The chief advisor of agricultural affairs and all that related to that sort of earthen industry came storming out of the apartments of the king. The doors that had flung themselves behind him due to his wrath made loud cracking sounds as he prowled down the corridor.
"That witless, spineless, heathen," the chief advisor spat, "has thrown the last straw." He said these words with spite dripping from his every syllable. "He will ruin this country in less than two decades. Scratch that! He will have knocked the feet out from beneath this country in less than two years!"
The guards, standing conveniently in hidden alcoves in the corridor, merely sighed at this outrageous display of temper. It was not unusual for the chief advisor to be up in arms and ready to summon the battalion. In fact, the guards could not count all the many times on their gloved fingers that this occasion had occurred. It was becoming a habitual ritual in the west side of Kallondona's stone-walled castle.
It was actually a known fact in Kallondona and even outside of the country that the kingdom possessed a more-than-detestable king. The king had the reputation for manic outbursts, incredibly idiotic strategic battles of chess, and a weak-willed manner of the humblest maiden. The guards could recall a particular nasty episode involving the king and the idea of jousting. It was a custom of pride that ran the jousting and combat trials. Every male and yes, female, strived to participate to earn a fraction of glory in their combat trials. The king, naturally, had made a complete mockery of the trials. Instead of participating, which he claimed was impossible due to his fear of iron objects and awarding a woven olive branch wreath to the winner, which was his duty, he had arrived late to the ceremony covered in what only could be thought of as the castle's tulips, flowers prized and grown by the beloved castle steward's wife. Her change in face could only be described by the local minstrel as a transformation from the deepest, darkest pits of Hell. It was safe to say that the king was not pestered to attend any more "stately events" unless it was absolutely necessary.
The guards observed the chief advisor turning the end of the corridor which led to a stairwell that would deposit him in the main hallway. After waiting a few minutes to observe that there would be no sudden reappearance of the chief advisor, the guards began to quietly murmur.
"Ronan, I truly wonder how many times we have to observe this occurrence repeat itself" the guard closest to the chief advisor' exit said.
"I imagine we'll see it as many times as the lady moon jumps into the night sky! Taurin, where would we be without the king's reoccurrences of incorrigible behavior? If the king suddenly became sullen and serious, half of the kingdom would faint straight away!" Ronan chuckled into his left hand. His mind thought what his mouth would not say and that was if there truly was a legitimate king on the throne, a power struggle would ensue.
"But does the king have to act like a pampered, spoiled child? For gods' sake, he is turning twenty-three by the end of this season. He has been a grown man by our country's standards too long to continue this kind of recklessness!"
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
"Enough about our damned king. Let's talk about something more pleasurable! Taurin, what do you think about a game of renshalkions tonight?
"Ronan, you cheated during the last match" he grumbled. Tauron's brown eyes squinted at him in severe displeasure.
"It's not my fault your shallow stomach cannot hold a mug of illechon liquor while you toss daggers at the ceiling" Ronan snickered. "You're a wee babe, sometimes. It's a wonder your mother can proudly call you her eldest son and heir! It's also a miracle from Alodis that you made into the royal guard. Did you bribe a fellow?"
"You know very well I made it into the guard by my prowess as an archer and as a strategist! I also detest the notion that YOU think I cannot hold my ale! You spineless, WORM! I lost because you pointed that Maurus was doing a card trick in the back corner of the tavern and then you greased my daggers!" And HOW DARE YOU suggest that it's a wonder my mother is proud of me! As she is the baroness of sizeable property, I think she is content with her son making a name for himself in the royal guard" Tauron barely managed to stop shouting these words as he heard a door swing open from the opposite side of the corridor from the chief advisor's exit.
Through the doors, the king sauntered in drunkenly. The guards stared at him in horror before realizing the sweat of a heavy night of drinking coated their sovereign's upturned face. He had his right hand covering his barely opened amber eyes and he looked to be battling a monstrous headache. The sleeves of his outer tunic bore the Kallondona's crest colors, navy blue and black. They were tinged yellow by a heavy sweat and the remains of the alcohol. The king's black hair which was usually tied back by a woven string hung limpidly around his broad shoulders. He sighed as he tramped through the corridor.
Ronan and Tauron straightened as his tottering features passed their guard positions. They breathed out a sigh of relief as the heavy oak doors swung behind their sovereign's retreating figure. Unbeknownst to them, the king had heard every poignant word come from their open mouths. If there was an observer in the corridor, they would see the amber-eyed king dropping the drunken act with a look of consternation dropping on his face. His brain was sifting and processing the many words that had been said between the guards. As the king climbed down the stairwell to where the chief advisor had stormed to, his upturned eyes flickered with emotions and thoughts.
The king of Kallondona was no fool. He certainly would not have been a thief lord in his own right had he been idiotic or mentally suppressed. He was certainly not a drunkard, and if anyone had even attempted to observe or get to know him, they would have come to the conclusion that he was allergic to alcohol. He had a serious distaste for it. The king rubbed his eyes tiredly. He had stayed up the previous night orchestrating the events he needed to unfold perfectly today. Blast it. If events do not go perfectly today, then getting myself soaked in alcohol would have been all for nothing. I do hate the smell of alcohol. It makes me feel grubby. The king openly sighed. Cyprus, you have dug this hole. You might as well jump into it and save the gravedigger the trouble of having to fill it up. Damn, I hate being king. Whoever said this job was worth fighting over, obviously never had to deal with the machinations of court! The king threw his hand over his face again and shuffled the remaining stairs to meet his daily staff and the demands of his royal schedule. All hail, his royal majesty, King Cyprus Aloysius Corwin II of Kallondona, the master of acting and lies.