders, one after the other will swear fealty to you. And lastly, the feast of course."
Then, it is me and Rona. But until then, it was a long way ahead, he thought. "I guess we still have enough time to tell me about the glorious history of King Charlwood." Masolon held Payton's shoulder, walking him to his chamber.
Payton looked a bit confused. "What do you exactly want to hear, Your Grace?"
"Everything you know. You will never find a better listener than me."
While listening to Payton in his room, Masolon did not notice how quickly time was passing by. A foreigner king like him had plenty to know about the Bermanian realm; previous kings, noble families, glorious victories, rituals, traditions. Masolon would ask someone like Foubert if he fully trusted him, yet the Captain did not lack the knowledge despite his young age.
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