“It has been long enough my queen,” said Lord Swordrin. He had his usual buzzed black hair and trimmed beard with a permanent scowl. His features were dark, but his eyes were a bright blue like the colors of his house. “I ask you now because I must know. Where is the king?”

Queen Lenora lifted her chin, glaring down at the lord. “He is…disinterested in affairs of the throne at this time. Shall I just put it that way for now?”

“I need more than that, my queen. There are whispers and rumors tilling about my lands. All of Dalrin holds its breath for now, but soon there will be food shortages so severe that we won’t make it through the Bolg Moon year.” For once, Lord Swordrin’s face seemed to soften.

Illena looked at her mother, who seemed to be at a loss for words. Illena wanted so desperately to chime in. She didn’t understand her mother’s hesitation. She would have stepped in already and made a decision without father. He was away, buried in his scrolls, and nothing would happen with him locked away in there.

Jal the squire pretended to continue sweeping. “That’s quite enough, Jal. Thank you,” said Lenora. The squire nodded and motioned for the other servants to follow him to a small door behind the high dais.

“How bad is it?” asked Lenora. Her voice gave away her concern. She was losing her façade. The façade that everything was in control, and it didn’t matter if it was she that sat the throne and not her husband, the king.

“It’s getting worse every day. We don’t understand why it is that the crops aren’t growing, and the tree’s produce has been nothing but rotted fruit this year. Tensions grow as well between landlines and houses. Lord Kyn Malarin sent messengers today as well. I expect they’ll be here shortly. Same concerns with them as well. There is quite a bit of thievery and crime now that food is hard to come by. Problem is, there is not much to steal, if you follow me, my queen. The encounters that have occurred between thieves and landowners has been bloody. And it doesn’t help that the capital is a mess right now as well. The princess Elswitta brings bad blood coming from Venistar. The people do not appreciate her stubborn rules. Your son, prince Rohinar, has hardly had a chance to show his face to the people, and to the city.”

“I understand, Lord Mared. I have heard the same reports many times as of late. I cannot say that I am fond of the princess either. But we both know that it was in Rohinar’s hands to choose his betrothed. I cannot undo their betrothal. You know that.” Queen Lenora sat up more upright in the golden throne seat. She looked at Illena, who seemed to be thinking hard.

“What do you say, my dear?” asked Lenora. Illena snapped out of her deep thought, turning her gaze toward her mother.

“Perhaps father’s seclusive studies aren’t for no reason at all. There is no answer to the horrendous state of the crop and its effects on trade. The Bolg Moon is one thing, but to hear reports of rotted fruit and blackened produce—that is something else entirely.”

“What has changed?” thought Lenora out loud. Lord Mared appeared frustrated. He had not travelled all this way to entertain a brainstorm between the queen and Illena.

“Could it be the…” Lord Mared trailed off. The queen’s eyes snapped toward lord Mared.

“Could it be…what?” Test me, her eyes seemed to say. The subject of the Silver Tree was quite sensitive lately. The Oracle had betrayed the tree—an omen that is better left unspoken of.

“Are you against religion, my queen?” asked lord Mared boldly. “I reckon there’s some connection there, if I were to cast my opinion freely. I happen to be a man of some faith myself, my house always has been. And the events of the betrothal were quite horrendous to the realm for the next few months. Not only was Ser Ganator’s death monumental to all of us in Dalrin, but the betrayal of The Oracle as well. If we still believe that the Silver Tree is alive and conscious…well, you can piece that one together.”

“Do I look silly to you, Mared?” asked Lenora, rising from her seat. She began to descend the steps towards the blue-caped lord. Lord Mared took a few steps backward, putting his hands out in front of him defensively.

“Perhaps, I was a bit too hasty with my comment. I did ask for a reason, however. Many have grown a renewed belief in the Silver Tree. Coincidences do occur, I know. But this is far too extravagant to be labeled a mere coincidence.” Lord Mared had grown in confidence at the sound of his own words. Queen Lenora had only grown sterner. Her emerald necklace glinted in the palace light, blinding lord Mared at certain angles.

“He may be right, mother,” said Illena. She, too, rose from her seat and began to meander towards her mother and the lord. “You deny it constantly. But father has nearly lost his mind trying to accept it. Where is the in-between with all of this? Could it be that the Silver Tree has lost its bond with mankind when The Oracle departed?”

Lenora glanced side-on at her daughter who stood beside her on the last step to the high dais. Mared whispered his thanks to Illena. Just then, the front doors were unbarred and opened wide. A loud boisterous crowd stood outside waiting to file in. Guards rammed their shields and spears at them to keep them away. Splitting the crowd by force was the guard Darvos and Barl the Burly. It was Waryon Orvan who squeezed through the aggressive crowd and wiggled his way into the king’s hall.

“My queen!” he shouted. Waryon was trotting into the hall with an oversized toga and sandals. His beard had grown to be longer than usual, and his eyes held a wild look. “Is lord Mared here?”

“Use your eyes, Waryon. He’s right before me.”

Waryon stopped short of three figures and held up a finger while he caught his breath. “Come with me, lord Mared. The king would like to speak with you in the stacks.”

“And who gives you permission to take lord Mared from the king’s hall?” asked the queen.

“The king himself. He has requested lord Mared specifically. I won’t be allowed inside the castle ever again if I don’t see lord Mared to the stacks immediately.” Waryon had his hands rested on his knees, doubled over panting. “Come on lord, let us find the king.”

Lord Mared gave a deep bow to both the queen and Illena before following Waryon toward the same small door that Jal and the servants had disappeared through. Lord Mared found that it was a discreet passage toward the bed chambers and castle rooms that he had never been through before. It was narrow and tight like a tunnel. Dimly lit braziers guided there way as dust and dirt crumbled from the ceiling overhead. Waryon had to duck slightly since he was the taller of the two, but Mared trotted along without a problem.

They landed outside of the narrow, tight passage at a juncture of window, stone tile floor, and three hallways heading three separate directions.

“This way,” signaled Waryon. Mared ran after him.

“Why must we run? The king isn’t going anywhere, is he?”

“No,” said Waryon. “But we must go quick before he changes his mind. He hasn’t wished to speak to anyone besides myself for the past two months.”

Back at court, Queen Lenora admitted as many as twenty-six guests. Their complaints were all similar in nature. One peasant with a blood-crusted nose and multiple piercings told of her hogs mysteriously dying in their pens during the night and leaving blood black as pitch all over the hay. There had been no visible marks of aggression or slaughter on the hogs, only the hints of foul play gone unseen.

Another man of the Westland’s, which was under the jurisdiction of lord Kyn Malarin, claimed to have seen worms thrust themselves from the surface of his (normally fertile) soil and thrash about until the winter sun dried them out. There were thousands of them, squirming like they had been poisoned. “It was the most bizarre thing I have seen on my land. I had lord Malarin’s soldiers come investigate it, but none of them could piece it together. It was as if the soil itself had spit them out like something tasting a drink that had gone afoul.” Lenora heard his complaints but could only offer a soft grimace and a lip curled expression of condolence. Illena had sat with a puzzled look, as if she could reason out the issue right then and there.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

There were many stories to follow theirs, and all had different tales but the same tragic themes of nature rejecting the land. Trade had become a mess as well, since there was less crop and food to sell, and therefore fights and squabbles over the remains had become quite bloody. The Tchoreg’s had gotten themselves in a dispute along the border with Venistar, after stalking into the hillside of their lands to try and poach wild rabbit and bison. The Tchoreg hunters had paid for it with their lives the next morning. Eventually, there was a raid by a Venisian tribe on a Tchoreg family. Tensions spoiled and it had led to ugly diplomatic meetings between King Tuuka’s warlords and Tchoreg’s tribal chiefs. Eventually, lord Tchoreg himself had gone to meet with King Tuuka, but the king was unwilling to open his gates and allow the lord inside. It was seen as a great insult to a man of Tchoreg’s culture. Queen Lenora listened to the ramblings intently, her fingers rubbing the arm of her golden throne wistfully.

Lord Mared Swordrin stood at the doorway to the stacks—a room marred by thousands of books and scrolls. There was nowhere to step. Spoiled food and welted wax peppered the desk that Aydar sat at. His head was face down on the desk. His snores filled the room. Lord Mared looked at Waryon, who shrugged.

“Best of luck to ye,” said Waryon. He pushed inside and shut the door behind him. Two guards stood on either side of the room with helms covering their faces and spears in fist. They did not move a muscle. Lord Mared wondered if they had fallen asleep inside their stiff iron suits, much like the king.

“A bit of a ghost these days I see, lord king,” said Mared. His king boomed through the room, cutting off the snores. The king lifted his head. His eyes were glazed, and his beard was dry from all the paper and dust that clogged the room’s air flow. “Good to finally see you again, lord king. It has been a while.” Waryon noticed for the first time how kingly and rich lord Mared’s voice sounded. He wondered if Mared would’ve made a good king.

The king said nothing. His eyes had not even widened at the sight of the visitor he had requested.

“You did call for me, did you not?” asked lord Mared. No response. His hands crawled along the desk toward himself like two clumsy claws. Mared was taken aback, not used to seeing his king like this. “You are unlike yourself.”

Waryon winced, bringing a hand to Mared’s arm. Mared shrugged it off. “I can handle myself, thank you very much Waryon.” Mared left a cold stare at Waryon’s hand for a few seconds. If he was going to get an audience with the king in this state, he was going to make the most of it. It could be the only chance he gets to express the realm’s state of affairs before the king’s illness of the mind worsened. But as time went along, Mared began to wonder if he was already too late.

“The decision of your son wearing on you, good king? I wouldn’t blame yer. He chose the lady of your enemies. The lady who represents that coward Cythos. Call him a lord if ye want, but let’s be honest. He’s no lord in these lands. Not after what he did to Ser Ganator.” Mared paused, waiting for the king to react. The king slowly lifted his eyes back to Mared from the paper laying on the desk.

His finger slowly lifted, trembling like he was old and frail. His jaw dropped but nothing came out. He took his time gathering himself again, and then words finally evaded him and his gaze dropped again. Mared and Waryon sighed deeply. Mared turned toward the door. “Can’t say I didn’t try,” he muttered. He gave a last look at his king. “I ought to let you be, good king. I wish you the best with your state of affairs. I hope you return to your place on the throne. The kingdom needs you,” Mared’s eyes dropped, searching for additional words to end with. Seconds passed. The words wouldn’t come. He turned to leave.

“The savior is here.” The words croaked from his throat like the sound of old parchment ripping. “The one to save us is here. To save us…from all of this.” The king tapped a frail finger on the cover of a red book that sit in front of him. Waryon squinted at the title. It read A Timeline of Events Yet to Unfold.

“Now you speak,” said lord Mared. His attention was turned, his interest piqued. “What savior do you speak of?”

“The one of old religion. The one who was…lost in modern…prophecy.” The king looked up at the ceiling as if he was seeing some bright light of magnificent virtue. Waryon and Mared were lost for words. Savior? What savior? Those words hadn’t been uttered with any sort of seriousness since the great-fathers of King Aydar’s great-fathers. He was referring to the religion of the Silver Tree, of course. But it had long since become a tradition and a culture, rather than a living, breathing tradition. Man had never been in need of a singular tree for flourishing and reproducing. It was a ridiculous notion. But in the days before books and knowledge, there were thoughts and beliefs of such things. The tree was still sacred, however. That was not a question.

“The answer has been here all along,” the king held his book in the air. “The Oracle may come and go as he wishes, but the knowledge of the history of the Silver Tree may never be taken from this house. House Aetos.”

Waryon furrowed his brow, gesturing for the king to pause. “Are you okay, lord king? I worry you may be seeing illusions and visions. May I call for the—”

“—quiet, fool. You are missing these words. I will speak to them for you.”

Waryon was frustrated now. Mared was mildly amused. “What’re you, an oracle now?” Waryon’s voice had grown whiny. He would not be patronized by a man gone mad.

“The Oracle’s voice is gone but the words of the Silver Tree are revealed here. It is chronicled by the early oracle of legends past,” said the king. He kissed the red book now, holding it out in front of him and smiling at its cover. “Even if the truth never escapes this room, I can die knowing I found it.”

“Erm, good king…might I ask what it is exactly, that you find between the covers of that book?” asked lord Mared. He exchanged looks with Waryon.

“It is said that when the last oracle takes his leave of the Silver Tree, the next in line to fulfill the tree’s bond to nature and man will come forth from Dalrin. I am convinced…I am convinced that…” the king seemed to lose his way with his thoughts. His mouth hung open now and drool spilled from it.

“Be free from your daze!” shouted Mared. The king snapped from his dreaming.

“How did you know to do that?” asked Waryon, now spooked more than puzzled. Mared had been as confused as him just a moment ago.

“I didn’t mean to do anything, really. I just said it with authority, and he listened.” Mared curled his lower lip and shrugged.

“I—I, erm…believe that the last oracle has gone. The tree has spilled its prophecy upon our lands for long enough. And we have turned from it. Abandoned it. Forsaken it. You see, the tree was a man once too.”

“Oh no,” began Waryon. “Here we go with the history lesson. We know the story, king Aydar. The jolly fellow nicknamed White Light planted roots with his blood alongside the banks of the Sea of Glass, hoping to grow a son since he could not have one with his wife. When he died, they buried him there.”

“And then grew the Silver Tree who had the soul of a man and the wisdom of his creator.” Mared finished the story. “We all know the story. Few still believe it.”

The king had finally shown that he was listening. A smile had grown on his face and his eyes smiled too. It was a comforting sight for both Waryon and Mared, who gave each other a pat on the arm and moved themselves closer to the king.

“The savior is here. It is said that when the last oracle leaves, he is leaving in betrayal toward White Light and the Silver Tree. He is going to form an army and bring down judgment and death upon Dalrin and its inhabitants. It is at this…it is at this time that…” the king had done very well to speak clearly and consecutively but his attention wandered once again. At least his skin had become less milky. His coloration was better.

“Yes, good king?” said Mared.

“Ah, yes…it is at this time that the one with silver blood will find their self in the midst of the conflict with a choice to make. You see, according to this scroll here,” the king lifted a torn up scroll from his lap, “and this one here,” he held up another. “The savior of Dalrin will have the blood of the tree’s sap but the bloodline of the enemy.” His face twisted into a dark smile. Mared looked to Waryon, who shared in his discomfort. “And all the land must weep first before the black battle! A Bolg Moon shall cover all the land is blanketed darkness and the disasters of all kinds will ravage the land, for the tree’s blessing will no longer be with us!” The king had gone mad, his fingers twisting in gnarled shapes. His pupils were smaller than a dot and his hair went all different directions.

“Enough!” shouted Waryon, who grabbed the king and pinned his arms down to calm him. “We heard you and we believe you. But you cannot let this literature drive you to the point of insanity. This is why the kings of past went mad and men of this age cannot handle religion in large quantities. It is too much for man to process such as you have.”

“I agree with your intendent, good king. See to it that you have a good rest and proper meal. A bath would you do good as well. Then, once you are properly groomed and kept, we ought to revisit this subject in a king’s council. It has been far too long since we joined together for council, and the White Light knows that we need it now more than ever. I reckon your wife will go mad if she withstands one more complaint today. Come,” motioned lord Mared. “Let us get you bathed and fed.”

But the king refused. He sat, unmoving. His lips contorted into a smile. And then a laugh. Once Waryon and Mared left the stacks they could still hear their king laughing through the walls as they meandered back through the halls toward the king’s hall.