“Your Majesty!” The matron exclaimed with a start, immediately lowering herself in a deep curtsey.
“Calm yourself, Griselda,” he assured as he stepped into the room, waving a dismissive hand. “Since when have you ever needed to bow before me…?” The old woman had been almost a surrogate mother for the princess the last sixteen years and Phaesus had never been one for formality at the best of times.
“But, sire, you’re king now…” She answered as she rose once more, as if that explained everything.
“And I was a prince, then…” he countered with a dry grin. “These last six months have been difficult,” he conceded, not allowing that understatement to dampen his mood, “and I know I’ve been away from you all far more that I was before the coronation, but I promise: I’m still the same prince you’ve worked for and looked after all these seasons past.” He crossed the floor to stand with them, Charleroi also on her feet now and standing quietly and respectfully beside Griselda. “You’ve been almost a mother for Charli all this time,” he added sadly, “and to me¸ you’re family in everything but name alone so please… outside of public or formal engagements, do not bow to me. You’ve earned too much of my respect for that.”
“You honour me, sire,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion and barely managing to catch herself before she curtsied again.
“No more than you deserve…” he nodded faintly, then turned his attention toward the princess with an impish gleam in his eye. “…and what of my smart, witty, beautiful and – most importantly – argumentative only child…? Debating again with Griselda over the laws of The Shard itself? As formidable as the good woman is, I doubt she’ll be able to help: you’d just as well argue with a fisherman over the coming and going of the tides…”
“I was just saying that it was unfair, that’s all,” she replied sulkily, staring down at the floor just ahead of her father’s feet.
“And I agreed with you, did I not?” He pointed out, gently, reaching out and lightly lifting her chin with a single finger to look into her eyes. “Did I not say that very thing just seconds ago?”
“I – I suppose…” she shrugged, unwilling to give any ground as teenagers were wont, and not seeing any benefit to be had from her father’s admission in any case.
“A moment of privacy, lady, if you will…?” The king asked with a pointed glance at the old woman, nothing but courtesy in his tone.
“Of course, Your Majesty… of course…” Griselda blurted, immediately curtseying once more without thinking and heading straight for the open door, closing it behind her as she went.
“Still in your Endweek dress…?” He asked with a smile, noting her attire for the first time. “All the better… come: take a coat and join me out on the balcony.”
“I don’t need a coat, father,” she replied quickly, the need to disagree an almost pathological symptom of teenage years. “I like the cold…”
“Yes, you do need a coat…” he insisted, and there was no more argument to be had there. “Come out and we’ll talk, you and I…”
The balcony was long and narrow, running at least forty or fifty metres across the southern face of the palace’s second level, and bordered both the king’s and princess’ bed chambers, separated by a low wall. With tall ceilings on the lower floor, its stone balustrades stood at least three metres above the ground with burning torches mounted on the outer side of the railing and spaced at regular intervals to provide lighting along its entire length. A squad of the King’s Own bodyguard patrolled below at all times, the height and the manpower present acting as great deterrents for any would-be assassin, unlikely as the possibility might be.
From the railing, the king could look out across the palace grounds past the towers of the Fortress and see the four snow-capped summits that formed the Cadle mountain chain, glowing beneath the moon and stars on that clear night. Small Horn, The Osterman, The Smith and Cadle itself, running from east to south-west in a great, ponderous curve of towering, dolerite pillars. They weren’t the tallest mountains on the island but they were the most recognised: renown across the kingdom and beyond, they were symbols of the strength and longevity of Huon and the Namur line.
The King’s grandfather had long called them his ‘Four Dragons’, and he’d chosen to build his great fortress in the shadow of their majesty. It had taken two decades for Fortress Cadle to take shape and the king’s father – the second in their line – had often recalled with sadness that the building of the fortress had destroyed his father just as surely as the constant fighting with the Blacklands: Phaesus I had died young, broken both in mind and body.
And yet Phaesus II had continued to literally build on the legacy his father had left behind. The palace in which they now stood, although modest by comparison to some the king had seen – particularly those of the Sun Empire in the far north-east of the mainland – was nevertheless a grand and impressive structure, with fine, polished walls and floors of stone throughout. Those walls were adorned with artwork from right across the Osterlands, along with the finest tapestries and beautiful furniture carved lovingly from that same, golden Huon pine.
War alone had taken Hachem Namur’s father, killed in a great sea battle off the Blacklands’ coast, within sight of Harald’s summer fortress. His two sons had mourned the old man’s death, yet with it came a crushing victory that had destroyed the Black Fleet and left Castle Black open to attack. The siege that had followed had ended that war – one of many between the two great powers of The Deepwater Strait – and had gone some way toward laying the foundations for the coming, long-lasting peace that Phaesus IV had worked ceaselessly for these last six months.
“They’re beautiful, father… as always…” Charleroi observed quietly as she joined him at the railing, and stared out at the moonlit peaks across the silent, silver mirror of Peaceful Lake. She now wore a thick, woollen coat lined in sheepskin and although she’d never have admitted it, she was grateful of its warmth as she stood beside him, their breath swirling in the icy darkness. Neither uttered a word of complaint though; clear nights were as rare as sunny days, and they were to be cherished in spite of the cold.
“Almost as beautiful as my loving daughter…” he replied with a smile, not looking down but nevertheless aware that she would be blushing now. “…Although, not as argumentative…” he added, releasing a soft sigh that coiled in the air around his head and dissolved in the breeze.
“I know Matron Griselda can’t do anything about the laws, father,” she explained softly. She knew he wasn’t angry: that statement had been his characteristic way of giving her an opening – an opportunity to speak. “I know that… but sometimes I need someone to talk to, and you’re so busy these days, especially now the peace accords have started...”
“Even I cannot change a Shard Law,” he pointed out honestly, and she was a little surprised to note a faint hint of sadness in his tone.
“You don’t believe in them either, do you!” She asked, more as a statement than a question as she caught the faint hint of scorn in his voice.
“What I believe is irrelevant…” he answered diplomatically, side-stepping that question, “…but I will say honestly – as I did inside – that I do not believe them to be fair.”
“But then, why…” she began, faltering in her rising frustration, “…why can’t you change them? You’re the king! What is there that a king can’t do?”
“My darling girl…” he began with a rueful expression, the sadness far clearer now, “…there are many things a king or queen can do, but ignoring the will of their people is not one of them.”
“But… but… you can send the kingdom to war…!” She frowned, searching for logic in what he was saying. “You could take everyone’s lands and possessions for your own… demand tribute… take their grain: as a king, you could do any of these things…”
“I would not do any of those things, given a choice…” he countered firmly, giving a frown of his own in return as h
e turned to face her for the first time.
“I know that, father, but you could…”
“Not without justification, Charli…” he explained, his tone even but stronger now. “You’ve learned much from your tutors and your classes, and there’s great intelligence and compassion within you – both vital to the success of a monarch – but there’s still much for you to learn about how a kingdom works. You’re right,” he conceded. “As king, I could do any or all of those terrible things if I so desired. But a king cannot send his people to war – to die in war – without reason… not if he wishes to keep his crown, or his head.”
“But…”
“One day… you will wear this crown… you will stand in my place… and when that times comes, hopefully many years hence, you will learn that there are many things a monarch cannot do, much as he or she wishes otherwise.” He turned away again with another sigh, casting an arm out at the mountains and lake beyond the castle walls. “Out there, ordinary people live their ordinary lives, most of them surviving from day to day with no greater desire than to see food on their table and spend time with their loved ones. That is a the essence of a simple life, the life of my subjects – your subjects – and the reason they work and toil, pay their taxes and give their share of food and service to the crown is because of what we give them in return…”
He again faced her, raising an eyebrow in unspoken question and making it clear a response was required. She thought long and hard, recognising that her father expected something considered and well-thought, and it was a moment or two before she finally answered.
“Safety…?” She answered carefully, uncertainty in her voice.
“Safety…” he repeated with a faint nod, filling her with relief. “Safety and security: protection against dangers from without and from within the kingdom. They pay their gold and give their services when needed because they know – they expect – the crown in turn to keep them safe from bandits and enemy nations. They expect roads and city walls… sanitation and clean water. They expect to see Crown Guards patrolling the streets and the open roads, and warships patrolling the oceans, holding back pirates and invaders alike. This is the unspoken contract that every king must honour.
“To send your people to battle is to knowingly condemn hundreds – thousands – to certain death… in your name. This is a terrible responsibility that must not be undertaken lightly. If the war is a just one, the people will endure it… If it is unjust…? If they do not believe in the cause, whatever that may be, then they may persevere… for a time… but I tell you this: sure as I’m speaking to you right now, Charli, a ruler who pushes too harshly or unjustly will fall in the end. To push the people beyond their limit is to invite revolt and anarchy… there’s nothing so certain as this.
“To return to your statement that the Keepsake Law is unfair…” he continued, bringing the focus back to the original subject. “This law stands as an integral part of The Book of The Shard. The Book tells us that eradication of evil was the prime purpose of The Cleansing… of the time when the Night Dragons fell from the sky and scoured Nethug from our world with fire. The Book also tells us that heeding The Word – to follow the laws of The Shard – will provide each and every one of us with salvation in this world and a doorway to paradise as we pass on to the next.”
“Do… do you really believe that…?” She asked carefully, knowing that even with her father, the question was potentially dangerous.
“Again, what I believe does not matter…” he replied, this time clear in his meaning despite the evasive answer. “It is what the people believe that matters. In this, The Brotherhood is all-powerful. The one thing that the people desire in life more than any other is the ‘certainty’ that all their years of hard work and sacrifice have purpose. What point would there be in a peasant’s mind to all his toil and labour, giving so much of his earthly life to the land and the state, if there was no hope of a paradise awaiting them in the next? The Brotherhood – The Shard – gives them that promise, and that is something no king can match.
“I know what you will ask next…” he went on, forestalling her words. “You would point out that surely, the women of this world cannot enjoy being forced to cover their faces – their eyes – while outside their own homes and villages? That their menfolk surely cannot endure to see their beloved humiliated and controlled in this way? That a princess who will one day become a queen – the ruler of an entire kingdom – should be able to come and go as she pleased and not be locked up in a windowless carriage in her travels throughout her own lands?” His smile then was wan and humourless.
“I would answer only thus: no, they do not enjoy this… no decent human being would without reason endure such humiliation. However, whether I believe in the law or not, whether I believe in witches or not, the fact remains, as Griselda said earlier, that bad things do happen to those accused of witchcraft. Aside from human actions – the burnings, and the torture of those who give aid – there are also the magical powers of the inquisitors: the power of The Crystal in the Holy Pendants they wear. Every Endweek, we all receive that blessing willingly, and you and I are no different in spite of our doubts.
“You saw the image of Nethug tonight, yes? Hastily painted against the pillar for all to see? Done on a dare by some foolish youth, no doubt. There’s talk going about at the moment how some believe that Nethug is ‘misunderstood’… that he’s a harbinger of change rather than destruction…” he sighed with exasperation. “They don’t understand how carefully the Brotherhood watches. You know the stories of those who fall aside… we all do. And you also know how those stories end: farms or entire villages wiped out, sometimes leaving no more than a smoking hole in the ground… death and destruction for unbelievers and anyone around them, their deaths without explanation by something other than human hands. And so we attend every week to accept the blessing.”
“It’s not The Brotherhood you fear…” Charleroi realised finally, no accusation in her words. Everything her father had said suddenly became very clear in her mind in that moment. “It’s not them at all, or The Shard… it’s the people that frighten you.”
“Indeed…” he nodded, staring out at the mountains. “Challenge The Shard and you threaten the doorway to paradise. Take away hope, and you take away everything they believe in. To dispute or disrespect the teachings of The Shard – to even think of forcing change – would mean death for any ruler across The Osterlands… suicide at the hands of his own people. That is the power of The Shard. It spans all kingdoms, and it needs no army… no war fleet. The ‘soldiers’ of The Brotherhood are the peasants, the commoners and the nobles alike, and they would answer any call, man or woman, in defence of their hope for salvation and paradise.”
“What point is there in even being a king… or a queen…?” she mumbled softly in defeat, the reality of what her father had said sinking in.
“There is much one can do… so much more than just rule…” he answered immediately, optimism returning to his tone. “My brother, my father and his father before him all ruled this kingdom with fists of iron: the wars and the constant need to defend against our enemies – mostly Harald and his predecessors – made this a necessity. Now however, as we stand for the first time at a doorway to a lasting peace, this will be a new age of prosperity not just for Huon and the Namur, but for all the kingdoms of The Osterlands. Smiths and engineers have already doubled and tripled the efficiency of our farms and factories through the use of science… through the use of tools to better till the earth… mechanical devices that pick cotton… spinning machines that weave linen. All these things have improved the lives of our subjects in real ways: in this life rather than waiting for the next.
“The only problem at the moment is that it is all on such a small scale. Now, as it has always been, the primary industry in Huon is the building of warships. In Croweda, the majority of the foundries there produce steel blanks to be forged into swords, spears and other weapons of war. Rol
led plate comes to our own smithies to be fashioned into shields and armour for our knights and soldiers, and into arrow- and spearheads to pierce the armour of our enemy. Most of our industrial capacity is consumed purely by military needs, and because of this there are great delays in the delivery of improvements for our civilian population.
“By signing the treaty with Harald, we will break this cycle once and for all and finally be able to put our efforts as a kingdom into making tools and machines that will benefit Huon, rather than simply defend it…” He declared finally, pride filling him. “This will be my legacy to you, Charli… the legacy of a nation of wonders and prosperity that will be the envy of the whole world…!”
“A legacy I shall never see as queen,” she pointed out bitterly, stating the obvious. “Not in the fields, or in the factories… not anywhere outside of this castle.”
There was a long silence then, neither of them able to think of anything suitable to add at that moment, and both instead elected to stare thoughtfully up at the night sky above the dark, distant mountains. A single, brilliant streak of blue-white light appeared at that moment, streaking downward at an incredible rate from almost directly above them and disappearing behind Cadle’s summits. It passed without a sound and had vanished completely by the time either had a chance to react.
“Father…!” Charleroi gasped, suddenly feeling a sharp, guilty terror.
“A Night Dragon, yes… I saw it …” he answered, more surprise in his expression than fear.
“Is it an omen…?” She breathed softly, not sure she wanted an answer.
“You think it appeared because we’re talking?” The king asked, trying hard not to humiliate his daughter by showing amusement. “You think your doubts have brought a dragon’s wrath?” He continued with a tilt of his head. “Randwick was right, it seems: there are no unbelievers in battle, are there…?”
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