“The year of Bolg Moon,” said Queen Lenora. “It really should be called ‘The Years of the Bolg Moon, for it has always lasted near two years.” The queen sat comfortably in the bejeweled throne seat of the king hall. She’d gotten quite used to that lately. Beside the king’s throne chair sat Lady Illena, the queen’s new hand and advisor. Waryon found himself no longer welcome near the throne. Not since the king had become quiet and void of words, only speaking when necessary. He had secluded himself since the betrothal, only to be found in the book stacks in the annals of Crow Castle’s upper level.

“Does it appear darker outside than past Bolg Moons, or is that just me?” asked Illena, puzzled. The king’s hall was empty except for Jal the squire and his hired servants that busied themselves scraping food and dirt from the tiled floor. It was half past noon and visitors were expected within the hour.

“You are young, darling,” said the queen with a smile, “when you get to be my age you shall see that the cycles of the Bolg Moon eventually repeat themselves. I remember skies are dark as these even when I was a little girl such as yourself.”

“Little girl?” replied Illena. “I’m old enough to be queen!”

Queen Lenora raised an eyebrow. A stern look came over her face. “Don’t you speak of my seat as queen so lightly, daughter. Your father would have named you princess, had me desired you to rule as such.”

“It was jest, that’s all.”

“Jest has its place. Sitting upon the throne seat of Dalrin is no place for it.”

Illena was frustrated. Must her mother always remain so stoic? Illena thought the throne seat was the perfect place for a light-hearted jest. How do people of power maintain sanity if it weren’t for humor? Illena crossed her arms. She scrunched her nose and pursed her lips.

“Now, that is not to say that I ever agreed with your father,” said Lenora. “You have a profound beauty. The kind of beauty that warrants power, I’d say.” Lenora and Illena exchanged softened looks. Mother’s words meant all to Illena, and they had come sweet as sugar lately. It was the new routine for the two to sit together at the high dais and assume the king’s responsibilities. Illena was surprised that her mother was not more troubled by father’s absences. He was not ill, physically. But he certainly was not sound of mind as of late.

“You see,” began Lenora. “Beauty has a profound effect on the people. On men, more so. Men respond to appearance, and you’ve got all the beauty in the world to have men and nobles listen to you,” said the queen. “I do as well, but my beauty came with age. I was nowhere near your level of grace and beauty at your age. But I have always had my strong will and my independence. Your father has benefitted from my strength in his leadership. I would like to think that he would have been lost without me. A ruler that lasted a year, perhaps, before his fall from the throne.” Lenora raised a glass of water to her lips. A flower hung over the edge of her cup. Illena did the same. “I sniff out the threats, you see. Father is oblivious to charm and deceit. You, too, must be like that, Illena.”

“I, too?” she asked, big eyes staring up at her mother. Lenora smiled and nodded. “But…why must I learn this ability when I will never sit the throne? Rohinar will sit here one day.”

Lenora’s face grew stern again. Although it was her own mother, Illena still felt her stomach tighten every time her mother made the face. “He might. He might not. Father assigned him on easy task. In fact, ruling over Baronview might prove a tougher task than ruling here, if truth be told. Let him survive that ordeal first.” Lenora raised her glass and then took another sip, as if to commemorate her own damning words about her son. Illena raised her glass too, but slowly, soaking in the words of her mother.

“Do you love him…Rohinar?” asked Illena.

“He is…quite lovely, I must say. Do I love him?” Lenora paused a while, leaving Illena uneasy. “Yes.” The ‘yes’was quite abrupt and unconvincing. She reminds her of father, and she does not love father, thought Illena. She had known for a while. They had their disputes quite often in the bed chambers at night. May Otto had heard their ugly spats and told Illena and Aurela many times before. But the two had never gone as far as to display the cracks in their marriage before the throne. But the love wasn’t there, and that was easy enough for any eye to see.

Jal and one of the other servants came lumbering into the hall with banners of the Dalrin Crow to hang along either side of the hall. It was new for Dalrin to have a crow on their banners. Their colors had changed as well within the past four years. The old ways of the Silver Tree were dying, and the Aetos’ family had let that tradition die. The old sigil, a silver tree with flaming leaves, had been aged out, much to the controversy of many of Dalrin’s common folk. It had taken some time for the protests and the trade boycotts to die down.

“Just there, Jal. Thank you,” said the queen. Jal gave a respectful nod and prayerful gesture. Lenora smiled. Jal was a good squire, loyal no matter the state of Dalrin’s throne. He was loyal to the king and loved him well, Lenora knew. But he had not wavered in his respect to the throne all throughout the king’s absence from his station.

The doors to the king’s hall slammed open. Two guards with blue feathered helmets and tall spears held the doors aloft for a man in metal plate and a long blue cape hanging from his back. He strode with his head held high and handsome features. He had fair skin and shorter than shoulder-length hair.

“Ser Galor,” said Queen Lenora. “An honor to see you, as always. However, you’re early by at least an hour.”

“Not a ser yet, my queen.” Galor strode quickly to his place before the steps to the throne chair and knelt to pay his respects. He seemed in a hurry. He was winded and breathing hard still. “I’m in a bit of a hurry to get back to Baronview this day, but I was asked to come and speak quickly with your liege, my queen.”

“Hmm,” the queen pretended to think on it. Her finger was crossed over her lips and her eyes squinted. “I shall allow it. Guards, close the doors.” The guards promptly closed the doors to the great hall and stood with their backs to the door with spears in hand. The queen knew he was quite young for her, but his handsomeness still caused her butterflies. He mustn’t know however, so she remained strict and serious. “What sends you to the northern reach, ser—” she caught herself. “Galor.”

“The princess Elswitta sends her regards, firstly. But she wanted me to have this letter delivered.” He held out a letter, respecting his distance to the throne.

“You may approach,” said Lenora. She grabbed the letter from his hand, eyes darting across the paper fixatedly. Illena let her gaze fall on Galor, pretending to have sway in the matter. Galor returned a curt smile and a nod to her.

“Elswitta means to ask for our assistance? With issues concerning the capital? That defeats the point of her appointment to Baronview. And what of my son, Rohinar? He is not mentioned anywhere in this letter. He does not even sign off with the princess. I mean, I would not dare to intrude on their methods of their ruling but—”

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“We only ask for a royal decree reinforcing your support of the capital’s stance on the issue from a couple weeks prior. We are still facing backlash and protests in the city streets.”

“What issue?” asked Lenora, impulsively. Illena was surprised her mother did not remember right away. Maybe she was playing politics by asking that question.

“The, erm, massacre at Baronview, they’re calling it. I’m sure you’ve heard about when Ser Jaqon moved his troops into the city to take over the city guard.”

“Countless lives lost,” said Lenora. “That was not a wise choice by my son, I shall say. The hunters of the Crow’s Quarters had no need to take arms against the city watch. The message that sends to the people is just—” Lenora was yelling now and Illena had dropped a hand onto her arm to calm her.

“Anyway, the loss was catastrophic on Baronview’s loyalty. Elswitta is ruthless in her attempts to quell the anger and violence, but she’s now seeking more peaceful strategies, such as a royal decree and show of support from the crown.”

“If they had merged the city guard and Jaqon’s men gracefully like the diplomats they are supposed to be, this would not be an issue at all. Goodness, perhaps Rohinar was not ready for such a seat of power after all.” Lenora brought a hand to her forehead, dabbing it to check for a temperature.

“My queen, I can assure you that your son is making wise choices, for the most part. It is, perhaps, more of princess Elswitta who is making the rash decisions.” Galor had a hand lifted out, palm up, to offer a sort of condolence to his queen. Lenora hid her blushed cheeks. She liked his comfort. In fact, craved it. Her husband no longer offered such feelings, but this young man Galor…”

“In the same vein, might I offer you my love and condolences for your older brother, Ganator. He was the kingdom’s mightiest tournament champion and swordsman. Those cursed Valnaraks…Elswitta included.” Lenora scowled. Galor breathed uneasily.

“Thank you, my queen. Your condolences are appreciated…might I expect a letter of support, then? Might I add that the princess Elswitta was seeking the letter within the week’s end?”

“I shall have my messengers deliver it to the city hall on the ‘morrow, Galor.” Lenora smiled at Galor, meeting his eyes with her own. “And since when have you been demoted to errand boy, Galor? I’m sure your efforts around here would not go unappreciated.”

“Ah, yes,” Galor chuckled. “It is not so much messenger boy as the prince’s voice, I shall like to think of it.”

“Or rather, the Elswitta’s voice. That cursed Valnarak villain,” muttered Lenora.

Galor gave another uncomfortable nod, running a hand through his brown hair. “I best get going now, my queen. I have further duties within the city to take care of. The people are being herded and managed as we speak.”

“Very well then, Galor. I shall have you knighted someday soon so that I might speak to you as Ser Galor, instead. Safe travels,” shouted Lenora.

Galor strided powerfully towards the doors, his cape fluttering behind him and his boots clicking on the polished marble and tile pattern.

Waryon rounded a corner, nearly bumping into the guard outside the king’s stacks where his personal library sat. The guard grunted and shuffled defensively.

“It’s me, you fool,” said Waryon, shoving past him and yanking the door open. “Enough of this, my king. Your presence is sorely missed out there. There are guests arriving at any minute and your wife sits the throne chair in your stead. Do you wish to see her make the big decisions of Dalrin’s affairs without you, again?”

King Aydar sat with a blank look upon his face. His long, grizzly bear covered most of his face. Dulled, glossy eyes poured over pages and pages of books. Scrolls covered his desk in a sea of yellow, leathery paper. The stacks of books covering the ground were so tall that Waryon could hardly wade his way into the room.

“You have nothing to say? Aydar, listen to me!” Waryon tripped on a tall stack of books that he failed to lift his leg over. Stumbling to his feet, he swatted the stack of books into the layer of flooding books underfoot. “Do I need to remind you of the decisions your wife made last week? I mean, how long do you intend to sit in here and pour over fairytales of Bolg Moons past and servants to the Silver Tree who made a life out of nothing? This is ridiculous.”

The King slowly lowered a book from his face, letting his half-moon spectacles fall to the bottom of his nose. His mouth lowered as if he was going to speak, but nothing came out. He raised the book back up to his face.

Waryon snarled in anger. His king had been shriveled up in his books for far too long. Waryon kicked his way to the king’s desk, swatting the book down on the desk. Loose papers swirled into the air, floating dusts everywhere. A rare sliver of light peeked in from a window behind the king. It was the brightest hour of the day during a Bolg Moon and the hints of an afternoon sun bravely poked through a dark cloud.

Waryon lifted the book, looking at its rich, red cover. It was titled, From Tradition to Prophecy, The Secret of the Silver Tree. “The Oracle is gone, Aydar. The tree is dying. It is no use pouring over all of this. Your kingly responsibilities await you. And if you don’t return, I guarantee you the queen will become quite stuck in that throne chair.” When Waryon saw no response in the face of his king, he about lost it. “This is your kingdom, Aydar! The kingdom of Dalrin! This kingdom faced a tragedy at the same time that the Bolg Moon arrived. Spirits and low and crime is on the rise. Ser Ganator was murdered, outright, by our enemies to the south. You’ve got to show the people something to cling to. Disappearing into the stacks and absorbing wisdom on a dead religion is not the way to garner trust from your people.” Waryon was nearly out of breath from his loud and passionate rant. King Aydar sat with his thumbs twiddling, disinterested.

“Ser Ganator’s younger brother showed today. He had a report on your son, Rohinar. You know, the one you sent to rule in Baronview? It seems as though the Valnarak princess has taken the reins over there. I think it’s time you showed the capital who rules this kingdom, Aydar. Because it is sure as hell not the princess Elswitta.” Waryon slumped his shoulders. If that didn’t get a rouse out of the king, he didn’t know what would. “Your wife seems to be grooming Illena for queenship. I can’t say for certain what her intentions are, and perhaps you already know, but those are the whispers floating around your courtroom. I can only come in here and give empty reports back to the throne room for so long. Because soon, I will not be the king’s intendent anymore. There won’t be a king’s intendent, if you aren’t ruling as king. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Aydar adjusted himself in his seat. The chair creaked noisily. “There is more going on here…than meets the eye, Waryon.” The king spoke with as little interest as possible, puffing out the words with bored, dull eyes. Waryon shrugged.

“Care to expand, my king?”

“Do you care to leave, Waryon?” Aydar eyed him through firmly bound lips and a tight grimace.

Waryon nodded, meeting the king’s eyes for a moment. “Then, perhaps, you will not see me for a while. It shall be a miracle if I am still wanted here at all.” He lumbered through the sea of hardback books and messy scrolls. The guard outside the door nearly tripped him by accident, sending Waryon into a fit of anger, smashing his intendent’s pin into the floor. It broke in half, making an echoed noise throughout the shallow hall.

The picked his book up titled “From Tradition to Prophecy, The Secret of the Silver Tree.” He muttered to himself, eyes scanning the words on each page.

Although many therewithin the kingship’s closest advisors lean on the king’s counsel for guidance, the ultimate guide to the ream’s troubles and enemies lies within the wisdom of the tree leaves. The tree expounds its knowledge to a neutral party, such as an oracle, whose induction into the tree’s priesthood is no simple process. Without this connection to a neutral part, the tree may grow quiet and begin to die. Its nutrients no longer nurture the soil of the land and the land’s inhabitants suffer, resultingly.

“Bogus yet ingenious,” whispered the king to himself. “That damned oracle betrayed us.”

Back in the king’s hall the doors were opened once again, this time for a good while. Guests had started spilling through with requests, information, and diplomatic matters. The first face to walk through the door was Lord Mared Swordrin. His face was not pleasant. He short and flanked by the two guards with masked faces and baby blue capes flowing behind them. Their weapons were collected outside the doors to the palace.

Lord Swordrin stopped just before the steps of the throne. “We must speak.”