His carriage stopping, again, was the last straw for Olverez. He had been sitting in this sweatbox on wheels with only a few rock hard cushions to sit on. Had he wanted to feel a breeze, he would have had to remove one of the small panes of clear glass, and even then it could only have been a small relief.

“Why in God’s Names have we stopped?” he shouted from behind the rag pressed to his face. He dapped the rag in a small amount scented oil, and huffed it again. The perfume was noxious in large amounts, but much better than the stench of his companion. A small hatch at the front of the carriage opened.

“It looks like the gates are closed, my lord,” said Raul, one of his drivers.

What uncivilized place must lock their gates by day? wondered Olverez. Having seen much of their country on his journey from the capitol, he concluded the Erazi really were little more than savages pretending at civilization. Their people lacked the social graces expected in Sestil. He found it fitting that the savages who once terrorized parts of the Vale were now subject to its greatest king.

“Make them aware what cargo we carry, and quickly,” Olverez snapped back. He was beginning to smell the rot again. The embalmer said that wouldn’t happen. I shall skin him for that lie. Olverez rummaged through his pack, and produced papers sealed and signed in the name of the King of Erazel.

He heard muttering outside the carriage between Raul and one of the city guards. It sounded heated a moment, and one of the wooden doors to the carriage was flung open, letting in the afternoon daylight. The fair haired guard climbed into the carriage without a word and pulled down the fabric wrapped around Duke Henric Aldrimar’s face. He almost gagged at the sight, and stumbled out.

“Let them through,” he said after he’d finally gotten his stomach back under control. “Send runners to the Captain, the Cathedral, and the castle. Let them know our duke has finally returned to us.”

Lucan and the watch had were escorting them back to the castle through the city streets when Henric heard someone shouting behind them. “Captain Lucan! Urgent news!”

Henric stopped and turned, allowing others to pass by him as he walked back to where Lucan was waiting for the guard. “Sir,” said the guard between huffs and wheezes. Then he saw Henric. “My lord, the Duke has returned.”

That took a moment to register with Henric. His grandfather! If the duke had returned, that meant he might free of these duties, at least for a few more years. “Truly? He’s back?” asked Henric.

“Yes, my lord,” said the guard. “As the king promised.”

If Henric had been looking at Lucan’s face, he might have recognized the significance of the guard’s words, but he wasn’t. Instead, he asked “Where is he?”

“On his way to the castle right now my lord.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

It wasn’t until they had almost reached the Lords Square and the bells at the cathedral began to slowly toll that he remembered what the king’s promise had been. Henric had only been five that day, when the Rebellion was ended in the Peace of Henrics.

Henric remembered how splendid the king had looked when he marched into the great hall in his finest armor. His long golden hair hung down between his shoulders and his blue and gold cloak dragged on the ground beside him. Henric remembered watching the king drag his grandfather in, bound in chains and forced him to surrender in front of his whole court. Then the king spoke to all of them, “I shall take your duke from you in chains, and only will I return him once he has breathed his last breath.”

They arrived at the top of the hill behind most of the party. Count Arnult and the rest of the injured had already been rushed to Ardas’ care, but the rest had gathered around a carriage as it was being unloaded and unhorsed. The stench of Death hung in the air, and Henric brushed up past them to confirm what he already knew. His grandfather was dead.

Henric shouted at two of the knights who stood about mourning, “You two! Get your duke inside!” He noticed three newcomers, an Azrin noble and his bodyguards. Henric went to them. “I assume you are the ones who have returned my grandfather to us?”

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The Azrin glanced at him, and brushed him away with a dismissive gesture. “So I am boy, leave me be,” he said with his thick, buzzing accent.

“Boy?” said Henric. “I will forgive you that this once, because you are a stranger in our lands and to our ways. What is your name, my lord?”

The Azrin gave him a second glance, and reevaluated his situation. “I am called Olverez, cousin and minister to king Gundemaro.”

“Ah! How good to have a cousin to the king in our home! Please, join us for the Rites at least. You have come so far with my grandfather.”

“No,” Olverez shook his head. “I have other matters I must attend to, I cannot stay long.”

Good, thought Henric. “And if I should insist?”

“I too would insist, my lord. We must be away.” And soon they were.

As though he had been waiting in the wings, Count Phillip soon swept in. His arm was in a makeshift sling, though Henric did not remember seeing him seriously injured in the blast. “Henric, it is time for us to call the council.”

“Now? Really?” Henric snapped. He was in no mood for ceremonial dickering.

“After what has just happened?” the count snapped back. “Of course now. We have much we need to discuss.”

“There are more important things right now.” Figuring out what had happened back in the city for starters. Burying his grandfather. Whatever Phillip wanted could wait.

“There is nothing more important that the succession.”

Soon the Lords Aldrimar had been assembled in the council chamber. Count Arnult’s stretcher had been brought in, and he was allowed to rest comfortably while attending the proceedings, and at Henric’s insistence, his uncles Zak and Samael joined them, though they were not lords themselves.

“What the hell are we all doing down here?” asked Markan.

“If you would learn some patience, you might actually learn why,” sneered Phillip. “We have several urgent matters to discuss. The first being naming our duke’s successor.”

“That’s simple,” said Zak. “It’s Henric.”

“It is not so simple as that,” countered Phillip. He unrolled a piece of parchment on the table before him. “The duke never named the boy his successor. He names his late son Gareth as successor.”

“And my father named me as his heir and successor in all things,” said Henric. “What are you playing at Phillip?”

“I am not playing boy. I will not suffer a child as my duke.”

“Really Phillip? The law says-” asked Markan in disbelief.

Phillip turned on him, “We are the law. If we should choose to do something different than fathers, who is to stop us. I’d think you’d be in agreement with me on this after what just happened down in the city, after the injuries Arnult took? How can you trust him to govern us?”

“How would you have prevented a blast like that?!” shouted Henric, slamming a fist into the table. “You talk like you understand, but you don’t. That was the second attempt on my life in a month. I thought I had taken precautions, but how do you prevent magic? I’m almost willing to believe you had something to do with it Phillip.”

“You see this outburst?” asked the count incredulously. “And to accuse me of attempted kinslaying? The boy proves himself a fool! Come now, he is no duke!”

Arnult hacked and coughed from his seat. “And you would have us name you heir, eh cos? I’d sooner have King Wicked as my suzerain than you.”

“I never suggested myself,” deflected Phillip. “I would gladly serve if you all should agree I am best fit, but I would follow you, or even young Marche over this boy.”

“But Henric is my father’s heir,” asserted Zak again.

“Not truly, brother,” said Samael. Henric felt betrayed at his uncle’s words. “Gareth was not allowed to name a ducal successor, no. But he did name Henric as his successor in all things, including his inheritances. Your pretext is thin Phillip.”

“So how do you say we settle this?” asked Henric. “A duel?”

Markan pricked up at the suggestion, but Phillip only laughed and held up his arm, “Hardly. I intend to put this matter before the court to judge.”

“And the court will not hear it,” interrupted Arnult. “You think you are so clever cos, but you I will not allow you to make a spectacle of this. Our grandfather, the second Henric split his lands so that his sons could fight together, not one another. Let us put it to a vote and be done with it. We have gone too long without a duke already.”

“Yes, let’s,” agreed Phillip. He turned on Zak and Samael, “The duke’s sons do not vote, since they hold no lands of their own.”

“Agreed,” said the other two counts before Henric had a chance to protest. A steward was called in, and each of them was provided with a quill, ink, and a scrap of paper. They each wrote a name on the paper, and they were collected by the steward.

He read them out, one by one. “Henric.”

Henric looked carefully at the faces of the Lords Aldrimar, trying to read their expressions, but found nothing. At least he had one vote already.

“Phillip.”

He watched a brief, smug grin flash across the count’s face, but it was the second call of “Phillip.” which cracked his stoney expression.

He had never thought it would come to this. Sure, he had his doubts if he could even do it, but when his fate hung in the balance like that, Henric knew what he really wanted. In that moment, he decided no matter what, he wouldn’t surrender his grandfather’s titles to anyone.

So when the steward called out “Henric,” again, he let out a massive sigh or relief, unaware he had even been holding his breath. For a moment, he just enjoyed the unpleasant look on Phillip’s face.

They voted again and again, and twice more the results were the same. “Enough!” said Henric after the third vote. “The sun is setting, let us retire and take this up again in the morning.” That time the vote was unanimous.