by J Glen Percy
Ozias Stellen, eldest son of the Old Badger of Southern Province, was similar in years to the king and carried more scars than wrinkles. He was considered handsome by ladies young and old despite the old wounds and his aged-white hair. Polished black plate covered his chest, contrasting with the bone-white hilt rising at his hip. A cloak, blood-red on the underside, ink-black on the reverse, hung from his shoulders in the fashion of the elite guardsmen he led. While the king and Jago remained at the table, Ozias stood nearby like a hawk perched over a field. Drawing steel was somewhat problematic while seated.
“That’s enough,” Erick intervened. Where Tobiah commanded the kingdom’s eyes and ears, Lord Captain of the King’s Lance Ozias Stellen controlled its fists. “It’s peace in my bedchamber that concerns me. The queen will perform her duty, and she’ll need protection while she does. Select a score of your best Lancers to accompany her north, Ozias.”
“We are one, Your Faith.” The scarred man lacked the most meaningful scar of all, yet saluted by raising his would-be rose-arm to a square in the tradition of the capital-born. It was a shame nothing could be done for that; some laws and customs were above even a king.
Erick liked the man. Ozias was one of the few provincial mongers to take up arms in his father’s war against the Ferals. Made evident by the moon hilt beneath his rose cloak, the man was a remarkable warrior and a natural leader. That did not stop some from questioning his placement at the head of the King’s Lance. Much of the doubt came from Ozias’ bare wrist, but not all. It seemed a weekly matter for Jago and others to remind King Erick that his Lord Captain was a Stellen, and that Ozias’ only purpose in Rosemount was to safeguard the Badger Crest’s station atop the Southern Province.
To pacify the kingdoms-turned-provinces and the web of houses that had existed since before the Grayskin’s Blight, Erick’s father allowed the four kings to hold much of their former authority. He took their titles though, and their rights of succession. Three years into his reign and upon the first death of a lord steward, Erick Romerian unseated the Fairfields and appointed the Starlings in their place. The move had the remaining former kings and their houses groveling like idlers, and as bitter as wine for it.
The king didn’t doubt his Lord Captain’s motivations, as Jago held them, and in truth counted any concealed ambitions a benefit. A man that wanted something from you was either a loyal man or a treacherous one, there was no fog on the matter. Ozias had proven sunrise and again to be the former. In addition, the deadly man despised his own father. Ozias Stellen Fellsword might be the next lord steward in Somerset upon the Old Badger’s death, but not for any father-son plotting. Now, if only a woman’s wants drew a line as clear.
“A son that doesn’t listen, a disputing wife; it won’t be long before my gut refuses to digest without having a word on the matter,” the king said finally What was behind Willa’s resistance to the North? A king’s trust, even for his wife. Especially for his wife.
“The queen is a good lady, Your Faith,” Jago said.
“A good queen, yes. I don’t know about lady.” Goodness wasn’t a criteria his father’s advisors, including the shriveled prune of a man he was addressing, had in mind when making the arrangements. Consolidation of power in Rosemount and a fertile womb were the balance scale with how much power? and how fertile? for weight. “What news of the wall?”
“Final plans are being coordinated at this very moment, Your Grace. I expect construction will begin within the current moon.”
Erick snorted his frustrations, the delay being one of many. Ryecard had nearly completed a project far more difficult with far less difficulties. The way plans were being coordinated, the defensive barrier linking the towers and shielding Cairanthem from the Drablands would take twice as long and cost four times as much.
“A few weeks? I’ll not have the Grayskins pushing in from the Drab after centuries of exile. Unity should prevent that, not make it easier. Where is my son?”
“The latest bird has Ceres heading to Shorefeld to secure carriage for the mole’s stone.”
Ozias maintained indifference to Jago’s common insult. Badgers and moles both burrowed but that’s where the commonality ended and the offensive insinuations began. Ozias’ loathing of his father was so deep though, it was unclear whether he was masking his offense or taking any at all. The swordsman wore no sigil linking him to the house of his birth, and Erick half suspected that even should Ozias Stellen be appointed the next lord steward of Southern Province, the Badger Crest’s days were numbered.
Jago continued. “I doubt Lord Steward Starling will have more than a few gangly colts this early in the year. Perhaps it’s better to steer the prince east where he can do some good. Hold the mongers by their manhood until the structure is complete.”
“A temper like the Ash under snowmelt and as little restraint, he’d grab hold firmly then squeeze until they’re sterile. Then we’d surely be at war, the Grayskins notwithstanding.”
“He’s your heir, Your Faith,” Jago cautioned, as if the king wasn’t perfectly aware.
“One more thorn troubling this tired rose,” Erick replied.
“My suggestion was only to utilize that thorn effectively, Your Grace, not let it hinder.”
“The boy doesn’t know how to be effective without hindering,” the king sighed. That was one difficulty that wouldn’t be solved this morning, nor in this room, and he pushed it from his mind. “What I wouldn’t give to return to before their skin was stained and push them a bit farther into the Drab. Having use of the river without fear of harassment from the far banks would drive trade to unimaginable heights. Goods, including the South’s stone, wouldn’t be hampered by the finite endurance of hooves.”
“It’s not too late, Your Grace. Start a campaign in the Forgotten, push northwards, build your wall on the eastern shore. The savages wouldn’t expect it. You would have the river and the untold wonders of the Forgotten for the crown.” Jago’s eyes sparkled hungrily. Ozias wasn’t the sole owner of secret ambitions, though unlike the Fellsword, Erick didn’t have a bearing on Jago’s wants. A king’s trust for all.
“The Grays won’t set foot in the Forgotten, and neither should we,” Ozias stated bluntly. “The search for the untold is what led to the Grayskin’s Blight. This land lost enough to that wonder over a thousand years to remember just how wondrous it was.”
“Very well,” Jago conceded, though the cogs continued their spin behind keen eyes. “I suspect now is the appropriate, if unfortunate moment to add to your troubles, Your Grace.” His wife, his son, Ozias and Jago, the unbuilt wall; the room was growing less hospitable by the moment. Another day as king. “A hawk landed just this morning. Ryecard uncovered a Feral pit not a week past. Grayskin’s Blight lives on.”
The king straightened in his chair to the morning’s most disturbing dilemma. Possibly the most disturbing since his crowning. “How can that be?”
“Is he certain?” Ozias echoed. Having fought alongside Ryecard Starling in the war, the question was more disbelief than doubt.
Erick’s stare waxed vacant with memory, boring holes through the solid tabletop. “They said the Grayskin’s Blight would plague the land forever, just as it had since the days of our grandsire’s grandsires. The twisted creatures preyed on our women and children, and stole the ones they didn’t. People starved because fear of the outside was greater than hunger’s torment, yet even city walls were no guarantee for safety. And what did the four kingdoms do? What they had always done. Bicker. While my father’s Rosemount-born army cleared the countryside of monsters - their countryside, their monsters - they volleyed squabbles of wisdom. Why should we sacrifice our sons for the impossible? Might as well drown the lads in an attempt to drain the sea, they said. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps your father, Ozias, was right.”
“They were not right to do nothing, Your Grace, and your father’s actions were not without consequence,” Ozias responded fervently. “You and I were able to ag
e without adding to our collection of wounds. Your children have never experienced the terror of a Feral tearing through their bedroom door. We were right to organize and fight. Ryecard’s discovery does not undo that.”
“What next then?” the king asked, raised from the depths by the Fellsword’s words.
“The seals should be checked,” Ozias responded without hesitation.
“How?” replied Jago. “We’ve lost track of most, and have neither priest nor priestess to assess or repair their strength. Ryecard numbered four from the uncovered pit. That’s hardly enough to raise this level of alarm.”
The king turned on the old man with cutting intensity. “Were you the king’s standard bearer on the battlefield, Tobiah? I don’t remember seeing you in the vanguard. Have you faced one in your long years, or watched as a single beast wreaked havoc on an entire village?”
“No, Your Grace,” came the man’s chastened reply.
“Four or four hundred, the revelation is an ominous one.” The room had grown from uncomfortable to absolutely unbearable. How could the kingdom repel Ferals and the encroaching descendants of their creators? “This is troubling news indeed.”
“It gets worse, Your Faith. Much worse,” Tobiah muttered in the following silence.
The king stood on hesitant legs. He had to leave this suffocating chamber. “Worse than Ferals? Tis truly an uncomfortable day to be king.”
CHAPTER 6
“It’s an uncomfortable day for all, Your Faith,” Tobiah Jago remarked casually, following the king from the small council chamber.
The king treaded through the citadel’s decorative halls like a man possessed, his complexion paling like the foul creatures whose tidings had set him on this tear. Tobiah struggled to keep up, as did the ornamental half-cape fixed to the king’s shoulder.
“How can it be worse than the outbreak of a horrifying epidemic bent on our extinction? An epidemic we saw cured.”
“I believe it best, Your Faith, to remain behind closed doors for such consequential matters,” Tobiah replied discretely. Heavily falling boots against polished marble warned most of the oncoming charge, yet the citadel’s halls buzzed with the day’s business.
Tobiah understood the king’s failing color, and it wasn’t solely for the beasts. The pressure was immense. Erick was responsible for nurturing the garden his father had planted, the aqueduct and wall themselves, an attempt to cement his legacy at his father’s side. No feat or structure could undo the undoing of everything the First King had worked for.
The ancient advisor did not hold the same concern, either for word of the Ferals, or the missive he had yet to divulge. He had played the game long enough – well before an ambitious young general wearing a rose on his collar first spoke of cleansing the Grayskin’s Blight – to understand that there was neither good news nor bad. There was only news, and if it first introduced itself as troubling, one need only change their loyalties, philosophies, or principles to swing the pendulum the other way. He was concerned that others could use information as effectively as he, and owned enough eyes and ears to know that he wasn’t the only one who owned eyes and ears. As much as he hated the small council chamber, it was the best location for Tobiah to… guide the king.
Ozias Stellen trailed after, eyeing servants and passing nobility as if he too preferred a hard-backed chair to this exposure. Tobiah did not despise the Fellsword as much as everyone believed. The former prince was one of the few from beyond Rosemount’s walls to offer his blade in the fight against the Ferals, and against his badger father’s will besides. And it certainly paid off. Ozias’ actions in battle earned both the moon-marked blade and the king’s confidence. But Fellsword and Lord Captain or not, a hundred titles could not hide what he truly was. Tobiah did not appreciate provincial mongers parading above their station in life.
“Speak, Jago!” the king shouted, nearly causing a servant to lose his tray. Pale as a spirit or not, the tall, well-built royal could muster intimidation on command.
Past the throne room, past receiving chambers and showrooms, past the lofted sanctuary where Queen Willa offered prayers to the Five, Tobiah held his silence. They were on the second level now, exiting the main castle onto a rampart that extended to the exterior wall. Crisp, morning air was all that surrounded them here, and Tobiah kept his voice low despite.
“I received a hawk from Shorefeld just this morning, Your Grace. One of our Rosemarked was killed by a monger there.”
King Erick maintained his furious pace. “So bring me the monger’s head and be done with it. Worse, you said? If this is your play at fun, Jago, I’ll have your head alongside the monger who disrespects our-”
“The monger is Breccyn Starling,” Tobiah interjected, then quickly added, “Your Grace.”
The words halted the king like a blow to the gut, pasty tones ebbing to sickly green in his flesh. Tobiah could see that his assessment was correct; this was worse than news of the Ferals. The beasts had been encountered and defeated before. Executing the son of a man who might as well be family, spare mentioning Lord Steward of Western Province, had never been broached.
“What happened?” the king asked, steadying himself against the raised parapet.
“Two Rosemarked drunkards assaulted the Starling girl, and her brother cut them down for it. The Starling’s ghost was there too, yet I believe the crime was young Breccyn’s alone.”
“The lad was right to protect his sister,” Ozias said, coming up alongside the king.
“Not without the brand,” Tobiah responded, glancing to the Fellsword’s empty wrist as a pointed reminder. “Or from the brand, rather.”
The king pushed himself off the wall and continued his walk, though it more closely resembled the stagger of a barfly now. Tobiah had never seen a king so troubled as to yield the entire contents of their last meal. Today might be that day.
“Ryecard is Rosemarked,” he slurred. “The man was born not a single league from here.”
“It’s not Ryecard in question, Your Grace.”
“We grew up together,” the king said to no one specifically. “For every scar I received in battle, he owns a matching. He saved Ozias’ and my neck more times than an actuary could figure.” The blemished swordsman nodded his agreement. “The man is my brother, and I’m to demand his son’s life?”
“Preeminence Law demands his life,” Tobiah replied matter-of-factly. “The king is only enforcing the law.” The prudent advisor half expected the provincial-born Fellsword to protest the fairness of the law. Ozias held his silence. No Rosemark, but at least a little dignity. Tobiah took the opportunity to press a little further. “Those born in Rosemount should know only peace and security wherever they travel. Never fear, never subjugation. Were it possible to expand the law into the Drab and across the oceans, we would.”
Tobiah may not have fought on the battlefield, but the sons of Rosemount did not suffer and bleed without reward above the idler nations who chose only to observe. For their valiant sacrifice, the Rosemark was the birthright of every capital-born. For their valiant sacrifice, the lowest capital-born was set above the highest provincial-born. Preeminence Law was the cornerstone of Unity, a cornerstone not to be tampered with.
“What if the Grayskins invade outright? I can’t keep the East if I lose the West. Killing his boy will surely accomplish that. I can’t risk Ryecard’s trust.”
Were Tobiah Jago anything less than a master of his craft, his eyes would have rolled in their sockets. The advisor tended to agree with Prince Ceres’ sentiments; King Erick was too soft, too easy to appeal to. The First King wouldn’t have heard a word of it, brother or not. Tobiah maintained a level, possibly sympathetic tone as they began climbing the spiraling stairs.
“I concur the problem is one of trust, Your Faith,” Tobiah said delicately. “But it’s that of the people and not of one man. If your subjects cannot trust, they cannot follow. Faith will go first, then loyalty, and like Manalla, Null, and the others, your
rose will wither and fade.”
The three men reached the outer wall, following its wide arc to a high tower. In cadence with the rhythmic tapping of footfall on steps, Tobiah quoted a well-known verse.
“Stronger than towers of rock and stone;
Fragile as flowers, exposed and alone.
The former requires a foundation sincere;
The latter, a liar’s sand to adhere.
Taking years to build, for build him you must;
In moments you’ve killed the lad, he’s a friend called trust.
“It’s taken the better part of a century to arrive here,” the advisor finished. “Let’s not dash it on Your Grace’s watch.”
Without warning, King Erick turned on the shriveled man, clutching his throat with an iron grasp and drawing him near. Fine slippers dangled just above the steps.
“You would have me throw away the West?” the king sneered, rage overcoming his woe.
Tobiah held to his present convictions; it wasn’t quite time for a change in direction. Close, but not quite. “You could be throwing away the entire kingdom,” he choked. What was that about softness and appeal? There was nothing soft nor withering about that grip. Ozias Fellsword looked on with something near satisfaction.
Another moment and the king released his advisor, the old man gulping air like a drowned fish. “What good is unenforced law, Your Faith?” Tobiah continued hoarsely. “At best it’s words on paper. At worst, a sign of the king’s impotence. The lad committed a crime per Preeminence Law. He should pay. Lord Steward Ryecard should accept justice.”
“And if he doesn’t?” King Erick muttered, taking to the stairs again.
Tobiah considered for a long moment. Unity was as much his vision as it was Cairan Romerian’s, making his next statement all the more difficult. “The West represents a small fraction of your flock. A fraction easily culled if not brought to heel.”