by Ellyn, Court
Kelyn was making his way toward her when Rorin happened across his path. The interruption was expertly done. It appeared accidental, but could only be otherwise. Back to his old games. Did he never give up? He bowed with a flourish, sweeping a grand plumed hat off his balding head. “Your Majesty! Sire. You honor us by stepping down among us.”
“Give it up, Rorin.”
He fanned his flushed face with the brim of his hat. “King Kelryk. It just … catches in the throat, doesn’t it.” He said it with wistfulness, but the mockery was clear. “I suppose His Highness will follow suit and take ‘Kethryk’ as his throne name?”
“At that point, I won’t be around to give a damn, will I?”
Rorin acted startled. “Pardon my tactlessness, sire. I was wondering if I might—”
“Whatever you want, tell it to my secretary. I’ll tend to it when I have a care.” Kelyn started past the man, delighting in Rorin’s stuttered apologies, his hasty bow. You’ll abuse your power yet, Rhoslyn had told him. Had Kieryn experienced the same pang of conviction when first wrestling with his latent power? How many secret thoughts had he inadvertently violated before he learned to rein it in? How many times had he considered blasting men to mulch for simple offenses?
Kelyn turned back. “I don’t know why I’m annoyed with you. You didn’t vote for me.”
Rorin winced. “Sire, about that—”
“I wouldn’t have voted for me either. It’s not our fault I’ve been tossed into an ocean of political intrigue for the rest of my days. It’s more than I can stand.”
“You have friends willing to help you, sire.”
“Right you are. I read the minutes of the debates. The people decried you, but you only told them the truth. You kept us fed, Rorin, kept us fighting. Tonight, out in the cold, people are hungry, and we sit here gorging on swan. We have wrongs to set aright. And you are the best man to help me bear that burden.”
“Are you … offering me a position, sire?” Rorin licked his lips in undisguised avarice.
I may come to regret it, but… “I am. Will you join my ministry? Will you see that my people have food, housing, and medicine?”
“Of course, sire!”
No need to think it over? “All I ask is that you deal fairly with every man, woman, and child, despite their station. It was the common soldier on the front line. And don’t get fat. The people will hate you for it, and me by extension.”
Rorin patted his belly. “I will be the hand of the king’s generosity.”
Bowing, Rorin backed away, and Kelyn reached his daughter at last. She may have been watching the dancers earlier, but no longer. She stared past their feet, as grave and remote as Briéllyn had been.
“Did you refuse them all?” Kelyn asked, glancing over the spinning lines of dancers. “Or are they snubbing you?”
His voice freed her from her grief; she raised a smile. “My fault, I’m afraid. I was thinking of Uncle Thorn … Uncle Kieryn.” She was having a hard time adjusting to the name. “He promised to come to the next assembly, so he could dance with me.”
“Oh, dearheart.” All the things that would never be. Kelyn had put his chess set away. The chance to play his cheating brother was lost. He’d rather not look at the white marble pieces waiting forever to be moved.
“How shall I ever celebrate a birthday again without—” She cut herself short, before her voice broke. “I’m sorry, Da. Tonight is for laughter.”
“Let’s make a deal. I’ll play chess again, if you dance tonight.” He offered his hand. “It’s not the same, but…”
Joy flooded her face. She clasped his hand, and he led her back into the dance.
The following morning was full of paper. Letters, itemized lists, appeals. Pleas from soldiers’ families requesting wages never delivered; shop owners, shepherds, craftsmen seeking compensation for items Kelyn’s armies foraged or ogres destroyed; Leanians demanding reparation for Aralorri thefts; highborns currying for favor.
While the rest of the citizens and guests of Bramoran enjoyed the morning’s festivities, Kelyn sat behind a monstrous desk in a strange study, Rhorek’s study, his study. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. No patience for it. He needed to move, pace, swing a sword. As weightless as each sheet of paper was, he felt as if he’d been buried under a mountain. He flailed about with no one to extricate him.
His secretary stood at his shoulder, passing him a short stack at a time, summarizing what each one contained. Stooped and soft, the man looked as if he’d been born behind a desk. He had served Valryk as well, and Rhorek before that. His fingers were dry and creased from handling so much paper over the years.
“Road repairs?” Kelyn groused. “There are ministries for this. Why is it passing my desk?”
“You have the final say, sire. You will sign it for approval or put a stay on it for further assessment.”
There wasn’t enough coin to fill every need. His reign would begin with a deficit. Dagni’s report of the state of his treasury confirmed it. Her miners couldn’t extract silver fast enough. Refurnishing the castle with basic necessities, outfitting the Red Mantles, and commissioning new banners had eaten into dwindling funds. With Aralorr’s people striving to rebuild their lives, it was a bad time to tax them, but it might prove necessary. How to balance it all? He could sell the rubies and diamonds stitched to his coronation cloak, that’s what. Aye, he’d send that order Dagni’s direction and see what came of it.
Head throbbing, Kelyn pushed the papers away. “Make sure the soldiers are paid, and their widows. That’s paramount. We’ll discuss the rest later.” He fled the study. Red Mantles fell in behind him. In stairwells and bends in the corridor their bellows announced his presence. Servants and guests scurried aside. Two guards preceded him into his suite, inspected every corner, even peered down the privy, then stationed themselves outside the door with the others.
Kelyn fell across his bed that wasn’t his bed. Did I ever complain about being alone?
“Does His Majesty require anything?” asked one of his chamberlains. The man walked on mouse feet.
“Silverthorn,” he muttered, face deep in a pillow. Something stronger. Make it all go away. But it wouldn’t. No matter how numb he was.
In the afternoon, the races provided a distraction. The royal family occupied their own box under a red awning above the finish line. Kelyn lost three bets in a row and won the fourth. The Lady’s Riding Society held their own event. Carah came in second, after Lady Maeret.
“Sorry, Da,” she said, mopping gobbets of mud from her face. “How much did I cost you?”
“Actually, I won. I bet your mother you wouldn’t fall off and break your neck.”
“Mum!” Carah cried.
Rhoslyn shrugged. “Believe me, I’m happy I lost.”
For a moment, normality crept in. The feeling warmed Kelyn, made him giddy. Then Eliad leaned over his shoulder. “Sire, Laral requests an audience.”
The scoundrel stood outside the awning, fidgeting, not quite able to meet the Red Falcon’s eye. Kelyn hadn’t yet decided which dreary, squabble-strewn ministry to condemn him to.
He gave the nod, and Laral ducked under the awning. Carah let him have her chair and left to change out of her mud-caked riding leathers.
The thunder of hooves announced the start of the next race. Kelyn pretended to watch. “If you’ve come to apologize…”
Laral cleared his throat. “Well, not exactly, sire. I was wondering when His Majesty—”
“Stop talking to me like that.”
“The letter, Kelyn. I was wondering when you wanted to read the letter.”
Kelyn groaned. No more letters. Not today. “Which one of the hundreds?”
“Arryk’s letter. To you.”
Shards of steel embedded in flesh, and that boy drowning under a shattered chest. “I’d completely forgotten.” His brother’s death, his drunken stupor, his bloody damn life altered beyond all reckoning, it was no wonder he had f
orgotten about one more scrap of parchment.
“Raed suggests a public reading,” Laral added.
Kelyn drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. Spectators cheered as the horses galloped past. “He already knows what it says, doesn’t he.”
“I suspect so. Likely merely well-wishes, but…”
“After supper or before? What do you think?”
“Might as well dine without indigestion.”
Kelyn chuckled. “After, then.”
Having stuffed themselves on delicacies available in town throughout the day, few of Kelyn’s guests were interested in the feast that evening. Their impatience, too, was plain. Conversations were rushed, fingers tapped, no one danced. Plates were pushed aside, each course merely picked at.
A single rumor made the rounds with the wine. The White Falcon’s last piece of correspondence, his final word to his people, was to be opened and read. Everyone took a guess at the letter’s contents.
Kelyn considered lingering at the table, savoring each dish so that half an hour passed before the next course was served. Contemptuous of him. In truth, he dreaded what Arryk had to say. Laral might be right. The words might only be well-wishes, a blessing upon the reign of Aralorr’s new sovereign, but why keep such an unremarkable letter under lock and key?
Before dessert was served, Kelyn took pity and stood. “Shall we to the Audience Chamber?”
The highborns followed him along the corridor, babbling in excitement. While he climbed the dais, they filed into the rows of chairs. Queens Da’era and Briéllyn, Lady Lyrienn and Lord Raed took the seats of honor on the front row. Rhoslyn perched on the edge of her throne. It was of richly lacquered andyr. Upon the backrest, the Evaronnan arrow crossed a falcon’s chest.
When Kelyn learned that the ancient thrones had been destroyed, he had requested a simple chair, preferably one not too hard on the arse. The people in charge of such things hadn’t listened. Silver wings reared up from the backrest; from below, they would appear to sprout from the king’s shoulder blades. Ridiculous illusion. Rhorek had forsaken his throne, unless he was sitting in judgement over criminals. Kelyn considered adopting the same practice. But this evening, he put the velvet cushion to use, leaned back against the cold, unforgiving wings, and waved for the reading to proceed.
Laral strode up the aisle, bearing an iron box. Drona accompanied him. When they reached the dais, they fished necklaces from under their clothes. A key swung from each chain. They raised them high for the highborns to see, then plied them to the two padlocks securing the box.
Laral lifted out the parchment and raised it for similar inspection. The parchment was stained yellow from the king’s sweat, smudged red-brown with his blood. “Note, it remains sealed.” None could easily argue that the letter was a forgery, a counterfeit, or had been tampered with.
Raed stood. “If I may, Your Majesty, I insist a Leanian read the contents.”
“Why, precisely?” Kelyn asked.
“Leanians are the neutral party here. Arryk’s sentiments do not concern them.”
The Leanian guests gusted with whispers. Which one should have the honor? Queen Da’era lost patience with them and took the letter herself. She was a petite thing, barely twenty. Small, suspicious eyes; a thin, disapproving mouth. Though it was difficult to see the authority of a queen resting on her narrow shoulders, Kelyn detected shrewdness, strength, and suspected she would prove herself as capable as her father.
She broke the seal with a loud crack. Though never having expected to inherit Leania’s throne, she had been trained for public speeches. Her voice carried well as she began to read:
I, Arryk, the White Falcon, King of Fiera, address with all humility and goodwill the newly invested sovereign of Aralorr and Evaronna.
Sire or madam,
I write this in the introspective quiet of the night, after much thought concerning my legacy, without duress or provocation. It is my own heart, my own desire, that I express.
Forgive me if I attempt grand sentiments and fall short. Words are only words after all, poor tools to convey the depth of human feeling and the mighty scope of our endeavors. A king granted long years may accomplish many a worthwhile feat of generosity, justice, expansion, and improvement for the benefit of his people. But because the seal of this letter has been broken, this king has been allotted far fewer years than he would have chosen for himself.
A small sound came from below the dais. Carah was biting her lower lip, but her chin trembled regardless.
And so I must accomplish all in the space of a few lines of ink.
We may hope that the head which bears the weight of a crown is held aloft by the buoyancy of a grand, star-seeking vision. Otherwise, it is merely a deadweight.
My father Shadryk the Third, was—in the generous words of Thorn Kingshield—a man of great vision. It was, however, to the misfortune of many that the only means my father saw to achieve his vision were war and conquest. Early in my youth did I come to understand that a conquered people bow unwillingly and upon standing, rise in arms. Had my father achieved his goal, quickly would it have dissolved before his eyes.
A thousand years ago, Westervael was the envy of the world. Peoples from far lands sought its learning, its silver, its innovations, its strength and art and trade. A war between brothers tore its glory asunder. Ever since, the Brother Realms have struggled, clawing at one another, like two drowning men pushing each other beneath the waves to save themselves.
If Westervael is to be restored, it will require a new kind of vision. Though I share my father’s dream, the proper method of making it a reality eluded me. Perhaps still it does. You, Your Majesty, must be the judge of this. But if by my death our people may be made whole again, is it not worth the sacrifice?
Outbursts drowned out Da’era’s voice. Aralorri and Fieran alike surged to their feet. “He can’t do this!” they shouted.
“He can’t mean to—”
“What right does he have—”
“Never. We’ll never—”
The same sentiments whirled through Kelyn’s brain. He found himself watching their protest through the grate of his fingers. Of all the Fierans, only Raed stood in silence, stoically glaring at the floor.
Laral looked to Kelyn. There was an awed, ecstatic gleam in his eyes.
A herald banged a wooden staff on the marble floor until a semblance of quiet resumed.
When Kelyn neither moved nor spoke, Rhoslyn’s fingertips laid lightly upon his wrist. He waved Da’era to continue.
I have witnessed, to my own wonderment, a desperate struggle to survive burgeon into alliance, and that alliance bloom into friendship. We have learned together that amity is possible between our people, that our strength is greater together than apart. In the words of Kelyn Swiftblade: If we, the proud people of the west, stand together, who can stand against us?
Because I have passed without a son or daughter to follow me, it is my prerogative, my duty, to name my heir. It is my hope that the people of Fiera will extend their cooperation and make my vision theirs. And so with these words, I invest as the heir to all my kingdom and everything within its borders, from the Great Fire Sea to the Drakhan mountains, from the Bryna to the Galda, the sovereign ruler of Aralorr and Evaronna.
May the Falcons of the Brother Realms become one, and the Great Falcon of the West be the glory of the continent for generations to come.
Blood thundered in Kelyn’s ears. He was sure his face had blanched to the color of the parchment in Da’era’s trembling hands.
The people shouted; the herald’s staff went unheeded.
“He has given us over!”
“To one we had no vote in choosing.”
“This can’t be legal.”
“Lord Regent, protest this!” bellowed Daxon. “It’s nothing but trickery. One of them wrote this … this obscenity. Laral or the Red Falcon himself.”
“You’re a fool,” Laral retorted. “Never mind calling me false, b
ut you accuse a king in his own court?”
“Dax,” said his aunt, “sit down, shut up, and think. We Fierans had the only keys. If we had known what we were guarding … if I had known…”
“This can’t happen,” Dax persisted. “It can’t.” He stomped from the Audience Chamber with a banging of doors.
Raed spread his arms and waved the assembly to silence. “Be still!” He was a not a man to waste time on the word ‘please.’ “I knew the contents of the letter. His Majesty, King Arryk, warned me in separate correspondence what he meant to do. I cannot count the number of times I nearly ordered the lockbox brought to me so I could burn this letter to ash. But the ensuing months gave me time to reflect, and I believe Arryk was right. If these words, this experiment, can prevent our people from bleeding the waters of the Bryna red, is it not worth trying?”
“No!”
“It can never work!”
The Aralorris were as adamant as the Fierans. Did they realize they protested with one voice?
Raed nodded. “True, it may fail. We have all lost people we love to the bitter feud between our realms. My son Raudry died of pneumonia while waiting for the chance to spill Aralorri blood. King Kelryk’s own father, Laral’s brother, Drona’s twin. We are none of us untouched!
“If we do not seize this chance, the warring between our peoples will go on and on, and we, not the soldiers of future generations, are the murderers.” His words astonished the highborns to silence. He turned toward the dais, and suddenly Kelyn understood why Raed had been inspecting him so keenly. “If the measure is accepted, Your Majesty, I will be the first to kneel.”
Bowing, he backed from the Audience Chamber. As soon as he was gone, arguments erupted.
Kelyn heaved himself out of the throne. “This is not a battle we will fight!” His bellow buffeted the vaulted ceiling, drowning the ugliness spilling from each mouth. “Let us not declare ourselves enemies now, just to prove Arryk’s vision foolish. Not after everything we’ve suffered together. The matter that lays before us is a very personal one. I leave it in your hands. This court is dismissed. I’m retiring for the night.” He beckoned for the letter. Laral brought it to him. “This item will remain here on the seat of my throne. The doors to the Audience Chamber will remain unbolted and unwatched. Each of you must search your own heart. If in the morning the letter is gone, we will go our separate ways and speak no more of it. But if it’s still here, well, we’ll do everything we can to turn this extraordinary dream into a reality.”