The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  “Where is my son?” the king asked again, his eyes bleary and confused. He turned to the eunuch who sat in council. “Why did my son not come as I commanded?”

  “Your son?” the eunuch said. His eyes blinked rapidly, and he looked to Tonguelessone, who stood by the wall. She grimaced and stared back, unblinking.

  “Your son remains in exile, m’lord,” the eunuch said.

  Kublan’s face wrinkled in confusion and his cheeks reddened.

  The Raven watched the king carefully. The blackouts, as they were called by the court physician, were becoming more frequent.

  Kublan mumbled a curse under his breath and jutted his chin as if the eunuch was the one who’d misunderstood. “I have no son in exile,” he said, his tone condescending. “Tolak is no longer my son. He is a traitor to me, to House Kublan, and to the sanctity of the Peacock Throne. In asking after my son, I meant, of course, the son of my heart and blood of my blood. It is my grandson, Kadesh-Cor, I ask after. Why have I not been given word of his arrival?”

  The eunuch’s smile quivered. His eyes darted to the Raven.

  “He has gone to the south on a hunting expedition to the Tallgrass Prairie,” the Raven said to rescue the eunuch, speaking as if it was the first and not the third time he had answered the same question. “To catch the wild tarpan for your stable,” he added, hoping to spark the king’s memory.

  Kublan disapproved with a wrinkling of his brows. The same expression as twice before. “Why would he leave to hunt horses when I sent for him?” He scowled at the eunuch with suspicious eyes and spoke in a tone that made the poor fellow responsible. “No one is allowed passage to hunt the Tallgrass Prairie without my permission.”

  Raven intervened again. “You requested that he go on your behalf, your greatness, and gave him leave ten days ago. You may remember that you sent him with a march of kings­riders to ensure safe passage.”

  “I’ve no lapse of memory. I remember. Of course I remember.”

  But clearly he did not.

  “Your greatness has too many important matters consuming your attention to allow your mind to be cluttered with things of insignificance.” The Raven spoke with a soft laugh that sounded sincere. “It is the burden of a great king, m’lord. Matters of consequence can only be judged by you. No other has the intelligence to grasp what must be done nor the ability to weigh the options and maintain the focus required.”

  Kublan acknowledged the Raven’s flattering assessment with a gracious nod. “What is it you have for your king?” he asked.

  Raven, eager to bring the king’s attention back to matters at hand, spoke quickly. “Your greatness, tales of this bandit who calls himself the Blood of the Dragon blow through the realm like yellow leaves in the winds of the black calf moon. My faithful minions move freely among the towns and taverns to learn what is spoken about Drakkor from the gossipmongers in the taverns and what is discussed among nobility within the great houses of the dominant dominions.”

  Kublan’s fear of discontent, disaffection, and open rebellion was deeply rooted in his own violent past. Among the crucial duties the Raven had assumed for himself was the responsibility to be the eyes and ears of the king. The Raven’s network of spies was known only to him. Perfidiousness came cheap among the lowest caste of men who prowled the taverns and moved easily among the despairing and deprived. Treachery among the nobles cost much more. Finding eyes and ears in the great houses was the most challenging of all. Contacting and enticing men or women who were truly in a position to see and hear, and who were willing to report, was risky business. Betrayal of royals could only be purchased with a promise of power or fear. The Raven wore the two-fingered sigil of the king and House Kublan.

  “What does he intend? Is he no more than a bandit or does he stir rebellion against me?”

  “You need not fear, m’lord.” The Raven answered the question with what he knew the King needed to hear. In truth, he did not know Drakkor’s plans.

  The questions the Raven’s spying eyes and ears had not answered swirled in his head. How had the bandit ambushed an experienced kings­rider captain? How was it possible a band of brigands could massacre a march of the king’s finest warriors? What power had persuaded kings­riders to strip the sigil of House Kublan from their chests and become enemies of the king? Which of the kings­riders had put an arrow in his brother’s neck to keep him from escaping?

  Much of what the Raven had to report was hearsay and rumor. Inevitable folktales that sprung up in taverns like weeds watered with ale. The Raven took care to avoid the words he knew would feed the King’s paranoia: Ruthless. Ambitious. Warlord. Sorcerer. The powers of darkness. But all of them were on his mind.

  “Your greatness!” The Raven rarely raised his voice to the king, but the old man was nodding off, and the Raven awakened him to protect his dignity.

  “Hmm!” Kublan growled as his eyes fluttered open. “Is there more?”

  “Regarding the farmer who brought the wounded kings­rider to the gate—”

  “I put him in prison.”

  “So I was told, but by your leave, great one, it seems to many that the farmer who brought the wounded kings­rider is a loyal citizen and a courageous man. Putting him in prison has caused a disturbance in Village Nellaf.”

  “I will hear no more of it!” The king strode from the room with the eunuch and Tonguelessone following behind.

  The Raven wasn’t sure why he felt sympathy for the farmer and tucked the feeling away. He knew his counsel held little sway when Kublan’s judgment was tangled by his psychosis of mistrust and outbursts of paranoia.

  A kings­rider had been killed. A farmer who had tried to save him was blamed for his death and thrown into the dungeons of Kingsgate. This latest tale of the king’s madness had already reached as far south as Inn of the Fatted Goose.

  An hour later, the king met alone with the Raven on the patio of his private chamber. Shafts of sunlight sliced between pillars and bathed the men in golden light. They sat on cushions on either side of a low table spread with fresh fruit, bread, cheese, and wine.

  “The captain was an idiot if he could be ambushed so easily,” Kublan began. “I shall send the entire army of kings­riders to crush this villain.”

  “Your greatness should think carefully before sending him another march of kings­riders to beguile and subvert, lest you play into his hands. A man with the power to beat a kings­rider captain”—and coerce half the men of his march to defect and follow him, he thought to himself—“may not be an easy man to kill. He does not disrupt the dominions of Kandelaar for pillage and plunder like a petty bandit, but to provoke you into putting your armies within his power.”

  “Why?”

  “I can only conjecture.”

  “I will send only the best.”

  “Many of the best are gone.”

  The sound of agony that emerged from the king’s throat was a retching death rattle.

  “This man is unlike any of the enemies you have faced before, m’lord. You must be cautious not to misinterpret his motives or underestimate his cleverness. You must not misjudge his access to dark powers, if indeed the man is a sorcerer, as the archer said.”

  “I will rip the sword from his hand and cut him into pieces.”

  “It would seem that his tongue is far more dangerous than his sword.”

  “The vultures will eat his tongue when his head is on a spike.”

  Raven allowed a moment for the king’s anger to fade. A cloud scudded across the sun, and a shadow swept over the patio. “If by some dark magic, this man can enchant your captain and seduce men sworn to you by an oath of blood, then who among the disgruntled rulers of the great houses might be persuaded to join with him in an alliance against you?”

  Kublan lifted his goblet, and the Raven refilled it with wine. The king stared into the cup for a moment. When he
finally looked up, he locked eyes with his trusted counselor and friend. “What shall I do?”

  “Rally the rulers of the great houses and unite the seven dominions against him.”

  Kublan’s laugh was cold, a rare gust of self-­depreciation. No castle wall was high enough to isolate him from the discontent and disaffection that fermented like rotted fruit in the castles, manses, and taverns throughout the dominions of Kandelaar.

  “I am not loved,” he confessed with a clog of phlegm in his throat. “Even hated by some.” He said it with a sadness the Raven rarely saw. “The kingdom remains a kingdom only because of my elite kings­riders who enforce my commands. Kandelaar has not been united in many years. Not since . . .” He shook his head. “I have sought to be a benevolent and worthy sovereign. I have tried to—” The lie stuck in his throat and he couldn’t talk.

  The Raven cherished his influence over the king, but he did not aspire to take his place. At least not in the same way as others who yearned to sit the throne and who waited, like vultures above a wounded dog, for the king to die. The thought brought a twitch of a smile. He knew the king’s secret. He believes the idea I put into his head. He believes he is destined to live forever!

  The Raven knew that controlling the person others perceived to be in command was the ultimate power.

  “You must call a grand council,” the Raven declared as if he had just thought of it. In truth, the plan had been brewed over many long and thoughtful nights. He stood and paced a few steps and stroked his chin thoughtfully. Measuring his actions for the full effect, he finally turned and faced the king. “You must assemble the rulers of the great and minor houses, the baron magnums of the five dominions, overlords of the outer provinces, chieftains of the indigenous clans, and even the giants of the north and the sand people of desolation, if we can find a way to reach them. You must bring them into a grand council, all together with their firstborn heirs.

  “There is nothing more potent than survival to rally a people to a common cause. Drakkor has given you a great advantage. The fear of his ruthlessness is sweeping the nine dominions. Fear shall be reason enough for the squabbling rulers of the great houses to set hostilities aside and unite beneath a single banner. This Blood of the Dragon can be described as the ruination of all we hold precious and the end of Kandelaar as we know it.”

  The king pressed his lips into a thin line and raised his eyebrows. “What madness is this you suggest? The rulers of the great houses despise the throne and distrust each other. Few, if any, would heed such a call to a council without a dire threat or force of arms, without the loss of blood. What hope can there be for an alliance among men compelled to gather at the point of a sword?”

  “They will not be brought at the point of a sword.”

  “Then why will they come?”

  “They will come, and they will listen and they will unite if you promise to give them something they never imagined and entice them with what they want.”

  “What they want is my body on the pyre.”

  The Raven held his expression to hide his thoughts and waited for the king to continue.

  “I cannot give them all the Peacock Throne. Nor can I promise to die, as all of them pray to the gods for day and night.” With that, he smiled and choked out a laugh.

  In spite of the tribulation of the king’s reign, his age, the disorder of his mind, and even an occasional lapse into madness, the Raven was pleased to see there remained a spark of humanity in the old man.

  “You reign in humility by the will of the gods,” the Raven said, already verbally drafting the proclamation for the king. “Hostilities divide the kingdom and distract us from the evil rising in the land. Drakkor possesses the powers of darkness. He claims the blood of dragons and pillages our villages. His men rape our wives and carry our daughters into bondage. He enchants our sons to his awful service, and, with his sorcery and elixirs of red death, he turns their hearts against kin and kind.”

  King Kublan was spellbound by the Raven’s words.

  “The story of the slaughter of kings­riders must be heralded to the farthest corner of the realm. No one must escape the horror of what awaits them if they fail to come to council and unite with their king.”

  Kublan’s face wrinkled in disapproval, and the Raven spoke as if the king had voiced his concerns aloud.

  “We need not speak of betrayal or defection,” the Raven said. “Only death and execution. We will speak only of the obscene atrocities committed by this pitiless man. We will sound a trumpet of warning that Drakkor will not be satisfied until the ruler of every principality and great house lies in a pool of blood along with their firstborn and family. We shall tell them the bandit will not stop until he sits the Peacock Throne and reigns in blood and horror, ravaging the kingdom in the name of she-dragon.”

  “Is that true? He would drag me from the throne and—”

  “No, no, m’lord. You are safe—he is but a petty thief—but you must use fear to compel your enemies to gather at First Landing.”

  “What must I promise them?” the king asked after a long silence.

  “You were once hailed as savior of your people,” the Raven said. “That time has come again, but not without some sacrifice.”

  Kublan narrowed his eyes.

  The Raven breathed deeply. “To a king who is immortal, sacrifice is the shortest of the seasons, and the future of all things rests in his hands.”

  “You must help me,” Kublan said. His lip trembled.

  “Of course, gracious lord,” he said. “There is power in humility.”

  The king tilted his head as if the Raven was speaking in a foreign tongue.

  “Present your best nature, m’lord. Present your greatness as a benevolent sovereign and humble king. Entice men to your grand council with sweeping reforms. Promise that, forthwith and forever, the nine dominions shall be sovereign kingdoms unto themselves. The Peacock Throne will be governed by a council of lords representing all the great houses. Governance will be by common consent. A legacy of honor and chivalry will return. The borders of bloodshed will be brought to peace under a common banner. You will be Orsis, savior of the people, once again.”

  Kublan raised a hand, and the Raven helped him to his feet. He shuffled to the balustrade from where he could look through the gleaming towers to the fjord of Akeshen. The scud of clouds had disappeared, and the sun hung low in the western sky. The rippling surface of the water was a shimmer of gold.

  “Dare I open the portcullis of Kingsgate? They will not come without their guardsmen and a show of arms.” He spoke without turning around.

  “Ah! As always, you are wise. It should not be held at Kingsgate. It must be in a place of common tradition, but of supreme importance, suitable to your greatness.”

  Kublan nodded as he turned. Sunlight ignited his hoary head with a halo of gold. “Where will I find it most suitable, in your opinion?”

  “On the outer isle of Akeshen? The place of First Landing?” The Raven shrugged his suggestion and let the questions hang.

  Kublan nodded slowly. “Precisely my thoughts,” he lied.

  First Landing was the traditional landing site of the Navigator, the place he supposedly arrived with his boats of refugees. The teachings of the Navigator were lost save for the remnant cult of pilgrims, but the coming of the boats was a part of the history and generally embraced. Remnants of the ancient boats were esteemed by some as a historical site; for the pilgrims of Oum’ilah, it was a shrine.

  “Call for the scribe,” Kublan said. “I will write the proclamation while it is yet fresh in my mind.” He looked at the Raven, who nodded to affirm who would actually write it. “These things tend to slip away,” he muttered mostly to himself.

  Kublan looked up suddenly. “Where is my grandson, Kadesh-Cor?”

  The Raven hesitated.

  “Yes, yes. I k
now, he is on his way to the Tallgrass Prairie for the wild horse. My memory serves me well enough. I mean where might he be this hour? He has been ten days on the King’s Road, you said?”

  “Yes, your greatness.”

  “Could a courier reach him with a copy of what we write if he departs before sunrise on the morrow? I wish for my grandson’s advice in this matter of a grand council.” Then, after a short silence, “He is the only honorable son of my blood and, by decree, my only heir.”

  “A good rider with extra mounts could travel by night as well as day and catch the expedition before they stop at Stókenhold Fortress.”

  “He will not stop there. It is forbidden!”

  “By the time they cross the Isthmus, they will need to resupply provender and refresh or replace their horses,” the Raven said gently. “There is no place else.”

  “But, I have forbidden anyone to visit Stókenhold Fortress—even my grandson. His father is a traitor banished for sedition. I grant him no solace. I would put him to the blade and his head on a spike if he were not the seed of my loin.”

  “Seeing his son again will hardly be solace, m’lord. Was it not by the word of Kadesh-Cor that you exiled your son?”

  “He is not my son!”

  “If discomforting Tolak remains your intent, your grandson’s visit serves you well. A reunion with his son is punishment, not cheer or consolation.”

  The Raven poured himself a chalice of wine, but slowly to allow the monarch time to muse. Time to embrace the Raven’s suggestion and make it his own, as he so often did. After a time he said, “M’lord, there is one thing you must consider in planning your grand council. Perhaps the visit of Kadesh-Cor to Stókenhold may serve a larger purpose.”

  Kublan folded his arms defensively and raised his chin slightly.

  “You cannot unite the kingdom without your son’s allegiance. Without reconciliation. He must be a part of our grand council of the king.”

  “He is in exile!”

  “True enough, but he is not a prisoner and travels freely in the dominion of Westgarten, which I am told flourishes because of his influence and presence. He is loved by the common folk, not only because they see him as one of them, but also because they agree with his outspoken disdain of the rule of kings. I know these are hard words for you to hear, your greatness, but my loyalty will not allow me to lie to you.”