The softening mid-afternoon sunlight washes over my study through the stained glass of the west-facing windows, as I regard the stack of parchment on the right side of my desk. The height of the pile has steadily been decreasing since dawn, but the mass of documentation has merely spread across the desk's surface instead. The finely crafted knochwood desk is barely visible through the clutter, something perhaps metaphorical for my state of mind.
As the First Prince of Stoken Majora, acknowledged publically as the heir apparent to the ancient throne of my ancestors, the majority of my days is spent chewing through a seemingly limitless supply of paperwork on behalf of the kingdom, as well as the papers related to my own assorted affairs. Having to memorise each and every facet of the kingdom's administration, all the political manoeuvring of the nobility and organise it all is a task which most would consider impossible to keep up with alone. But such is the situation I find myself in today. As well as every day since my father announced I would be his heir. A privilege many would, and have, killed for in the past for better or worse; something I must admit to having also participated in on a great number of occasions in the past, for one reason or another.
Musing that this paperwork may be simply punishment for my many sins, I scratch behind my ear and lean back into the comfortable cushioning of this high-backed chair, an act which causes a wave of exhaustion to swell up from my chest into a yawn, as I lean forward briefly to return my quill pen back into its receptacle with one hand and cover my gaping mouth with the other. I should probably consider taking a break from work. It isn't as though I'm going ever going to complete it all today no matter how much I push myself. A mindset which is only reinforced by the fact that a good third of the original stack I began work on this morning is leftovers from the previous day. A pattern that’s been repeating for longer than my capacity to recall a beginning.
A never-ending stream of paperwork, indeed.
If there were anyone I could trust to take up some of the burdens of administration, perhaps I would be under less stress. However, the truth is that other than my father (who has his own burden to bear, as King) only I possess the authority to handle this work, so even were I to find such a loyal assistant, none of their efforts could be held up as legal. Simply put, a waste of their time and mine, as well as potentially damaging to my reputation should word spread of someone not authorised by the King being allowed to not only read such sensitive information but influence it as well. They would quickly find themselves a target for kidnapping and interrogation by bolder elements of the nobility. Anything to gain an advantage over the royal household.
I stand up with a short grunt and stretch, just as a dainty sounding knock comes from the door on the opposite end of the room. Likely a servant, but if they’re ignoring my orders to not be disturbed while I’m working, then odds are high that whatever it is they want is important enough that obeying me is of a lesser priority.
“State your purpose, I am not in the mood for frivolities.” I declare, letting just enough irritation bleed through to intimidate.
Contrary to my expectations, however, the response is unperturbed, “Apologies for disturbing your work, brother, but I’d like to talk with you, if it’s not too much trouble?”
I blink, genuinely surprised, “Desamine?”
Desamine, The First (and only) Princess of Stoken Majora, is my only sister and the youngest of my siblings. A quiet girl just today become 14 years of age, who spends most her time kept under the careful watch of the tutors and handmaidens appointed by our father. For her to come seeking my company is an unusual but not unwelcome occurrence. Given our relative estrangement, this would be a good opportunity to warm her up to me. I’d rather not risk a repeat of the War of Bitter Shadows so maintaining cordial relations with my family is a necessity for the safety and security of my eventual rule.
“Correct. May I come in?” comes Desamine’s even-tempered voice from the other side of the door.
I sigh, quietly enough to not be heard, at her stiff tone of voice. What are her tutors teaching her about making conversation? She’s barely spoken two sentences, and already I feel as though I am conversing with a finance ledger.
“By all means, dear sister. I was just thinking about taking a break, so you’ve come at a perfect time,” I say, with more joviality than I actually feel, “Come in. The door’s unlocked.”
“Excuse me for the intrusion.”
The door opens smoothly, and, dressed in a beautifully tailored blue gown, Desamine enters in the same clean motion, the very definition of grace drunken bards pine after in their quaint ditties. Her pretty features, and jewellery-adorned, low bob-cut black hair, are heavily reminiscent of the Queen, to a point where one suspects deliberate imitation. What an exquisite doll you have created, father. I can almost see the seams of her joints as she turns to close the door. Remarkably lifelike.
The marionette turns, once more, to face me, as I stand up from my chair. She curtsies deeply, head lowered in respect to my status, “Thank you, Your Highness, for agreeing to an audience,” she states with deference ringing her speech, “I understand that you have a busy schedule, so making time for one such as I, is most generous of you.”
I gesture for her to rise, smiling ever so slightly, trying my damnedest not to roll my eyes at her attempt to flatter me, “It is honestly no trouble. Truthfully, the affairs of state were beginning to wash over me like the turbulent waves of the eastern seas engulfing a river barge.”
Desamine smiles at my poor joke and laughs briefly behind a gloved hand, “As you say.”
Taking the initiative in the conversation, I walk around the desk with a dignified step and proffer my right hand in a beckoning manner, “What is it you wish to discuss? Perhaps the Midsummer Ball? I hear preparations are already underway for this year’s festivities, courtesy of, if memory serves, the Fedrit family. Truly a great honour for a middling house. Supposedly, our much-beloved mother, Her Radiance, the Queen, favours the young scions as potential partners. If you'd like, I can arrange a meeting with either man, I’m told they are rather handsome,” I smile.
Even grown men need toys to play with, from time to time, I find. Neither of them are pleasant people, in all honesty. But with the Queens favour added to the shrewd Earl Paltrew’s recent successes in developing more potent ‘entertainment’ for the pleasure of the court, they represent a potential investment, should the King decide to extend his support as well; either personally, or by offering the hand of the Princess in marriage. Something I find to be rather unlikely, myself - as he has a heavily ingrained distrust of rising stars on the political stage. To his mind, such swift acquisition of power is evidence that someone more established is backing them in secret. With the major players as greedy and conservative as they are, breaking into high society through your own merit is simply an impossibility. Anyone who dares to step close to the territory of those monsters is either bought and devoured - or crushed, and deliberately forgotten. Thus, the Fedrit family is likely little more than a tool for the acquisition of even greater prestige on the behalf of one of these long-established players, and by extension - a potential threat to his rule. I am of a mind to agree, but with the Queen so thoroughly enamoured with the ‘distractions’ they provide her as gifts, and the mystery of who their backers actually are, moving against them is difficult for the time being. But we can afford to be patient, at least until after the ball and their backers become more obvious.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
The puppet takes a few, steady paces forward, closing the distance between us with an airy smile, “It’s been a few weeks since we last saw one another, busy as we both are. Might this not be an excellent opportunity to catch up with one another?” She beams, clapping her hands to her largely absent bosom, leaning forward as her beautiful smile takes on a distinctly sharper edge worthy of our shared sire, “And if I may be so candid, precious old Ackery is not the most interesting of conversationalists, unfortunately. If I didn’t know better I almost expect she aspired to emulate and fuse with the masonry of the castle walls!” she concludes with a giggle, resuming proper posture.
I smirk as she feigns mischievousness, “Do go easy on the poor woman, she’s lived long enough to have seen our father in his cradle, after all. Small miracle that she still persists in her duties to the royal family after all these years. A work ethic to be admired.”
This last comment is sincere: Ackery, currently appointed as the official caretaker of the First Princess for the purposes of education and safeguarding, is the oldest living person in the castle, and perhaps the whole kingdom. A terse and completely humourless woman aptly described out of ear-shot by those who met her as being merely ‘cantankerous’ on a good day. That she disapproves of Father is an open secret within the palace as well, but the fact that she's helped to raise two generations of royalty - His Most Dignified included - allows her perhaps a little too much leeway in her criticisms. Still, it is hardly my place to judge her for it. At least, not so long as my father tolerates her presence. Given his nature, I find it surprising she still lives.
“As you say. I do appreciate all she has done for our family, there is no mistaking that. But I can only hear the same stories so many times before the repetition begins to annoy. I don't doubt she has much more she could tell, but I find myself unable convince her of a need for variety,” complains the doll, pouting.
“Many of the experiences that Ackery could relate are no doubt private in nature, and others still, likely inappropriate for a still-blooming flower of the court like yourself. I daresay you may find her more forthcoming now that you have come of age to marry, if my own experiences under her loving care are to be any measure,” I respond in turn, smiling wider to pacify her adorable petulance.
“Truly?” the doll exclaims, moving closer still, close enough to reach. One wonders how much of her actions are deliberate. I can hear a stage director, with the voice of my father, hissing her lines at her from behind the curtains. I know this, as the sole member of the audience in a front row seat. The hiss echoes throughout the room.
Hm. I should consider writing a book of poetry if ever I find the time. I might have a talent for it. Something to consider.
Whilst distracted by my musings, my guest tilts her head quizzically, “Brother?”
I flinch at being referred to as kin to this mannequin, only to scold myself inwardly for my carelessness, but not too harshly. No doubt she’ll assume my shock is from having caught my attention, nothing more.
“Apologies, I was lost in thought for a moment. An unfortunate habit I seem to have developed whilst shut up in my office,” I tell her, clearing my throat, “But yes, I recall that Ackery held back a little less after my own fourteenth nameday, and I came of age. Although her attitude remained much unchanged, for better or worse”
I turn to regard the wall of bookshelves along the right wall, searching absent-mindedly for some bedtime reading material, whilst the doll closes further in to stand by my side, “Thank you, for your advice,” She smiles, again, tilting her head to read the labels on the spines of the many volumes in my collection, “I must confess to having always been rather curious as to what these books were about. I’ve never seen so many tomes in one place, other than here.”
“I suppose you could call this a hobby of mine. I very much doubt any but the most wealthy or influential could manage to find as many original works as I, to say nothing of any copies. Few have the drive to write, and those that do, find themselves unable to afford the extravagant price of quality ink and parchment, before even considering the price involved in paying an expert craftsman to bind it into a single book without damaging the contents.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Indeed.”
A silence follows the brief exchange, and I carefully extract a text from the shelves, titled ‘Treatise on the Mythologies of the Common Folk and Their Variations Thereof’, by an enterprising young priest who met his end during the civil war a century past. Truly, a waste of potential. Many of the scholars whose works adorn this wall met similar fates, and I often find myself idly wondering what advances Stoken could have made had the Soffew deposit in Dren’s depths never been discovered. A pointless flight of fancy, perhaps, but one still can’t help but wonder what glory awaited us before our fall. I hope to return us to those days, once the throne becomes mine.
I turn the book over in my hands, wiping a thin layer of dust from the leather cover. The doll stares at the book, with a vapid expression, then back to me.
“What is that book about?” she asks.
“The superstitions of the commons. The only copy ever made and the most comprehensive collection of folk songs and stories I know of,” I answer on reflex, not expecting the ornament next to me to understand the significance of such a thing.
“May I see? It certainly sounds more interesting than hearing Ackery recount the Tale of Bonny Harl…” She pleads, looking up at me wide-eyed, arms behind her back as she leans into the performance.
My mouth twists in annoyance for a brief instant before my smile returns, “Alas, this is an original work, and is not to be removed from my collection,”
Except by myself, of course, I inwardly sneer, placing the book back on the shelf.
“So I will have to deny you, I’m afraid. These books are simply too valuable to be loaned out casually, even to you.”
The mannequin assumes a visage of disappointment, straightening her posture, “Aww. That’s a shame, mother always told me to share my toys…”
Something about her voice causes my hackles to rise, and I feel a dull throb in my gut.
I look down to see the doll holding a knife hilt, the blade already in my stomach. My eyes widen as she releases her grip, and steps back, all traces of emotion on her face gone. No joy, no anger, no lingering hesitation.
I suppress the urge to vomit as the foreign sensation spreads and turns to pain. I collapse to my knees and fall backwards, struggling to breathe or maintain the strength in my legs. Confusion and fear rule my minds, drowning out rational thought as I try to understand what is happening to me.
The doll stabbed me.
Me. The First Prince. What nonsense is this?
And as my vision fades, my arms shaking as I clutch the hilt of the dagger, I hear the doll speak, calmly.
“Tell me, dearest brother Kallum…” She says, bending down, her lips near my ear, her voice a whisper, “Do you see any strings on me now..?”
I see nothing.