A tall, willowy man in eye-searing yellow and orange barded finery with what appeared to be a gold baronial coronet of matching heraldry, though the man was too distant for Myrl to make out the charges in the small metal panels, came striding into the center of the cavernous length of the Throne Room of Myrl’s ancestral seat. As he spoke in a poorly modulated and very forced voice, like a man trying to orate in a way his tutors might once have attempted in vain to teach him to do, gesticulated wildly at the throng of assembled royalty of the kingdom. Myrl imagined his thin, gangly frame lording over a field of slowly ripening wheat or korbean canes to keep the crows and deer away.
His voice, moving up and down the registers from a stentorious baritone all the way up to a scratchy and gravel strewn alto as he tried to orate to the assembled. "...and look now how we all gather! This child, A CHILD gods help me! This CHILD may be the son of a king, but he is not the son of our LAST KING! He is, at best, a nephew of the last king. A NEPHEW! BY MARRIAGE, not blood! King Filian had a son, but it was not this... THIS PALE CORVID! He is here to pick over the corpse of our beloved king! A REAL KING!..."
Myrl was doing his best to maintain a calm, expressionless state, to allow his mind to float in an emotionless, tranquil sea. But… his emotions were now amassed and swarming the shore of that sea, and buzzing back and forth with variations of anger, curiosity, excitement, surprise, a cautious relief, and even a fluttering of fear. Some emotions, anger, rage, hurt, embarrassment, pounded at his head like the drums the Royal Army played as they marched, insistand, measured, and overbearing. The curiosity he was feeling, however, made him want to run around the giant room, asking everyone in attendance what they thought, who this man might be, and did they like Myrl? This ran through his head hand in ephemeral hand with excitement and surprise.
And then… a fluttering of fear. It made his heart trip in its otherwise steady beat. It was more discordant than the others, because as light and flimsy a thing as it was, that fear was undoing every other rhythm and tempo his emotions had begun to set up in his psyche. Fear, as Ashe always held, would kill Myrl faster than any other impulse. Fear killed confidence. Fear killed certainty. Fear makes the sure hand shake, and the steady step slip.
Fear would kill one, if they allowed it.
As he worked to find his center and steady his breathing, Myrl could see that very same kaleidoscope of emotions playing across the faces of nobles in the crowd. He was noticing that even the rough proportions of his own emotions were represented in the audience.
Most of the assembled looked outraged. Some, he could tell by their expressions, were angry at the scarecrow-baron’s outrageous interruption, and gauche display. From the delight on a few other faces that he could make out from where he sat on his family’s throne, several of the royals in attendance loved the break from what had been a day of jaded tedium and monotonous protocol.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Yggrel looking pained and anxious. He could see a minor tremor in her stance with the orange and yellow baron’s every declaration. The duchess was starting to glisten around the edges, and on the middle of her forehead and upper lip with a light, nervous sweat. If Myrl were any judge of people, this woman now stood upon the broad cliffs of fear, and was now looking out at a panorama of ever expanding terror.
The High Priest of the Great Temple here in the city of Ghlow stood rooted next to the throne, his hands slowly releasing the Crown he had just been about to lift up to Myrl’s head, as he pulled himself slowly, laboriously, upright. The sturdily built older man was absolutely simmering with repressed rage. Myrl could feel it coming off of the priest in wave after wave of affronted anger. But Raoh was smiling placidly beneath his laurel wreath and antlered crown, an errant wisp of long gray hair settling slowly through the air rest on the embroidered cloth of his mantle. Myrl, looking at that smile, wasn’t sure how he knew the shorter man’s mood with such certainty; his even breathing, steady hands, and kind face all looked like he was about to bless a puppy. But, Myrl knew deep in his very bones, Raoh was in a mood to slaughter armies, and burn cities in his wake.
Scrambling along behind the rangy, long limbed fellow followed two retainers in matching, horrifyingly bright, livery. Though, Myrl thought one of the two might have been the man’s son, he looked like a slightly taller, younger version of the old man, but with tighter skin, and a better hairline. Along with his father's ungainly figure and outsized throat-knot, he was blessed with the same huge chin and the unfortunate nose of his father.
The shorter, heavier, trundling retainer scurrying just behind the taller youth carried a large ledger bound in dyed orange leather, and a familial duelist's case.
Myrl's left eyebrow popped up at the notice of the case. It was not permissible to carry weapons into the presence of the King. While Myrl had yet to actually be crowned by the High Priest, he was the heir. He was on the throne. And this was a direct insult to him.
The baron continued yelling at and extorting to the gathering of royals. "And what are we, if not a kingdom of laws? Can some vagabond child just sweep into our throne room and take it for his own?! What then of precedence? What of the Divine Rights of the Lineage of Our Kings? Well, I at least will not allow this to stand. IT WILL NOT, I say!"
And with this, the raving old man turned to Myrl where he sat on the throne, and extended his right hand to his side, waiting. The effort of the man's rant, and his foot stomping walk down the center of the room, had winded the man, he was now sweating profusely and his breathing was labored. Even his throat-knot bobbed up and down on his long neck, as he strove to regain his wind.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Lord Ashe and Master Elbana had positioned themselves, along with a contingent of guards, before the dais, blocking the raving coot from coming up the steps. Meanwhile, behind the gaudy baron his shorter retainer struggled with the case, and then almost dropped the ledger before getting the duelist's case opened, and handed a bundle of shiny yellow and orange cloth he clumsily had taken from within it to the baron.
Ashe moved forward, and stood within an arm's reach of the man before speaking. His deep, smooth voice rolled out effortlessly to fill the entirety of the throne room. Myrl knew this spell, and thought it might have been overkill on the part of Ashe to punish the baron for being rude and supercilious. "Baron Feesin," he stressed the man's rank. "Your brother was not a king. He was a Steward, and the Regent to the Throne on behalf of His Royal Highness, Prince Myrl. When Steward Filian died, along with the King Myol's sister, and His nieces and His Nephew," here Ashe stressed the word to use the same language Feesin had used moments before to disparage Myrl's claim on the Kingship. "It was past the time when he had promised to step down. The man seated on the throne before you passed his majority over a year ago. Prince Myrl is now come before His Kingdom as the new King."
Myrl could see the man, Feesin, was near to exploding with rage at Ashe, and he would love to kill Myrl himself before this audience. He was not. Myrl judged, a stable man.
Ashe continued on in his beautiful, if magically enhanced, voice. "Your brother promised to step down. He was elevated to this role by a unanimous vote of the Royal Chamber of the Lords and Ladies of Rhiada. And then he refused to step down when Myrl sent his letter of intent."
There were more than a few actual gasps at that last revelation.
"You lie!" Spat the baron. "You cretinous liar! If this even IS the Prince, no Letter if Intent was received by the Royal Chamber! None in the Greater Hall have heard of such a thing!"
But Ashe just spoke over the man, knowing that everyone would hear his own voice as if he stood at their elbows, speaking to them in confidence of a close friend. “The letter was sent on the eve of the Prince’s birthday, and it was received into the Royal Archives here at the palace. It was even signed by his Aunt, Stewardess Lurgetha, and countersigned by the Regnum of the Master of The Keys, and by the High Priest of the Great Temple, Arne Raoh. And yet, this simple petition to the Kingdom’s appointed Steward, Filian, was denied.” He chuckled then, a deep and vibrating sound that resonated within the chests of each person in attendance.
From his left, the Royal Records Page, Master Baison, stepped forward, and tapped his Staff of Office, a heavy oak staff topped with a Golden Goose, wings elevated and neck extended, beak threateningly agape. He held aloft in his other hand a large scroll. The thing was a masterwork of illumination and calligraphy, with a rainbow of colors in expensive inks covering the page. And at the bottom of this page that Myrl knew so well, were the signatures, just as described.
With a flip, the jowly older man turned the scroll back to himself, and began reading out the very forman letter Myrl had sent to his Aunt. That his Aunt had then signed, and gotten signed by the other responsible parties.
Just under the voice of the Herald, as he addressed the room, Myrl could hear Feesin protesting. And each line the Herald read, Feesin’s protests grew more animated, and foam flecked as he labored to scream his outrage.
Just as the reading ended, Baron Feesin yowled in anger, and threw the shiny cloth bundle at Myrl. The thing barely made it to the edge of the dais before flopping to the burnished hardwood, and lay there for all to see.
“I CHALLENGE THIS WHELP!! AS IS MY RIGHT, AS KING FILIAN’S SURVIVING HEIR!”
The crowd held their collective breath as Myrl stood. He could see their curiosity as undulations of intense inquisitive rapture rolled off the crowd in waves. He was surprised no one else was reacting to this as he was. It was… singular.
He made his way to the limp cloth where it practically glowed in the light hitting it from the high windows of the throne room. Bending, he went to pick it up, and a spike of fear lanced through him. It almost broke his composure, and he wanted to scream along with the demented baron, who was now in paroxysms of both rage and now waves of joyful triumph.
Glancing around quickly, Myrl saw Yggrel almost in tears with her terror at what Myrl was about to do. He was going to take up the Challenge. And that had her heart in her throat. He grabbed the silken glove, and stood.
“I accept.” He said it simply, and quietly. But, he also followed Lord Ashe’s lead, and amplified his voice to the entire hall with an effort of will and a spell woven of gestures on the fingers of his off-hand.
“HA! AND I CHOOSE MY SON, FAISTE, AS MY CHAMPION! AND ONCE YOU ARE DEAD, I WILL TAKE MY BROTHER’S PLACE AS KING!” And with that, the old man began laughing in hoarse cackling merriment.
“No.” Myrl Said.
And the crowd gasped again.
“You earlier said we are a kingdom of laws. You were correct,we are. And while you have the right to challenge me, you cannot challenge me for the right to sit the throne. The throne is not ‘ your right’ to begin with. Thus, that would make this duel about a personal issue. In duels of personal disputes, you may only name a champion to fight on your behalf if you are incapable of fighting for yourself. Otherwise people would go around hiring professional duelists to fight for them in any match, and then it becomes commerce, not justice. That has been the law since my great grandfather’s day.” Myrl waited as the old man absorbed this. He looked at the baron expectantly.
The man began to splutter indignantly. “But…BUT… NO! NO! NONONO!!! That’s not fair!”
Laughter began to trickle in from around the edges of the large room as various courtiers found this entire issue suddenly funny. Myrl held back his own smile as the feelings of silly joy crept around and over him.
“I disagree, baron. The point of the law is fairness. You cannot hire, or otherwise procure a professional swordsman to do your distasteful butchery for you. And by that same law, as the challenged, I am allowed to declare the weapons to be used, and must offer you two choices. I choose magic, or fists. Choose. You have until I return this expensive rag to you.” With that, Myrl slowly walked to the very edge of the platform, and stepped lightly down. a dancer’s step, filled with grace.
The silence was suddenly oppressive.