The drawing room in Teorton Castle was opulent, but not overly so. It could only earn the term in contrast to the lack of wealth outside the walls of the palace. Outside lay the Green District, the low hills where only the wealthy could afford to build their homes. Beyond that lay Everything Else, the regions of Teorton that only interested the wealthy classes by how much they could support them, the castle, and the king.
From the lowly dock workers to the farriers, to the blacksmiths, each paid the taxes on their labor that raised up the wealthy and built the castles. The wealthy didn’t notice what the lower classes did for them. They just accepted it as the status quo; they took the fruits of the labor as easily as one might take a pebble from the beach. If a servant died, they might notice that their clothes weren’t as quick to be cleaned, or the food took longer to reach the table, but they didn’t see the servant’s hungry children or mourning spouse. To the family, the death was a terrible event of major consequence. To the lord, the duke, or the king, the death was just a mild inconvenience.
The king of Camulan, Llarwyn I, walked slowly around the drawing room, pausing at the gold trinkets that decorated it. He couldn’t identify most of them. They had been here for as long as he could remember. Many belonged to his late father or grandfather. The men who had built the palace during their battles with the Elves of Wickshire to the north, or the Fenns to the east. According to Llarwyn’s tutors, the elves and Fenns had banded together and made it all the way to the shores of the Dyadic Sea, and laid siege to the town.
The defenders held out, however, and beat the coalition back across their borders and freed all of Camulan from their tyranny. There had been nothing but skirmishes since, and in general, during Llarwyn’s rule, the borders were relatively quiet.
He considered himself a great ruler.
He picked up one of the decorative trinkets. It was a golden arrowhead taken from the elvish Daal, a ruler of one of the elven clans. His grandfather, Leilwyn had ripped it from the neck of the Daal himself, at least, that was what his father Aedwyn told him.
“We have a legacy to protect, Alfyn,” he said.
Crown prince Alfyn was his son, and next in line to the throne of Camulan, assuming that he could gain the support he would need to acquire it once Llarwyn was gone. Llarwyn knew well how fickle the nobility of Camulan could be. He himself had barely gained the throne, after the challenge his brother had offered.
Alfyn, with three brothers and two sisters, was going to have as much, if not more trouble than Llarwyn had gone through. Though Ulfnar and Wolfryn weren’t particularly popular among the nobles, Llarwyn’s youngest son, Aeolwyn was. There was something magnetic about the sickly boy that enraptured the nobles when they came to pay homage to the king.
“What do you mean, father?” Alfyn asked.
Alfyn was to be his greatest legacy. Llarwyn had very high hopes for his son. Sometimes he wasn’t too bright though.
“I won’t be here forever, Alfyn. Someday I will pass, and you will be king - if you can hold on to it. You have three brothers who will have their own eyes on your throne. You need to have a plan for them.”
“I do have a plan,” his son replied.
“You can’t just kill them. I’ve told you before. If you did that, you’d have the biggest revolt since Avartwyn murdered his brother at his coronation. You need to be more subtle. You shouldn’t even be here now. You should be out among the nobles, currying favor.”
He turned the arrowhead over in his hands, marveling at its construction. The elves in Wickshire were noble people. Their craftsmanship was unmatched, as was their skill in battle. How had the army of his grandfather’s time been able to beat them so soundly?
He held the arrowhead out to Alfyn. “You see this? It belonged to an elf. Not just any elf, but the Daal, a leader. My grandfather ripped it straight off his neck when he killed him. That is the legacy we are trying to protect! The elves are just across our border to the north, and are biding their time, waiting to invade. They’re waiting for me to die and exploit your weakness.”
“I’m not weak!” Alfyn protested.
“You are right now,” Llarwyn answered. “Maybe you’re physically strong, and could do well in battle, but a king needs to be so much more than that. You need to be a leader of men. A master of strategy and diplomacy, and most importantly, you have to have support at home. Without that, the elves, the Fenns, even the Tambrynese could garner support and take our throne from us. Not just from you, but from all our descendants!”
The arched wooden door opened, and a man came in. He wore a finely embroidered tan wool coat over a yellow shirt and green silk stockings. His brown hair was oiled, including the moustache and goatee he wore. Over oiled in truth. It made him look as though he hadn’t bathed in a year.
“Ah, Lord-General Harmin,” Llarwyn said. “Thank you for coming.”
The lord-general stood at the door and bowed. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace.”
Lord-General Harmin was the commander of Camulan’s armies. He had large battalions stationed all across the kingdom, both as protectionary and mobilization forces. The lord-general believed it was important to have soldiers spread across the country prepared for any quick responses that may be required.
He was also a proponent of a standing army rather than calling up the peasantry to fight as needed; only in the direst circumstances would the fyrd—the peasant army be called to action. The peasants appreciated this, until it was time for one of their sons to be conscripted. Then they hated it and protested, but it was an effective way for the men to raise their station in life. Soldiers in his army could get promoted to high and well-paying positions.
Not all the way to a lordship position—those were reserved for high-blooded men who formed the basis of the heavy cavalry—the commanders, generals, and other such knightly positions. The knights of the realm were not a part of the regular standing army but were called up as required.
The lord-general regularly impressed upon the king the need to have the knights do service as part of the regular standing army, but Llarwyn refused. If he allowed that, he would have a revolt on his hands in an instant. As much as the knights talked of the glory of battle, they much preferred the luxuries of home and courtly life. They would rather be jousting and drinking than fighting and dying.
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“Would you like my report, Your Grace?”
Llarwyn set the arrowhead back down. “Not your official one, no. Save that for the council meeting. Tell me about what’s been going on outside these walls.”
Lord Harmin nodded. “It is as you suspected, Your Grace. Both the Shielders and the Star Children have been sending secret envoys to the nobles. They seem to be trying to gain support for their respective groups, but it’s still not clear whether they are trying to undermine the nobility’s support for you.”
That figured. Both groups always had machinations brewing. Of the two, he thought he hated the Star Children more. At least the Shielders had a job to do, and they did it. The Star Children were nothing more than religious zealots.
The Star Children, who called themselves the Courageous Order of the Heavens, though Llarwyn saw nothing courageous about them, were a violent group of religious zealots. They believed that the greatest danger facing the entire island of Laryndor came from the outer reaches of the heavens.
According to their beliefs, there were creatures that existed on Laryndor that came from another world. There were plenty of strange creatures and monsters out in the wilderness to make that claim seem plausible. However, they believed that these creatures were sentient and bent on destroying society. The Star Children claimed to be the only thing standing in the way of these invaders from space and their complete destruction.
“The Star Children are probably on a recruitment drive among the nobility. It’s happened before.”
Llarwyn tolerated the Star Children, but did not like them. They were gaining popularity among the peasantry and could soon be a problem that he would have to address. If they began to make inroads into the nobility, that could spell real trouble for him.
The Shielders were another matter. There wouldn’t be any issue with banning the Star Children, besides putting down the revolts they might cause. That wasn’t something he could do to the Shielders.
They called themselves Guardians of the Shield. It was their job to maintain and uphold the magical shield that surrounded the entire island of Laryndor and protected it from whatever lay beyond. They had existed for so long, no one knew where their order had come from.
They were arrogant and pompous to anyone outside of themselves, but rarely resorted to violence, except against the Star Children. The two groups shared a dislike for each other that Llarwyn encouraged. As long as they were fighting each other, they wouldn’t have the resources to fight him.
Of the two groups, the Shielders held a great deal more power. They had ambassadors in every kingdom, including the kingdom of the elves. They required each to pay a tax for the maintenance of the Shield, which Llarwyn paid reluctantly.
They were disciplined, well organized, and strong in battle. It was rare to see them march onto the field, but on the rare occasions it happened, you were guaranteed a swift defeat. That was why all the kingdoms paid their tax. Out of fear of the Shielders’ army, not out of respect for their job maintaining the Shield.
Most believed the Shield to be protecting the island from nothing, and some even doubted its existence. Not Llarwyn. He had seen the magical glowing barrier up close. His ambassador, Shield Lord Barin had taken him on a journey to see it. He had wanted to see how it was generated and managed, but Barin refused, saying it was sacrilege for anyone but a Shielder to see that up close. He did, however, see the Shield itself, and it was awe-inspiring. It was hundreds, if not thousands of meters tall; it glowed a purple so pale it might have been blue. It was slightly translucent, so you could see through it, but not more than a few meters.
“That is most likely the case, Your Grace. However, the activities of the Shielders are unusual for them. Their normal interactions with the nobility are only at official state functions. They don’t seek them out directly.”
Llarwyn walked to the open window and stared out at the city that was the capital of his kingdom. From their viewpoint on Mot’s Hill, he could just make out the docks and the ships coming and going. He could tell the place was a frenzy of activity, but he couldn’t make out what was going on. He didn’t need to, though. Ships were loaded and unloaded every day at the docks.
“Is this going to be a problem?” he asked his general. He hoped not. He didn’t like his chances in open conflict with the Shielders.
“It’s still not clear what they’re doing. They might just be going behind your back to suggest to the nobility that they encourage you to send more gold. I’ll keep my people digging, but I recommend not bringing this up at the council meeting. Shield Lord Barin will be in attendance this month.”
“Agreed. What are the nobles saying about these, discussions?”
“They have not said anything yet, at least not around my spies. Give me time. I am sure their tongues will waggle, or they’ll leave documents around at opportune times.”
“Very well. Anything else to report that can’t wait until the council meeting?”
“I may have found a replacement for the vacant Royal Inquisitor post. Someone I trust.”
Llarwyn turned towards him and gave him a long stare. Unlike others in the nobility who would wither under his gaze, the lord-general just stared back, unaffected. That was one reason he liked the man. He was a soldier, and unafraid of those above him.
There was nothing disrespectful in his stare. He just had the look of a main waiting for orders from his superior.
“It is not vacant, lord-general. It is yours.”
The lord-general’s gaze softened to an almost condescending expression. “Your Grace, I am a soldier, not a spy. I have taken up these duties as ordered, but there are other, more suitable men for the role.”
“Are there, lord-general? It is precisely because you are a soldier that I want you in that post. You will obey my orders. You will not scheme against me. I trust you implicitly. There are not many others I could say that about.” He shot a quick glance to his son Alfyn.
“Please, Your Grace, just meet with her.”
“Her?” He asked. It would be unusual for him to give a woman such an important role. That was sure to generate gossip. He wouldn’t mind if she were competent and discreet but giving the post to someone else made him uncomfortable. As king, he always had a target on his back, and he had to be mindful of that.
“Yes, Your Grace. She is one of my soldiers. One who carries out, shall we say, special assignments.”
An assassin, then. “Very well, arrange a meeting.”
*
Alfyn stormed out of the meeting in a huff. He resisted slamming the door, as his father would not tolerate an angry outburst. He knew his father had his best interests in mind, and that he was trying to ensure that not only would be a great king, but that he would be king at all. The nobility was fickle, and if they didn’t like the crown prince, they would unhesitatingly choose someone else, and since they were the ones with the knights, it was best to appease them. With the lord-general’s army spread all over the kingdom, even he wouldn’t try to start a war with the nobility.
Still, his father needed to trust him. He did have a plan, and it didn’t involve just murdering anyone who might challenge his claim to the throne—though that was his normal preference. A dead rival couldn’t come back and usurp his authority later.
It was time to put a part of his plan into action. Just a small part—the one dealing with Aeolwyn, his youngest brother. He didn’t understand why his father thought he would be the biggest threat to him. Aeolwyn was a small and sickly child. Sure, a lot of people gave him attention, but that was because they felt sorry for him. What could a boy of 12 do to him? Alfyn had a decade of experience on his brother and wasn’t sickly or weak. He’d been in battle! Could his brother make that claim? No. His brother still had trouble holding onto the practice sword Sir Jom, the master-at-arms, gave him.
Still, he had an idea that he wasn’t sure would work. Just a little conversation with the boy, and Aeolwyn would do all the rest. There wouldn’t be any harm in just a few simple questions, would there? Alfyn couldn’t take the blame if Aeolwyn misunderstood his curiosity and took the wrong action, could he?
Aeolwyn was always eager to please, especially someone he looked up to, like his older brother Alfyn. All he needed was a little push in the right direction, and the boy would fall right into his hands.
Alfyn skipped down the hallway, unconcerned about what the servants might think.