Sitting in his carriage as it finally pulled out of the greater city of Fastel, Myrl had smiled and waved to many of the people as they had all ridden slowly passed through the gently curving streets. He had even made his procession stop at one point, and bought out all of the loaves of bread at one bakery. He loved the red wheat loaves the central duchies were known for, but hadn’t wanted to only buy out the red ones.

The last thing he wanted was for some weird rumor to start concerning the king only eating red wheat bread. And he knew Donk could use a fresh supply of bread to help fill out the meal rations as they made their way to the capitol.

And now he sat on the cushions of his seat in the gently swaying carriage, with a red loaf of bread on his lap. Staring at the fine, smooth texture of the crust. He gave it a tentative squeeze just after Ashe had presented it to him.

The crackle sound of the crust had been more soothing than Myrl would have admitted to anyone not currently in this very carriage with him. Even Master Elbana, and Master Sergeant Donk, had they been here with him and Ashe, would not have known how calming the very act of holding this just cooled loaf was to Myrl.

He slowly traced the crossed slice marks in the bread top. His Royal Majesty noted the buttery smell of the bread, and the heady hint of yeastiness that drifted up to his nose as he sat and just stared at the loaf. He had learned some years ago that the red wheat was notoriously fatty compared to its white, brown, and black varieties. This gave the grain a very short shelf life in comparison, and made products made with red wheat very seasonal.

“You’re sad. And a little mad. At both the Duchess and at yourself.” The voice was calm, and did not accuse. Lord Ashe had no need to make accusations to Myrl. Nor did his words demand any explanation be presented; Myrl knew this wasn’t a classroom, and this was not a lesson for the new King that would be found in any book on statecraft he had ever been forced to read.

Myrl could feel the tears surrounding his eyes. Not yet ready to fall, but soon enough, he knew, they would start their meandering paths down his face, and irritate his long arch of a nose before they either jiggled at the rounded tip, or slip, ticklishly, around the wide curves of his nostrils.

“I threatened a woman today, Ashe. I used the presence of her child to strap a bridle on her face and cruelly haul her head around until she couldn’t spit out the bit. And though he didn’t know it, I threatened to make Odo an orphan today.” His voice hitched slightly on “orphan.”

``Your Uncle, King Filian, Your Aunt, Queen Lurgetha, and Your Cousins, the Prince, Hyrel, and the Princesses Meolina, Caolia, and Unshedhni, have all... passed.” he heard Kalenia’s voice in his head.

“Sire…” Ashe started.

“No.”

“But, Myrl, you must ensure…”

“Ashe. No.”

They sat in silence as Myrl thought of the terror he had seen in Duchess Yggrel’s face barely more than an hour ago. The pain. She hadn’t known that the man who fathered Odo, her only child, had died. It hadn’t mattered to her that his uncle would have been planning to kill his wife, Myrl’s Aunt, so that Yggrel could sit on a stolen throne beside her. She had only known that the plans she had made with a man she …did she love him…? Did Filian love her…? Myrl didn’t know what the details of their plan had been. He had made assumptions. Some of those assumptions had been dark. But he had seen nothing in his interview of Yggrel that changed what he had thought their plans may have been.

Then he saw her face fill with resignation, the bleak realization washing over her in a slow wave of the sadness that is she now has left now that she knows her lover has died, and his promises died with him. Possibly worse, her lover’s nephew now would reclaim the position she and Filian had thought they had stolen without ever having lifted a sword.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Now the tears rolled down his face. He controlled his breathing as best he could.

Ashe let him cry, not offering platitudes. Not grabbing his shoulder, as Myrl had seen other men do in difficult times to reassure one another. Ashe knew Myrl didn’t want that.

Myrl wondered, though, if Myrl knew he didn’t want that.

Steadying himself, Myrl told Ashe, “Please see that the caravan knows that once we have gathered up our remaining members from our camp that we will be moving with all due haste to Ghlow. Don’t kill any horses, but let the guard know that we will be making short camps each night until we reach Bhatarsa. We will spend a half day there, and then march to Ghlow, in full regalia and barding.”

“I will see the word is spread to the officers and to the men.” Ashe had a dolorous tone to his voice now. It confused Myrl.

“My Lord, you don't approve.”

“You are my king. My approval is immaterial.” Now he could tell Ashe was smiling at the change in the conversation.

“Please. Speak freely.”

“My … Myrl. I had not expected you to handle Yggrel as well as you had. I was afraid you would walk into the den of a master of manipulation. That is what I had been preparing myself for. But, you waded into her territory, and used what you saw before you to make her capitulate to the needs of the Kingdom, and to the Will of her King.”

When Myrl looked up, his mentor was actually smiling. It was rare. Myrl had seen stones he would have bet were more emotive than Ashe. But here was a smile. More rare than dragons’ teeth, and about as unexpected.

“You thought she would have twisted me to fit the plot that she and uncle Filian were up to, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I did. A little. I’ll admit it was a fear I had as we traveled to Fastel.” He then let out a long, strained sigh. “I wondered if all of those horrible romance poems you read that one winter would have twisted your thinking to make you want to act one of their plots out with Duchess Yggrel.” The man actually let out a snort at that.

Myrl snorted at that, too. “Oh, was this some horrible romance story? Am I a virile young knight of the kingdom, come to fall prey to her siren’s song? Shall I fall to her womanly charms?”

Ashe then recited one of the worst lines of “love poetry” ever written. “And lo, then did Tormuid, his pants torn asunder by his great, oak hard, tree fall upon her Helga’s spongy love mountains, the mast of his Galleon of Love catching the winds of desire to sail her deepest, wettest seas!”

Myrl joined in now, reciting the next line as though singing to a tavern audience, “Soft sighs singing of supple thighs as sowing spasms splashed and spoke until the very Sunrise to find the two lovers tossed, tangle footed and torn clothing enrapt, splayed, spent, sweaty sweetness!”

Ashe and Myrl both exploded in laughter at this overly earnest recitation of what they had both agreed was the worst thing they had both ever read.

They laughed, until they couldn’t breathe. And then Myrl snickered to himself for a few minutes longer.

Wiping tears, both those of his own misery and those of the joy of being able to laugh at the absurd with a close friend, He then sat himself up straighter in his seat and reclaimed his red loaf from where it had fallen onto the cushion on which he sat.

“I will restrain myself, My Lord Ashe, from making any such amorous liaisons today. And I can guarantee this for at least the next two to three weeks, if you will take my word on it.” His voice, well schooled by Lord Ashe himself in public address, now was the epitome of the serious statesman.

Ashe made a serious half bow to his young king, and gracefully stood to the crouching stance allowed by the interior of the carriage, and grabbing the handle of the nearest door, opened it. His dark clad form flowed from the carriage like water, closing the door behind him, and from his seat Myrl saw through the window that he now sat astride one of the horses that had been tethered to the back of their carriage.

Lord Ashe was, if anything, efficient.

The young king thought of the older woman who he had cornered, and threatened, just this morning. He tore a small piece from the red loaf on his lap, and raised the savory treat to his mouth.

He knew he would have to contact the many mercenary groups, and other free agents he had contacted to set the groundwork for taking back his kingdom from his uncle. But, now that his uncle was no longer an obstacle, no longer an issue, Myrl wondered how many of these groups he would now would have to pay off, and how many he would have to fight in one form or another, openly to maintain the Peace of his newly regained throne.

But, that was for tomorrow.

For now, he would chew his bread, and think about what kind of King he wanted to be. And what kind of king he had been this morning.

Looking out the window at the passing landscape, Myrl began to chew, and thought again of the tears he saw in Yggrel’s eyes that she had not dared to let fall.