Ashe watched as his charge slowly sauntered toward the edge of the stage upon which Myrl’s coronation was being both held, and interrupted. Standing off to one side, at the edge of the line of Royal Guardsmen, Ashe had been doing his best to remain inconspicuous. For now.
Later, if a suitable opportunity presented itself, he would point out to his… Pupil… that this entire fracas could have been avoided. Ashe knew there were some benefits to a public showing, the likes of which Myrl was about to engage; but, Ashe also knew that this might give too much away to his adversaries, and set yet others against the boy.
All of this could have been avoided, Ashe thought.
Then the idiot Feesin had thrown his temper tantrum before the eyes of the higher nobility of Rhiada, and the Crown’s Exalted guests. Some of those guests had even traveled from as far away as Thach, the large continent on the far side of the world. He could see both a contingent of fierce looking, blue skinned men and women sporting a variety of exotic tattoos peeking out from amongst their luxurious fur lined clothing. Most knew the Ghorma as great sea travelers and traders, but those in the know, those like Lord Ashe, knew they were some of the greatest practitioners of Shamanicmagic on the planet. They came from a much more northerly climate, one that rarely ever saw spring and summer, collectively, lasting more than two and a half months. Thrust the profusion of beautifully made clothing pieces lined, or at the very least edged, in fur.
They must be stifling in this humidity. He thought.
And on the other side of the hall from the Ghorma contingent, another group stood resplendent, smiling at the spectacle unfolding before them in their lovely and colorful raiment, most with them with their hair done up in complex knots and braids. Known as traders from the continent of Thach as well, the Embassy from the nation of Jheddo watched the proceedings unfold with polite smiles on their beautiful, fine boned faces. The Jheddo were known for being shrewd at all aspects of business, being vain where their beards were concerned, and having lightning fast tempers. This was matched by their ability to fight with vicious abandon, which was quite the feat for a people who rarely grew taller than a stride in height.
The tallest Jheddo in the group, a stunning, if tiny, woman of middle years if Ashe were to hazard a guess, stood with the tops of her extravagant curls no higher than the height of Ashe’s own elbow. All Jheddo, when traveling outside of their mountainous kingdom, dressed as men. Fancily dressed men, but distinctly as men.
The rest of the assembled throng, Rhiadian nobility and mostly human guests from closer kingdoms alike, watched in silent anticipation as Myrl walked, sauntered really, forward. When Ash had stepped forward to address Feesin, his sons, and the crowd, everyone had focused on him as he had spoken. The spell he had used to push his voice not just to each of them, but directly to their individual notice, had made a difference in how people would remember what happened here today.
Feesin had yelled, and howled, coming close to spitting and drooling in his rage, but to some in attendance today, they heard nothing more coherent than screeching and howling. The Royal Tutor, and the King’s personal confidant, they would all recall however, spoke calmly, and in measure reasonable tones, so smoothly and well spoken; kindly, even, how could we not listen to him? And wasn’t what he was saying just so interesting?
Ashe would acknowledge to any who might have the temerity to ask, that yes, “magic” was cheating. That was the point of magic, really. To do those things that you could not easily do otherwise. If you had the Talents, and you survived the emergence of the Talent, and then survived the training, then magic was a tool that anyone could use to knock the sharper edges of the world off, and leave one’s path through that world an easier one, ,their burdens made slightly more light upon both the brow and shoulder.
And the stronger one was, the better trained one might be, the easier it was all supposed to be.
But Myrl had offered the moron a choice between magic and fisticuffs. He had to ensure the boy knew what he was doing.
He knew Baron Feesin from his own previous stint here at the palace. That man was, were Ashe to be gracious, an absolute fool. A yammering, screaming, belligerent idiot when he thought he was missing out on something he imagined he was owed, and a simpering toady to both Myrl’s father, Myol, when the kind former King was still alive, and more so to his bullying older brother, Filian.
He had heard from his few informants still at court after he and Myrl had been sent to Jibiril that Feesin had taken over his family’s lands in Filian’s place, Filian and his wife and children having moved into the palace itself to administrate the stewardship of the kingdom. Had Ashe been a betting man, he would have made a fortune upon the “steward” refusing to give up his power when Myrl had come of age.
Gliding forward to intercept his ward, he inclined his head to the burgeoning king. Myrl slowed even further as he approached. Raising an eyebrow to Ashe.
“You offered him magic. Do you know if he is a Talent, Sire?” Ashe barely vocalized, not wanting anyone beyond the two of them to hear.
A small grin tried to break through on Myrl’s otherwise serious expression. “I was not sure, but he had planned for his tall son to skewer me on a saber, probably with some ridiculously long lunge launched from his back foot to look dramatic and theatrical. So I doubt he has access to the Talent in any meaningful way. And if by some grand miscalculation he does choose the arcane arts, I am owed a Service. I paid with my own blood.”
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“And when, sire, was that Contract confirmed?” Ashe knew the initial contact had been attempted the night of the Duke and Duchess of South Wall’s arrival at Jibiril, but he had not realized Myrl had gone on to complete the contract. With the death of his Aunt and her husband, Ashe didn’t see much reason, if any, to make such a contract with that kind of… being.
“The night after we visited Duchess Yggrel. On the road here.” Myrl let the smile slowly creep in around the edges. “Her… involvement with Filian made me realize I might need to use every agreement and contract I could make to secure my throne, and the Kingdom itself.”
He stepped forward, passing Ashe now on his way to Feesin.
Elbana now stood in his way.
Her armor was impeccably shined. Her Royal livery was as clean, and freshly pressed as she had just put it on moments ago, and not before the sun had risen that morning.
She bowed stiffly. “Sire.”
“Master Elbana. Are you here to cluck over me like my Lord Ashe does now?” Heat rose up his face from beneath his collar, and Ashe would have blushed if his complexion would have allowed for such a thing.
“Sire, no. I taught you better. Baron Feesin has reach on you, but has not done anything more strenuous in years than bother his mistresses. Keep up your guard, and get inside his reach as fast as you can. From there either break him down like a chicken carcass with grappling, or keep inside and tight. Then break his jaw and limbs. Make a show to the crowd with the very public spectacle. That was what the fool wanted, after all. Something very public.”
Elbana knew the boy’s martial skills better than anyone. She had often been his sparring partner, not wanting him to damage unsuspecting conscripts at the Keep. Ashe had also feared for Myrl when Elbana worked with him on all of his martial studies, but he respected her proficiencies in those fields. And she had surpassed, by far, what Ashe might have ever taught the boy.
Myrl inclined his head to his Master of the Sword and Horse.
He then turned to where Feesin stood, looking surly and angry. His two sons now standing behind and off to the side of the Baron, finding themselves unexpectedly surplus to their quivering father’s needs. The High Priest, Raoh faced the Baron, and was now in a heated discussion with the man. Ashe sighed. The gangly, gaudy old scarecrow was animatedly talking down to the shorter, wide shouldered priest, his orange and yellow raiment making the priest’s otherwise finely made robes look dull and dun in comparison.
Ashe, from where he stood, made a subtle effort of will, and allowed the sounds of their conversation to be pulled forward, and then to wash over him.
“...no, I don’t care what you THINK your rights are here, Baron. The Incipient King is correct on the points of law.”
He could see the anger racing back and forth across Feesin’s face. “NO!” The man hissed. “This. this, thithithis BOY is nothing more than an upstart! HE has no standing here! MY brother was KING! My BROTH…”
The slap came out of nowhere, and almost spun the man’s head off of his shoulders. Ashe was almost not certain the strike came from Raoh, himself. The long neck slowly maneuvered the head back into place facing forward, a look of profound shock on his face.
The shorter man’s deep baritone voice lashed at the baron. “I am done explaining anything to you, Feesin. DONE. You will listen to me now. Your brother was an appointed steward who along with his wife was to watch over Rhiada until THAT boy…” and here his thick arm shot back behind him to point at the slowly approaching Myrl. “That boy reached his majority. He reached it just over a year ago. YOUR brother sought to delay his nephew’s rightful coronation. Your brother tried to usurp the Crown he had been elected to protect. Everyone on the High Council knows it. YOU know it. ANd nothing you can do will change this.”
“But…!” the man started to whine. “He was KING! The KINGDOM needed a king, and HE was there!”
Roah raised his right hand, palm open.
Just that.
And Feesin froze, like a rabbit in the dusk as a wolf walks by.
“Choose, Baron.”
“But…” He started to whine, his face beginning to collapse in desperation and fright.
“The King is offering you a way to honorably save yourself from decorating an oak tree.” At this the stout man pointed out the front doors of the Throne room, to the High Temple that sat across the great Courtyard from the Palace, around which a ring of large oak trees stood. Long the symbols of both sacrifice and Royal Justice in Rhiada. Hangings were a rarity, but not an impossibility. Even as the Kingdom’s Steward, Filian had used that method to publicly dispose of those who chose High Crimes against the Kingdom.
“But…” Ashe could just hear the breaking of the man’s soul in his sob.
“I have never seen you use the Talent, Baron, so I suggest you choose fisticuffs. While I didn’t know the King was a Mage, I know his tutor is a fearful power. King Myol’s father, the Royal Consort Dwyrn, hired the man to train him when his Talent came upon him. They say it runs in the Rhiad royal line. I will bet your left arm that Myrl is fully trained.”
Ashe wanted to laugh at that. No mage was ever “fully trained.” One just had to keep learning as they went along, or stagnate in their power and hope the Talent didn’t overwhelm them.
The priest snapped his fingers under the gawky man’s nose to regain his attention. “So. I suggest you choose fisticuffs, and prepare to fight. You COULD, could mind you, choose magic, and let the king end you in the most dramatic of ways. Or, and this is my personal favorite, you could beg the King’s forgiveness, and pray he accepts.”
At the look of both horror and newly resurrected anger on the older man’s face, the priest laughed in a surprisingly jolly bellow. “That is exactly what I thought you might choose. Good luck, Baron Feesin. I will officiate, as is my right, on behalf of the Temple and the Rights of the Crown.” And with that, the High Priest turned toward the approaching young King, making a bow to Myrl as he reached the two men.
Myrl held out the cloth of gold embroidered glove in his right hand to the red faced and quivering older man. Myrl's left hand rested upon the brooch that held closed his mantle, and kept it on his shoulders.
“Baron?” He asked simply.
Feesin stood looking at the much younger man before him. His breathing was becoming raged and labored. Finally, he looked up to the crowd of hundreds who filled in along all of the edges of the Throne Room. Slowly, he steadied his breathing, and looked back to where Myrl stood.
For the briefest of moments, Ashe thought the baron might take the simplest course, and bend his knees, bow before the King, and offer his most sincere apologies. But then, the man squared his shoulders, and spat on the floor at Myrl’s feet, and shouted “FISTS!!”
Maybe the old man expected the waiting royals to cheer him on in his defiance, Maybe he expected the crowd of watchers to gasp at his sense of inherent nobility before the presence of this young upstart.
They all chose laughter, instead.