by Sever Bronny
“Bold.” Rupert tapped the arm of his ornate throne-like chair with a fat finger as if all this was routine and he knew the answers ahead of time. “Bold indeed.” But instead of pressing the matter, he moved on. “It appears Castle Arinthian is in quite a bit of debt.”
Augum, caught off guard by another sudden pivot, hesitated. “We are indeed not without difficulties, my lord. But I expect to right the ship by next year’s harvest.”
“Is that so? From my accounting of the matter, it seems to me that by next year’s harvest the Black Bank will own the entirety of Castle Arinthian’s holdings.”
Augum felt a hot flush through his body. That could not possibly be true. Surely Mr. Haroun would have warned him of such an impending disaster.
Suddenly the hot flush flipped into a cold wave as if he had plunged into an ice bath. Gods strike him down where he stood, for Mr. Haroun had said that exact thing during harvest. But Augum, who had long been used to only trying to survive the day, had given little thought to the matter. Surely there was plenty of time to rectify a situation a year away!
He had been an utter, utter fool …
“I have a solution to your problem, Prince Augum.”
The words hung in the air like a foul stench. Any Southguard solution would surely be detrimental to Augum’s goals.
“I propose to support your aims to become an Arcaner by reinstating the long defunct Arcaner Guild and returning the Arcaner Hall to said guild. Unnameables know the kingdom could do with a little … cleaning. Further, the royal stipend, as granted to you by the council for services rendered to the kingdom, will increase by fifty percent. Lastly, every copper of your debt to the Black Bank will be paid back.”
Augum’s shoulders tensed. “In exchange for …?”
Lady Southguard’s beak nose rose stiffly, telling Augum he had broken etiquette once more. But it did not seem to bother the old boar, whose dry lips parted in a crooked smile.
“An arranged marriage between my son and Princess Bridget.”
Veiled
Augum couldn’t form a reply to Lord Southguard’s second attempt at matching Bridget to Eric in marriage. The shock had iced over Augum’s thoughts, slowing them to a molasses-like crawl. But before he could gather those thoughts, Lady Ethel Southguard spoke for the first time.
“The match would be highly advantageous for Princess Bridget,” she said in her carefully manicured voice. “The girl, as an orphan daughter of commonborns, would never find a more suitable man as she is of distinctly inferior breeding. She would benefit greatly from all the advantages of being the wife of an heir to the throne, especially after she produces a male heir. In turn, we would benefit from our son marrying a Hero of the Resistance. Her common birth could be overlooked, as could your failure to back our family for the throne. As you can see, a beneficial match all around.”
Augum glanced between the Southguard family. They all wore the same composed expression that reflected the sigil of their house, for it was the look a fox gave before entering the henhouse. Even their servants, though they showed traces of fear, had the same lofty countenance.
It was all a plot of some sort, but for what? Surely they knew the whole thing about the scions was a farce. And now this ridiculous marriage offer again?
The answer struck him like a bolt of lightning. He staggered ever so slightly, but enough for thin brows to rise, for nothing got past a Southguard. It had occurred to Augum how Katrina’s behavior toward Brandon was connected …
Castle Arinthian!
This was all a ploy to gain more power and land and the incomes that came from them.
And that bit about Brandon and Katrina … it was merely a cheap but effective highborn tactic to get Brandon away from Bridget, no doubt engineered by the elder Southguards, perhaps by Lady Southguard herself.
But that didn’t quite make sense. They already had Castle Southguard and its fortunes. Not to mention they’d soon have the throne’s fortunes at their disposal. No, something else was at play here, but again, Augum was simply unable to see through the fog of intrigue surrounding him.
“You will not refuse your king on his coronation, Prince Augum,” old Rupert said at last, voice laced with the kind of steel one heard in a man used to having his commands acknowledged and obeyed.
Augum at last found his cursed tongue. “My lord and ladies presume I have say over my sister-in-war. Bridget is her own person.”
“You are Castellan of Castle Arinthian,” Lady Southguard pressed. “Like any good woman of proper breeding, Princess Bridget will know her place if you order her to accept the match.” The corner of her purple lips curved upward in what Augum interpreted as a malicious grin.
“With respect, Lord Southguard, Lady Southguard—I would never ‘order’ Bridget to take a match of any kind. We are practically brother and sister. I would never compromise her principles. Ever.”
Lady Southguard wobbled her thin head. Something about her behavior reminded Augum of a spider weaving its web. “ ‘Never have I ever seen so much worry in a soul wont to be sorry,’ ” she slowly said. It was an old proverb Augum recognized well.
Sitting as if made from stone, the Southguards awaited his response to their blatant threat. As much as Augum wanted to tell them to shove their painted faces into manure and never bother him again, he was less than an hour away from bending the knee and swearing eternal fealty to the throne as a vassal of the king. Everything rode on his response to this threat. He thus summoned the courage to keep his face as plain as pudding while holding his spiteful tongue, lest he find himself in some cramped warlock gaol. Prince or no prince, hero or no hero, one had to tread carefully when it came to a king, especially one itching to assert his new powers of office.
It only took a single eye-flick from Rupert to the Lord High Steward for the old weasel of a man to stiffen and proclaim, “His Highness Prince Augum Arinthian Stone, Lord of Castle Arinthian and Hero of the Resistance.” Once again, there was no missing the mocking twist to his words.
Augum inclined his head after the dismissal. “Lord Southguard. Lady Southguard. Eric. Katrina. Fair company.” He turned on the spot and left the room.
Public Ceremonies
Once the doors had shut behind him, Augum took a deep breath to compose himself, then unclenched his hands, only to become aware that the two Black Eagle warlocks were watching him. He promptly placed his hands by his sides and strolled off, cold and shaken to his core. A single line kept scrolling through his brain: The Southguards want the castle. The Southguards want the castle …
As he reached the antechamber door, he cursed himself, for he had inadvertently made another breach of protocol: never turn your back on the king. He should have retreated with a bowed head. He comforted himself with the knowledge that the old boar was not yet king.
He stepped out into the Grand Royal Hall and was immediately greeted by the gut-shrinking sight of every single eye turning to him. The antechamber was near the wide-stepped dais that held two thrones, in plain view of everyone. Augum moved forward, only to realize he had no idea where the girls were sitting.
He searched the crowd as he tried to ignore the small panic rising in his chest like bile. How he loathed this entire affair. He belonged in simplicity; he should be a student attending the academy, no more, no less. He certainly had no desire to be in the middle of noble intrigues.
At last he spotted a strawberry-dressed Leera waving at him. She did not seem to care in the least that the surrounding nobility gave her repulsed looks for daring to break etiquette. Women in the royal court were never supposed to be overt; it was beneath their station.
His group of friends sat right in the front row on the far side of the hall. Augum hurried over to them and took the empty seat between Leera and Jez.
“That must not have gone well,” Jez said, studying him. She withdrew the sheathed ancestral Dreadnought blade Burden’s Edge from a large satchel and handed it to him. “Ready yourself for the ceremony, then fill
me in.”
“You look as pale as death,” Leera whispered.
“The Southguards want the castle,” he blurted, gripping Burden’s Edge with numb hands. “I think that’s why the Black Bank rejected our loan.”
For once, Leera did not make a sarcastic remark. Rather, her countenance scrunched up with deep concern. “Are you serious? But don’t they have Castle Southguard? And now they’ll have the throne’s fortunes too.”
“I don’t get it either,” he said. They sat in stunned thought, then simultaneously turned to the person on their other side. As Leera informed Bridget in a frantic whisper, Augum repeated the same thing to Jez, instructing her to pass it on down the line to Steward Haroun and company. They needed to strategize immediately. This changed everything.
Before Jez could bombard him with follow-up questions, Augum turned back to Leera. He leaned across her lap, gesturing for the girls to huddle up. Both exchanged worried looks before leaning in close.
In a careful whisper, Augum told them everything that had happened with the Southguards. The girls paled with every newly uttered point until they probably looked as ghostly as he did. By the end, Bridget was breathing in quick and shallow breaths, a hand on her chest, while Leera held a hand over her mouth.
“It’s a plot, the whole thing,” Augum added, securing the blade to his belt. He would need to place it before the king in the vassalage ceremony. “And so is the Brandon thing. I think Katrina was tasked with luring Brandon away so you’d be more likely to accept the match with Eric. But my best guess so far is that they want the castle for themselves.”
Bridget repeatedly smoothed her lemon-colored dress over her knees. “That could very well be. They could want it for any number of reasons. They are a proud lot and may have felt spited when you turned them down for the throne and turned down their first marriage offer.”
True, the Southguards had left in quite the huff when he had told them in no uncertain terms that he was not interested in fielding any offers—especially when it came to his friends—in exchange for supporting their bid for the crown. By then he had been exhausted from all the games and all the other family’s visits and gifts and so on. But thinking back on it now, perhaps he had offended them by calling the marriage proposal “disgusting,” a word the Southguards had likely not expected to hear in regard to what they perceived to be a generous offer. Especially not from someone they deemed beneath their station.
“Or they might genuinely believe we have the scions in the vault,” Bridget went on. “Or maybe they don’t actually think we have the scions but want the other treasures, which are still quite valuable.”
Augum nodded. Indeed, the vault held a trove of treasures, such as sets of eighteen-hundred-year-old arcane armor, arcane rings, and all sorts of other Dreadnought equipment they had used in the war to defend themselves. And there was also gold, jewelry, and ancient books and scrolls.
“Or they could want the castle for its land and incomes, as those will only rise, especially when …” Bridget hesitated and did not finish.
“When they are better managed,” Augum concluded for her, feeling the sting of failure deep in his gut. He was letting the Arinthian line down. He was letting Mrs. Stone down. He was letting everyone back in that castle down …
Before they could discuss the matter further, a slew of harkers bearing long trumpets and wearing royal tabards lined up on opposite sides of the dais while the Royal Warlock Guard lined up at the back of the dais beside the Royal Blade Guard, composed of the best swordsmen and swordswomen in the kingdom, each dressed in crimson and gold full steel plate.
The harkers blared a precise flurry of notes, indicating an announcement. The hall hushed as everyone stood, for the ceremony was about to begin.
A stately looking man among the harkers raised a golden scepter, known as the Holy Scepter of the Unnameables and proclaimed in an amplified voice, “The ceremonies of coronation hereby begin! The court calls to order the election committee of the high office!”
The door to the antechamber opened and out filed the nine members of the high council of Solia. The harker announced each office title as the person set foot onto the throne dais.
“The court recognizes the Lord High Steward.” The old weasel sneered at the mention of his title. “The court recognizes the Lord High Commander.” The Grizzly, like the others, was dressed in his finest court robes. “The court recognizes the Lady High Inquisitor.” Malignant Melinda’s hawk eyes swept the crowd. “The court recognizes the Lord High Warlock.” Iron Byron’s wolfish brows lifted imperiously. “The court recognizes the Lord High Treasurer.” Cry’s portly father had the same droopy eyes as his son. And so it went until the harker at last declared, “The court recognizes the Lord High Disciple.”
Murmurs broke out as a Path Disciple stepped onto the stage. He was an old man in a white robe, the only plain robe of the bunch.
Augum exchanged alarmed looks with the girls and Jez, but they certainly weren’t the only scandalized ones. The entire hall seemed to realize all at once what it meant: Solia was succumbing to the way of The Path.
“Are they going to shut down the academy?” Leera hissed.
Augum shook his head. “I have no idea … I don’t know anything about this.”
“How can that crusty Southguard possibly be all right with it? He’s a warlock. And Path Disciples want to suppress or enslave warlocks! What in Sithesia is going on here?”
“Whatever it is, it can’t be good …”
All nine members of the high council stood in a row behind the pair of thrones.
The harker with the scepter then recited a memorized official spiel asking each member of the high council whether they had full confidence in their soon-to-be king and if their vote was “free from corruption and harmonious with the Great Kingdom of Solia,” to which they each said, “Aye, it is.” Then the harker asked for each council member to step forward and declare their vote, which they did, one by one, until there was a nine to zero vote in favor of Lord Rupert Southguard, Lord of Southguard and Defender of the South, becoming king. The harkers blared their horns and declared the election had been confirmed. But no applause was allowed, for it was a sacred and formal ceremony with who knew how many years of tradition attached.
The entire Southguard family, led by Rupert and his wife, then paraded in. The family lined up behind the high council while Rupert and his wife stood before the throne. Next came the coronation oath ceremony, in which the high council lined up before the king and asked him in one voice to repeat after them the sacred oath to “shepherd the kingdom in good grace and fortune, in times of trial and tribulation, with good heart and cheer and steel resolve, in keeping with its laws and traditions …”
After the coronation oath came the anointing ceremony, introduced by a long serenade of sharp horn blasts. To Augum, it felt like hammers nailing in the lid of his coffin. The harker passed the Holy Scepter of the Unnameables to the Lord High Disciple, resulting in another round of anxious whispers. Rupert raised his head at the audience and they instantly quelled. The Lord High Disciple then went on to anoint the king in sacred oils using the scepter, thus making his very personhood sacred in the eyes of all his subjects. Following that ceremony came the investiture of His Highness with the royal robe, a sacred ring, and that very scepter, all while the High Steward delivered a speech about what each artifact meant to the kingdom.
Time flew by as ceremony after tedious ceremony took place. The audience was made to stand and sit again and again. Sometimes they were made to repeat the harker’s words in a unified voice, such as when reciting the Sacred Oath of the Masses, a swearing of fealty to the king and kingdom as one under “the watchful gaze of the Unnameables, blessed so they be.” This was of course separate to the coming vassal ceremony, which would occur near the end of the coronation ceremony.
Had Augum not been so horribly riddled with anxiety, he would have drifted through the boring ceremonies half asleep. Alas
, each horn blast brought him one step closer to what he thought would be a public guillotine. A cold dread had come over him, and he did not know why. He sensed something awful would happen, and felt powerless to stop it. The panic inside him was enough to make him sweat through his stiff clothes, shuffle his feet restlessly, and wring his hands as if to wash them of the entire affair.
The king and queen were lifted in their thrones by the men and women of the high council, which represented raising them above all souls. Every person except for the high council kneeled and rose three times while the king and queen were paraded in a circle around the hall.
After that came the first of the fealty ceremonies, beginning with the highest tier of nobility outside of the vassals, progressing through the various ranks of office, and ending with the royal family, including Eric and Katrina. Each person appeared before the king and queen, their title declared aloud, and they were asked to recite an ancient oath. They were then asked to “place their lips upon the sacred royal ring” before walking backwards down the steps of the dais with bowed head.
At long last, the horns blared, and the harker announced, “The court hereby commences the Ceremony of Vassal Fealty!” All the king’s vassals, including a cold Augum, lined up before the dais. It was an essential ceremony that solidified the mighty power of the king. Each vassal was lord of a castle or town in the kingdom, and they were expected to bring to the throne the weight of their forces should war come. A representative of their choosing stood behind each of them. For Augum, that was his Warlock Protector, Jez, who telekinetically held aloft the Castle Arinthian banner.
One by one, the vassals’ titles were shouted into the great hall, accented by a single long blast of the horns. Each vassal was made to swear the oath of vassalage, place their blade before the king, and offer a favor—traditionally a token of the best fruitful bounties of the vassal’s land, whether they may be mining or farming or mercantile profits. In practicality, that meant about one thousand gold’s worth of goods upon the next harvest, donated by the vassal and his tenants.