by Garon Whited
When the sun came up, I used the ring. It worked as expected, leaving me pink and clean and believably human. Very nice. I also ran through some color shading, shifting from milk-pale to hostile coffee, then through most of the rainbow. It worked; I was happy with it.
I started working on assembling an eyeball illusion, trying to build as perfect a replica as possible. I wanted to include things like retina patterns, forced perspective for the “inside” of the eyeball, the works. With the technology of Mary’s world and Diogenes’ world—the world Diogenes is in; I’d rather think of it in those terms rather than terms of angry ants—I might need to look into a retina scanner some night. I don’t want to be embarrassed.
It was during this process someone knocked at the door. A bodyguard—someone new; they changed shifts while I was busy with my enchantment—let them in and agreed to breakfast. This told me I should probably stop with the magical garage inventor stuff and go back to being a king for a while.
“What’s for breakfast?” I asked, emerging from the bedroom. The knights spun to face me and went to one knee. I couldn’t tell who they were; their faceplates were locked in place.
“My lord, we don’t know,” said the one by the door. “Breakfast is served in the breakfast room, they say. Do you wish something delivered here?”
“No, that’s all right. Have you two eaten?”
“Before we came on, my lord, and we will again in midmorning, when we are relieved. Master Beltar says we should neither eat nor drink while guarding you.”
“He’s cautious,” I observed. “All right. Do you know the way to the breakfast room?”
“No, my lord.”
I rang for a servant and used him as a guide. He led the way, a knight followed him, I followed the knight, and the other one followed me. I felt as though I were part of a prisoner escort. For my own safety, of course.
Do I need bodyguards inside my own palace? Well, the Demon King’s palace?
Yeah, that’s a stupid question. Most people are going to keep thinking of me as the Demon King.
Breakfast was on the third floor. Wherever the Demon King used to eat, I was willing to bet it wasn’t in a pleasant little spot with a wall of windows looking south, over the harbor side of Carrillon. And I doubted Lissette had breakfast with him. From what I understand, he was more likely to have breakfast in a private room with a prostitute under the table and a couple of harem dancers providing a floor show. Possibly with a choir being hammered on their racks like a xylophone.
Aside from the choir, I’m not against it, necessarily, if the staff is paid well for their services, but it strikes me as a bit more self-indulgent than is reasonable. But maybe that’s my upbringing talking.
Lissette was already seated at the breakfast table. One of the waiters must have warned her I was coming; she didn’t seem surprised when I arrived. She stood up and gave me a slight bow, which I returned. I noticed Malana and Malena eyeing the black-armored guys. I assume there was mutual eyeballing going on, but it’s hard to tell through those faceplates.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.”
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” I replied. “May I join you?”
“Please.” She gestured and a flunky slid a chair into position opposite Lissette.
“Do we dismiss the guards,” I asked, settling gently into the chair, “or have them stand around posturing for the whole meal?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Malana? Malena? Could you come here, please?” They glanced at Lissette and received the tiniest of nods. When the stood on either side of me, I could almost feel the tension in the knights behind me.
“Do you two intend to kill me?” I asked, pleasantly.
“Never,” they replied, in unison.
“I’m relieved to hear it. Please guard me during the meal while these fine gentlemen guard the Queen.”
More glances flitted around the room, but people rearranged themselves around us. Lissette pursed her lips as my guys took station behind her.
“Is this necessary?” she asked.
“Nope. But they’re going to pretend they’re not glaring at each other all through breakfast. I’d rather they had something else to worry about than each other—like, for example, their new responsibility for guarding someone they hadn’t expected. Because the competitive posturing and snooty attitude will ruin the meal and I’m looking forward to eating. Everyone get that?” I finished. There was a chorus of reluctant agreement from all four of the armed killers in the room. I waved them back and they withdrew to the corners of the room, out of the way. I thought I detected a twinkle in the eyes of the twins, but I only got a quick glance.
Lissette bit her lips to keep from smiling. The waiter-servant-whatever didn’t bother to say anything, merely had another place set and more food brought in. I tried my ring’s sensory muting spell, dialing down my smell and taste to more human levels, and discovered I could enjoy the meal.
Hot damn. Eggs that don’t crawl up my nose to fight with the toast. I still had to chew carefully—sharp teeth all around—but it was no longer a case of chomp it and get it down fast. I might actually feel as though I’m eating, rather than refueling.
Despite the icebreaking help of our bodyguards, breakfast was still awkward. It was a lovely domestic scene for the upper class. Pleasant view, nice room, bright décor, hot food, alert servants, impassive bodyguards, and nervous domesticity. Lissette and I were working on being at ease with each other. I’m not used to being married in the first place. She’s not used to her Evil Husband of nine years turning back into the mildly-goofy guy she met at the wedding ceremony.
Ah, domestic tranquility. Nice stuff. I’d buy a bottle if I knew where to get it—and no, the local liquor store is not the place.
On the plus side, the food was good and I enjoyed it for the first time in a long while.
Lissette picked at her breakfast for a bit before she cleared her throat. I looked up from my plate, swallowed, and wiped my mouth. I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging expression. It must have worked, for she spoke.
“I was wondering if you had any changes you wanted made.”
I digested that with a perplexed look while preparing some bacon for more direct digestion.
“I’m sorry,” I admitted, “but I’m not sure what you mean. Changes to…?”
“The schedule for tonight.”
“Nobody’s presented me with a schedule, so I don’t know.”
“No?” She seemed surprised. “I gave instructions to Felkar about it.”
“Who’s Felkar?”
“He’s castellan of the palace. He’s very good at organizing and managing the servants, arranging for events, and similar things.”
“Right. Got it. Never heard of him, but I’m sure someone else knew him well. If you like his work, that’s all I need to know. He was supposed to let me know?”
“Yes.”
“Then he probably told Seldar and Seldar approved it. He’s my right-hand man. I delegate a lot.”
“You do?” Again with the surprised expression.
“I don’t know why that shocks you.”
“I’m not shocked.” She paused for a moment. “Maybe I am, a little. It’s just…”
“That’s not what you’re used to?” I guessed. She nodded. “Don’t sweat it.” I looked at a waiter and told him to send for Seldar. He bowed deeply and left.
“We’ll sort it all out,” I promised. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have an opinion, though. If you want it a certain way, we’ll do it your way.”
I heard the chatter outside a moment or two before the door to the breakfast room opened. A boy marched in. Behind him, a pair of well-dressed men fell silent as they entered the presence of the King and Queen.
The boy was eight or nine, dressed in fancy clothes, and carried a naked sword in his hand, one made for his size. His hair was brown and worn rather long, his eyes were blue and clear, and he seemed to have the air of
one grimly determined to have his way.
“Liam!” Lissette scolded. “What are you doing?”
“We couldn’t stop him,” said one of the gentlemen behind the boy.
“He insisted,” the other one added, gesturing toward the sword. I noticed it had a bit of blood on the point. Upon closer inspection, one of the dandies behind him did have a neat puncture wound in his upper arm. What I took initially for an arm band was a handkerchief or something similar tied around the wound. Blood was seeping into the cloth.
“Liam,” Lissette said, using the Mother Tone.
Liam ignored her and walked straight to me. I scooted back from the table and slid the chair through a quarter-turn to face him. He approached, sword still out, and I waited, wondering what he planned to do. I kept my knife and fork in hand, though, pretending to idly toy with them. Children can be unpredictable.
“Are you my real father?” he asked, without preamble.
“Clean your blade,” I replied, “and put it away. It is rude—extremely rude—to walk up on someone with a drawn blade if you don’t intend to kill them immediately.”
Liam blinked at me for a second, then took a cloth from the table, cleaned his weapon, and sheathed it.
“That’s much better,” I told him. “Now, what was your question?”
“Are you my real father?”
Sometimes I wonder about kids. I don’t know a damn thing about them. I had this mental image of a studious, serious boy with an interest in how the world was put together. Well-behaved, aside from a few boyish pranks and the occasional disaster with a medieval or magical equivalent of a science project. “Liam, whose miniature catapult launched this brick through the baron’s window?” “I cannot tell a lie, Father. It was I.” That sort of thing.
I’ve inadvertently fathered a huge number of children and have not the first notion of the proper way to raise them.
“I’m beginning to wonder,” I told him, seriously. “Any son of mine would introduce himself politely and ask graciously. When was the last time someone gave you the back of a hand for being a spoiled little rich kid?”
Lissette drew a sharp breath. Everyone else held very still.
“Very well,” Liam replied, coldly. “I am Liam of the House of Halar, Crown Prince to the throne of Karvalen. May I ask who you are?”
“I am Halar the First, King of Karvalen, husband to the Queen Lissette. It is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Liam.”
We traded stares for a few thousand years, this young prince and I. I recognized his eyes from somewhere, possibly a long-ago mirror. At least they weren’t black. This was not the way I pictured meeting my son for the first time. Truthfully, I hadn’t pictured meeting my son at all. It’s a concept my mind has avoided, and for good reason. I’m trying to leave Karvalen, not build new ties to it.
And yet, here he is.
“I’m told you’re not the same man,” he replied.
“I’m not. My body was possessed by a demonic entity.”
“Then are you my father, or aren’t you?”
“Ask your mother.”
He took a step closer and glared at me.
“I’m asking you!”
There are several ways he could have said that. He could have said it tearfully, as though demanding answers of the man who could be his father, needing to hear it from that man’s own lips. He could have said it low, intense, desperate to hear it directly from the King. He didn’t. He said it with a haughty grandeur, as a Prince of the Blood Royal, snapping out a correction to some servant.
I ignored him and turned my chair around to the table again.
“Look at me when I speak to you!” he demanded.
“Lissette?”
“Halar?”
“Who’s been raising this boy? You? If the duties of the Queen have been too pressing, I’ll understand—it’s a tough job, and about to be tougher. But this fine specimen of a young man is a cretin.”
“I can hear you!” he shouted. I continued to ignore him.
“I have arranged for his education,” Lissette assured me, glancing from me to Liam and back. “He studies his letters and the other arts of the gentleman.”
“But it’s mostly teachers and suchlike? People he can bully, as the Prince?”
“I’m not sure. They do have authority over—”
“Look at me!” he interrupted, demanding.
I turned suddenly and leaned close, right into his face.
“I’m looking at you,” I hissed. “Are you sure you want me to? Because I don’t like what I see, boy.”
He skipped back and drew his sword. I turned the chair sharply as I slapped the blade aside, along the flat, before smacking his hand and taking the weapon away from him. I laid it on the table, next to my plate, as though it were another eating utensil. I lifted fork full of eggs and ate. He reached for the hilt and I slapped his hand again, hard, knocking his fingers into the edge of the table. He jerked his hand back to stick fingers in his mouth, shocked and surprised and not certain whether he wanted to cry about it or not.
“The little gentleman,” I suggested, looking at Lissette, “might need a firmer hand. I’m not saying it’s required—he’s our son, and I disapprove of what he’s turning into—but if this is what you want, I won’t interfere.”
“It’s been difficult to discipline him,” Lissette agreed. “His… that is, your predecessor—”
“I want an answer!” he screeched, “and I want my sword back!”
I turned to look at him again. He stepped back again. Firebrand relayed my thought.
Shut your face and stand there or I will whip your backside with your own sword until you stop crying.
The look on his face was indescribable. I turned back to the table as though he weren’t there.
“My Queen,” I began, calmly, “if discipline is a problem, may I make a suggestion?”
“I would be delighted to hear it,” Lissette replied, obviously torn between approval and worry. I wondered if anyone ever treated Liam like a brat. Because he was the Crown Prince? Or because the Demon King gave a crap? Or because people thought the Demon King gave a crap?
“Beltar is the high priest of the Temple of Shadow. He isn’t in the habit of being intimidated by mortal authority. He and the other knights of shadow—especially the Banners—might make excellent teachers. Come to that, Liam’s niece is unlikely to be intimidated by his title, either. I could persuade her to come here, I think.”
“His niece?”
“The daughter of his half-sister. My granddaughter.”
“Oh! I suppose,” she said, reluctantly. I could tell she didn’t like the idea of Tianna living in the Palace.
“It might do him some good to understand a Prince is not a ruler, nor is it—”
Liam chose that moment to snatch at his sword again. I grabbed his wrist, stood up, and brought his wrist with me. He dangled for a moment, then kicked me and kept kicking me, swinging back and forth awkwardly.
“Lissette? As I said, I don’t intend to interfere with your child-rearing choices, but might I be permitted to discipline our son?”
“Don’t hurt him,” she told me/begged me.
“I may hurt him,” I countered, “but I won’t harm him, if you follow.”
“I… yes, I think. But I want him…”
“He’ll be fine,” I assured her, over the screaming and flailing, “but he won’t like this. Nobody likes a punishment or the imposition of discipline. You’ll note I’m still being tolerant of the way he keeps kicking me.”
“All right,” Lissette decided, watching me.
I lifted him higher to look him in the eye. He punched me. I simply looked at him without reacting. So he punched me again.
“I have to admire your tenacity and spirit, if not your wisdom,” I admitted. I shifted him around, sat down, put him over my knee, pinned him there, and took his pants down. He demanded to know what I thought I was doing, threatened to have me whipped, th
reatened to have me executed, and so on. I gave him ten swats with the flat of his sword. There was no blood, but he had lines all the way across. I stood up, forcing him to his feet. He pulled his pants up, stifling tears and sobs.
Once he had his pants up, I put him in my chair. He didn’t seem comfortable, but I didn’t mind.
“Now you listen to me, you arrogant little pipsqueak! You may be the Crown Prince, but that can change! I will happily appoint a whole new heir—one worthy of the title! Right now, you are arrogant, self-centered, privileged, vain, foppish, and foolish, none of which are good qualities in a would-be king.”
“I’m going to be King,” he declared, still sniffling back tears. I don’t think anyone ever spanked him before and I was regretting giving him the full ten swats. Seven might have done. Maybe five. But maybe I’m wrong and should have made it twenty. I’m a complete nebbish as a king and being a father is probably harder.
“Son, right now you’re going to have a tough time proving you can even be a prince. I think the best option is to sell you to a merchant headed for some far-away land and hope we can get a decent dog in trade, because you haven’t shown me you’re worth even the dog.”
“I’m the Crown Prince!”
“So what?” I countered. “It’s a title! It doesn’t make you special. If I throw you out that window, will the window hold because you’re a prince? Will the street refuse to break your bones because you’re a prince? Will your royal blood stay in your broken body because it’s a prince’s blood? No. You’re a person, just like everyone else, except for the responsibility.”