Duke Ashe asked, “So you killed him? Then and there?”
Lucius nodded. “That was the blow that killed him, yes. I cut off his sword arm.”
“I heard,” Duke Feugard said, his breath saturated with wine. “That he surrendered.”
Lucius said, “The barrier came down. I’m sure most of the army could only see the magic and not the fight itself.”
The king stood up, pushing his heavy chair away from the table as he gestured to his son, the prince, who had just returned to the dining hall. While the dukes interrogated Lucius further, he passed by his daughter and spoke with her, giving instruction on how to deal with the courtiers.
Duke Ashe folded his hands together. “It would have been better if we could have brought him to trial.”
“Agreed, but, alas.”
Duke Feugard snorted. “And I’m sure avenging your abducted little damsel had nothing to do with it. Why didn’t you bring his corpse back for burial at Jeameaux?”
“The wastelanders,” Lucius answered. “They would have made it difficult, and posthumous honor for a criminal, well that would make us look weak.”
“Savages,” the duke grumbled. “I’m impressed you can use them so well, but don’t forget that’s what they are.”
“Not all of them,” Lucius said.
The king returned as Acheliah departed to interrogate Leomund further. She had a good deal of information about what had happened, and now she was getting more, without a hint of subterfuge from the boy. She ordered him to still be there when she came back, but the king quietly assured Lucius, “It’s a toss of a coin whether she’ll remember what she demanded of you. Come here for a moment though, my boy.”
The king took Lucius by the shoulder and walked him to the northern wall of the feast hall, where the tables were sparse and a modicum of privacy could be had. There, he held the boy at arms length and spoke. “You’re a promising young man, Lucius. A rival for my son, a victor in war. You turned the Misty Isles around faster than I could have hoped. I still want to meet that alchemist girl too. I’ve heard good things about her factory. But, I’m worried about you.”
Lucius didn’t have to feign shock. He was alone with the king, an honor most nobility couldn’t achieve let alone a crippled son of a miner. “You honor me, sire.”
“Please, please, enough of that,” he said, his blue eyes scanning the room. He spotted the two men trailing after them. One a most ardent bureaucrat who seemed convinced he was due a moment of the king’s time, and the other was the Skaldish bard. He gestured for both of them to wait. “Normally, I would caution a boy like you to take it easy, that you don’t want to get yourself killed. I understand that’s little concern to you but you should take my advice regardless. There is so much more to life than moving lines on a map. I know you didn’t learn many lessons from your father. You were practically thrown out the door into the arms of the military, but look how you’ve flourished. I worry that you are becoming a product of your own circumstances. As I understand it, before Feugard’s conniving got you replaced as the governor of the Isles, you had ample time for love. You wooed a fine young thing. Even my daughter likes her. Perhaps you should consider spending some time here in the capital, or even in the university. Expand your horizons, lest you think all your conflicts should be solved with violence.”
“Forgive me, sire,” Lucius said, glancing at the two men crowding in on them. “But when leading an army, violence is the point, is it not?”
“Not always,” the old fool said. “You could have negotiated a surrender. Perhaps you couldn’t have come to terms, but you should have tried. To be rebuked for doing the right thing is a noble badge, don’t you think?”
“My lord,” the bureaucrat said, hefting a bottle of wine before him.
The king looked from the bottle to the bard. “Friedrich, to what do I owe this exactly?”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The Skaldish bard looked his companion up and down. “Monsieur? Monsieur Hagen? He is the owner of the ship that brought me to this fine city, so many moons ago. Recently promoted to… what is your office now?”
“Under secretary,” the bureaucrat said, rubbing his thumbs across the glass of the bottle as he smiled. “Under secretary of the department of non-sectarian relics. I replaced Monsieur Giomo after his passing.”
After a moment, recognition flickered across the king’s face, but it was plain to all that he was remembering both the department–which among other things was responsible for cleaning the white guardians of the city wall–as well as Giomo’s unexpected heart attack. “Of course. But a moment more,” he said, turning his back to them and turning Lucius’ too. In a more hushed town, he said, “I’m afraid, my boy, that unless Skaldheim breaks the peace, we face a future not of open combat but of subterfuge.”
“The political dark arts?”
“Just the same. You should be careful if men come to you with offers of favors and allegiances, of political maneuverings and the like. They are like that false weakness in the foothills, yes? An opportunity good enough to pull you in while the ones you don’t see bite your throat. You’re too young for such things. You’re young enough to take a quiet position for a time, and focus on your family. You’re about to be a father, wedlock or not. What do you say? Shall I arrange for something? Why, I think I could find something like an under secretary position if nothing else.”
The boy smirked, but the smile didn’t last long. “A quiet winter at least. That would be good.”
The king patted him on the back. “Wonderful. Let’s see if you can go the whole season without killing anybody, shall we? You’ll have to explain to me what is going on with the Ashe girls. Even the Duke doesn’t know what you’ve stirred into them.”
“When I understand it myself, I will tell you.”
Friedrich had stepped closer, moseying with his lyre. He sang a few quartets about being young, in love, and stupid, until feigning that he noticed Lucius looking at him. The jester’s act made the king laugh, and at last he turned to Monsieur Hagen. “What is this you keep trying to shove into my hands?” he asked.
While the under secretary launched into an explanation of the vintage, how old and expensive it was, the bard stood shoulder to shoulder with Lucius and asked, “Do you really not know what has gotten into the Ashe girl?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lucius answered as glasses were distributed and the wine wax broken. The cork was pried out and dark wine flowed into all of their glasses.
Once they all had their wine, Monsieur Hagen held up his glass and smiled. “To Vassermark.” He drank.
Friedrich said, “To the continual gifts of m’lord’s patronage.” He drank.
Lucius said, “To the things we do for love.” He drank.
The king, ever scrupulous, examined each man after the next. He saw the sweat appear on Monsieur Hagen’s forehead, but missed how his dark irises dilated. He saw the bard stagger, drunk and confused. But then Lucius complimented the wine.
“To peace,” the king said, and he drank.
Monsieur Hagen’s face split open with a grin. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, Charles. Because of you, I will be remembered. My name will go down in the annals. I will be remembered for centuries.” And indeed he was right. I’ve put his name right here in this document. Or, at least I’ve put a name. On drunken faith, he held up his glass and announced, “To the revolution!” then drank the rest of his wine before falling flat on the ground. The wine bottle shattered as Friedrich fell into a table.
Women screamed and guards charged through the hall to reach the king as he put a hand to his throat. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, turning to Lucius. He stared at the boy who had drank a glass of poison and complimented its taste, who had soothed the ever present fears of poisoning from the king’s mind.
He stared as Lucius dropped his goblet, acting like it had slipped from his hands and as blood squirted from his nose.
Blood gushed from the king’s nose too. As his heart raced to the point of stopping, he doubled over, forcing fingers into his throat but the trembling had begun. Monsieur Hagen was convulsing in seizures and they were already beginning in the old king too.
There were shouts for doctors. Shouts of assassination and to seal the doors. Everyone seemed to find something else to shout, creating an incoherent cacophony as Prince Gabriel leapt atop tables and sprinted through the feast hall. Lucius, fighting through the poison, lurched in front of him and grabbed the prince’s doublet. “Stab me!” he growled.
Prince Gabriel wanted nearly nothing more than to run to his father’s side, but he had spent half the day dueling Lucius. He understood at once and out came his steel. While Lucius leaned on him, unable to even stand on his own, the prince ran his heart through and shoved him aside. “The king has been poisoned!” he screamed as guards attempted to resuscitate the king.
But another war cry and risen up in the feast hall, where all the kingdom’s nobility had come and put aside their weapons. There, shoulder to shoulder with the lesser classes who had served them well in the year of civil wars and rebellions, they learned what political dark art had possessed the kingdom of Vassermark as dozens of guests shouted, “For the revolution!” and began to spill blood.