《Kingdom》 Prologue A single electric light-bulb shone through grimy cabin windows to reveal a single bearded man sitting on a threadbare chair at a once-green desk. The man- Harold- dipped his pen in his inkwell and touched the nib to the rough surface of his notebook and then stopped. The ink dripped and he scowled at the waste, but his rebellious fingers refused to write another word. Finally, he leaned back and sighed. He had set out to write a tragedy. Throughout his novel, he had manipulated circumstance and shaped the major players to make the fall of the Kingdom of Mercia almost inevitable, leaving only a small irrational hope alive. And now he had to kill even that. With a heavy heart, he began writing: Her eyes searched his face and then stopped, satisfied. There was a tenderness in her that he had scarcely ever seen; usually she was fiery and hotheaded and an absolute nightmare for the royal maids. Their son was uncharacteristically quiet too, nestled in the comfortable pocket between the crook of her elbow and her bosom. ¡°You knew that this day would come.¡± There was no accusation in her voice. He gestured to the sea of tents surrounding them. ¡°We still have five thousand men. Have a little faith. ¡± She wove warm fingers through his hair. ¡°You always were so defiant,¡± she added, tugging at his crown. ¡°But all are bound by the eternal wheel. Action begets reaction, what is sown must be reaped. Not even you may escape this enduring truth.¡± He snorted and slapped his sword. ¡°Such talk is the province of sadhus and other holy men, not of kings! I believe in what I can see: the lances of my knights and the stout shields of my fighting men.¡± She lifted an eyebrow. ¡°Does your Majesty not see the arms of your enemies?¡± She gestured at the many camps circling the foot of the mountains. Even the distance and the morning fog could not hide the many banners below them, especially the flashy red-and-gold emblems of the Traitor Dukes. The King coughed. ¡°They may possess two lances and three shields for each of mine, but numbers do not decide victory.¡± His eyes sharpened. ¡°Mercia yet endures!¡± ¡°But you will not endure. The skeins of karma may weave on a tangled loom, but their grasp is absolute and impenetrable. Man may propose, but it is Heaven that disposes.¡± She stepped back, smiling even as tears ran down her cheeks and unto the packed earth. ¡°Forgive me, your Majesty.¡± ¡°What is there to forgive?¡± He scowled and gestured for her to return but she ignored him. Instead, she stepped forward towards a nearby precipice, eyes fixated on distant peaks that trailed the horizon. The King¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°No!¡± He bellowed, lunging for her without an ounce of dignity or gravitas but she spun out of his grasp and then she was on the very edge- the edge that he feared would crumble away in a second. She wasn¡¯t more than a cubit from him but he dared not reach for her for fear of what she might do. ¡°No, ¡° he repeated, dropping into the royal we. ¡°We command you- do not jump.¡± His eyes searched her teary face, begging her to step away. She offered him a wan smile. ¡°I cannot save you, my love. But I can still save our son.¡± Before the king could say another word, four lines of light flashed down from the heavens. He lunged, only to find that he could not even move. He struggled futilely against the invisible restraints before the pulsating lines of light attracted his gaze; they solidified into a great door of light right behind his wife. His wife had changed. Once she had looked merely exotic for his kingdom, a lovely lass of red hair and eyes in a kingdom of black and brown. But now she was changed, skin of marble and hair of dancing fire with a visage so inhumanly beautiful that his eyes burnt to see it. A great mandala of flame with six spokes emerged behind the door; at each end was a magnificent horn, a musician''s delight. There was a deep intake of breath and then all the fog in the sky was sucked into six whirlpools, each originating from the mouth of each horn. They blew. The resulting sound was not unlike the mourning cry of some ancient Goliath, so deep it shook the marrow in men¡¯s bones and so rousing that the King felt as though he could leap seven leagues in a single step and manhandle tigers. There was no time for him to ponder this strange feeling, for suddenly- inconceivably- the sky was on fire. Gone was the familiar morning sky. In its place were dancing flames, that stretched as far as the King could see and yet emanated no heat. The king made a complicated face. He had never asked her of her origins and she had never offered. Other, wiser, men had called the match foolish and he had never disagreed. Theirs had been a marriage of love, of trust, divorced from the jostling for advantage and alliance that normally characterized the ways of kings. But he had wondered. He had thought initially that she might have been an orphaned Kushana noblewoman from Fergana, where skilled archers roamed the unending plains upon fierce horses that sweat blood and outpaced all lesser varieties; he had even made a few discreet inquires to that effect. But distant lands bred rumors, not truths. Her soft hands and distinct lack of calluses told him of a life of ease but he could deduce little beyond that. But he had never imagined that she was a goddess. A goddess. It was an idea that verged on the absurd. Heavenly beings never cared to descend unless truly momentous events were underfoot. They rarely interacted with mortals, let alone married them. A goddess marrying a mortal king and bearing him a son- this was the province of myth and legend, not the world he thought he had known. He opened his mouth but she preempted him, pressing a long finger against her lips. He fell silent then, and there was nothing but the door and the mandala and his wife in satin-silk robes against a burning sky. There were questions like frogs, waiting to leap from his throat but he swallowed them. Demanding, imperious, they were as a king to his queen or a ruler to his ministers and in this final hour he found that he had not the heart to ask them. He watched as she reached for the door and watched as it opened and watched even when the light grew painfully bright and hurt his all-too-mortal eyes. He stood there then, unmoving until even the phantom glare of the light had faded away and all that remained was the pallid morning blue. Then he turned, unsheathed his sword and stalked away. Morning passed. And high above, a mother cradled her son and wept as the proud blue Mercian banners dipped for the final time. She cried bitterly as rank after rank wavered and then broke, men dropping their weapons and fleeing the battlefield in shattered, straggling waves. She watched with numb eyes as an ever-disintegrating band of proud knights charged into the enemy again and again until the man with the golden crown toppled, never to rise again. ¡°You muddle-headed fool,¡± she croaked, stroking her son¡¯s head.Karma had claimed its next victim. Mercia had not endured. Chapter 1- Stimulating Beginnings Harold leaned back and stretched, ears registering the pop-pop-pop of aging joints and discs jostling into place. So, this was it. Almost the end. There was only the aftermath to consider and the thought of writing it curdled him. Cause followed effect, and he saw how this would end. The Mercian king¡¯s head mounted on a pike, the corpse left for the vultures. And what would his dead eyes see? The capital sacked, shopkeepers and merchants robbed at sword-point. Villagers left to wander the devastated countryside with empty hands and emptier eyes. Once-proud Mercian fortresses turned into tombs for the restless dead. The king''s predecessors had sown the seeds of disaster with careless aplomb. He had been left to reap the storm. He had fought, of course. He had thrown himself into battle after battle and yet the armies had come, inexhaustible, like the reaching tendrils of some dread hand. He had spent days locked in his study, reading missives and records and penning decrees. He had bluffed, threatened, and killed until even his foes called him the Lion of Mercia. It was futile. All greatness could do in such dire circumstances was forestall the inevitable. Even a lion may not stand in front of an avalanche and claim victory. But there had been a time- when the lion was yet a cub- when things had not been so dire. Before the Reign of Blood and the incessant civil wars it had spawned, there had been a king who ruled the Mercia of old. Not the shattered remnants that the lion called his own. Then, the schemes that would catalyze Mercia''s downfall were yet in their infancy. Other causes, though unassuming and illusive, had not yet taken on the strength of history. All was in flux, but the lion had been an impetuous and hotheaded youth, a slave of his underlying nature. And even had he the wisdom and temperance of age, the court had always been a pack of vipers even in prosperous times. Harold stroked his beard, running his fingers through the coarse black hairs. But I could''ve done it. It was a strange thought, but not unfamiliar. He had been a young man once. But in this case, was it still hubris? With the right words to the right people, he could outmaneuver even veteran courtiers. Better yet, he could scoop up overlooked talent, building a stable of merit to buck destiny. He could become a hero of the Mercian people. A king that they would remember. Yeah right. His shoulders slumped. A king? He couldn¡¯t even find a job. If he couldn¡¯t be successful in his own mundane life, what hope did he have of ruling over others? Of leading armies? Of gaining the allegiance of talented ministers and extraordinary literati? It was all idle fantasy. And yet, he couldn¡¯t deny that he wanted it. Didn¡¯t all men? He wanted to eat the finest delicacies, bed the most beautiful women, and earn the love of the people. He wanted to drive out his foes with sword in hand and laughter on his lips. He wanted to matter.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. With that final thought, Harold got up and changed into his pajamas. He reached for the string that turned off his light, pulled it, and then settled into his lumpy cot. As Harold sunk into sleep, he missed his unfinished manuscript glowing a dull, deep green. - Harold woke. Consciousness came in fit and spurts, and with it the realization that something had gone completely and utterly wrong. He noticed the foot-board first, a sleek slab of polished mahogany wood he had only ever seen in the movies. It stood beyond the reach of his toes, framed by thick creamy drapes decorated with little embroidered figures. The mattress under his hands was soft and covered in downy furs, unlike his lumpy cot. Even his pillow was gone; in its place were several odd cylindrical-shaped objects. Was I kidnapped? Or am I dreaming? He scrambled to his knees, almost slipping on the bedding as he fought to reach the edge of the spacious bed. Beyond the drapes, he could make out what seemed to be a bearskin rug. Then there was only darkness. He had almost come off the bed when he heard a strange female voice call out. He froze, heart pounding as his mind raced. Was it one of the kidnappers? Another part of the dream? Could a dream be so realistic? The sound of soft footsteps settled the matter. If it was a dream, then it didn¡¯t matter what he did. But if it was a kidnapper¡­he didn¡¯t know what they wanted from him ¨C organs? trafficking? ¨C but they weren¡¯t going to get it. He crouched, sucked in a deep breath. Waited. He could hear his old football coach cursing into his ear, yelling at him to put everything into his tackles. The kidnapper came closer. Then closer still. Harold charged forward. The voice shrieked. Harold¡¯s eyes widened before he bowled her over, sending them both skidding along the soft fur of the rug. He landed on her with a dull thump. He had scarce made his mind to apologize when the door flew open. A black-haired youth in armor stormed in, followed by guards armed with torches and spears. They trooped in. The armored youth alternated between staring at Harold and at the maid (whose garments had come partially undone in the scuffle) with a growing bright red flush, mouth opening and failing to form words. The men behind him were struggling to keep a straight face; one baldy had given up and was chuckling merrily into his fist. And Harold? Harold caught himself staring into frightened brown eyes, all too aware of her lips. Lush pink lips mere inches from his own. She was warm, too. He could feel her breasts press against his chest as she exhaled and through them the rapid thump-thump-thump of her heart, a few beats off from his. Good god, thought Harold dimly. He hadn¡¯t had one of these dreams in ages. ¡°Umm, s-sorry for intruding, your Highness,¡± the stuttering youth choked out, red to the tips of his ears. ¡°We will return to, uh, safeguarding your person. Outside. Yes, most definitely-¡± ¡°What, you never seen a girl before, Castell?¡± Baldy interjected, drawing out the name until it sounded insulting. ¡°Wonder o¡¯ wonders.¡± He folded his arms, ignoring the pleading looks from his fellow guardsmen. ¡°It is Sir Castell to you,¡± the knight snapped, his face darkening into an unhealthy puce. ¡°Uncouth bastard.¡± Harold would have interjected, but a shred of blue caught his eye. Curious, he turned. The guardsmen''s torches had stripped the room of its darkness and Harold could now see its walls in their entirety. There, on the far wall, hung a very familiar blue banner. And with a sickening sort of dread, one Harold Grimes finally realized that no, this was no dream. Chapter 2- Grim Realization It was a thunderclap to his senses. I¡¯m in Mercia. Baldy and Castell were still arguing, but their voices sounded tinny and distant, as if he were hearing them from a great distance. There was a distant buzzing in his ears and so Harold took great big breaths, inflating his diaphragm until it pressed against his ribs. With each breath, he felt his heart slow down and the rush of blood against his temples subside. With this newfound calmness came a second revelation. I¡¯m not in my own body. He had missed it earlier in the darkness and commotion, but he was sure that he had never been quite so muscular. Or so tall. The little aches and pains- the slackening of the waist- the unease in his lower back- they were gone. And what had that knight called him again? ''Your highness''? The Mercian court referred to princes with that appellation but never to a king. So Harold was in the body of one of the king''s paternal relatives. Or an in-law who''d married into the family? Well, Harold considered, that placed him before the start of his novel as by then most of the royalty had been dead for years. Which did explain why he hadn¡¯t recognized Sir Castell or even the clan by that name. The Castells must be minor nobility, then, one of the faceless many that made up the prized ranks of Mercian knighthood. Harold couldn¡¯t help the grin that drew itself across his new face. How many times had he daydreamed about situations like this? Now even the universe agreed that he was meant for more than rotting away, mired in debt and regrets. But, first, I should figure out exactly when in the timeline I am. He picked himself up off the maid, taking a moment to help her preserve her modesty. The guards had formed a semi-circle behind Sir Castell and Baldy. Harold thought they looked for all the world like idle spectators to a schoolhouse brawl. At least they aren''t egging for a fight. It was a small mercy, because it looked like a fight was going to erupt regardless. Sir Castell had his hand on the pommel of his sword, his grip tight and bloodless. Baldy seemed unarmed, but Harold spied his hand creeping towards a leather pouch. They were still speaking; Baldy was baiting the young knight until Harold felt the latter might do something rash. ¡°Silence.¡± Harold spoke, but neither Baldy nor Castell noticed, so intent were they on each other. The guardsmen, too, either didn''t hear or chose to ignore his command. All save one blond, who nodded and began jostling through the crowd to try and get to his feuding leaders. Harold saved him the effort. ¡°Silence!¡± he shouted, and there was nothing regal in his voice. Still, it had the desired effect: Castell and Baldy shut up. Harold hoped they would realize what a disgraceful display they''d been putting on. Really, Harold grimaced, what the hell was the former owner of his body doing? He, at least, knew the importance of discipline and a clear chain of command. If the leaders were lax and argumentative, then the rank-and-file would be too. His royal bodyguards being so sloppy didn¡¯t bode well for his life expectancy. The command was as if he had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over both Castell and Baldy. Both men turned and kneeled, slamming their fists against the cool stone floor. Harold found himself nodding. At least they-Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. ¡°As your Highness commands!¡± shouted Sir Castell. ¡°As your Highness commands!¡± repeated Baldy, not to be outdone. Never mind. Harold sighed, resting his face against his palm. Looks like they have problems following even simple orders. I need to do something about this, pronto, before I end up dead. Or worse. He had half a mind to dismiss them from his service right then and there, but instead waved his arm. ¡°Leave.¡± They trooped out without protest. With them left the torches, and Harold found himself alone, save for the maid. ¡°You, maid.¡± Harold could feel her flinch. ¡°Your highness?¡± Her voice was high and unsteady, wobbling on the edge of tears. He couldn¡¯t blame her. Harold hadn''t lain a finger on her with any malicious intent. But by sundown tomorrow, everyone would know of their alleged tryst. Optimistically, eavesdroppers and spies would leak this salacious bit of gossip. Far more likely, someone from his sorry excuse for a royal guard would blab. And Harold did mean everyone. If this was anything like the Mercia that he¡¯d created, then the news would spread like wildfire from the lowliest scullery maid to the high ministers of state. Anything that could undermine a possible contender for the throne usually did. ¡°I apologize. I had mistaken you for an armed assailant.¡± The maid remained silent. Harold knew why and his brain added the sarcastic ¡®yeah right¡¯ that she hadn¡¯t said. That she couldn¡¯t say, unless she fancied having her head chopped off in front of a jeering crowd for insulting his dignity and honor. The silence stretched. ¡°Maid?¡± ¡°Yes, your highness.¡± ¡°What is my name?¡± There was a bit of a pause, and Harold could picture the question marks flying about her head. Was she wondering whether he had gone mad? Or perhaps she thought this was some sick game? She replied gamely, ¡°Your highness is Prince Dieter. Son of the maiden Merriam, may her spirit forever frolic with the gods.¡± Aha! thought Harold. So he was in the body of his main character. He had suspected as much, given his last thoughts before waking up in this world. There was another pause, but Harold let it go on, hoping for her to spill more details. ¡°Your highness is the grand-nephew of his Majesty King Priam IV, the-¡± Lord above, I¡¯m completely screwed. Harold didn¡¯t hear the rest. His mind reeled as he put the pieces together and realized when he had transmigrated into this other body. Priam IV had seized the throne after the death of Dieter¡¯s father. The old man''s reign had been brief and tumultuous and its end had sparked a succession crisis unparalleled in brutality and bloodshed. This era, called the Reign of Blood, had been so devastating to the Mercian royal family that none had survived except Dieter, his siblings, and his childless uncle. Harold felt a bitter lump in his throat. Dieter and his brothers had survived the Reign, yes, but they¡¯d survived because they hadn''t fought- they had fled. Their childless uncle had sheltered them. The man was shiftless and unambitious, but his one virtue was his love for family. And so they had waited out those dangerous years, watching impotently as their dynasty cannibalized itself in an orgy of blood and slaughter. With the ascension of the tyrannical Victor I, there had been hope for peace. For healing desperately needed. But the Tyrant instead chose to tear apart the battered kingdom, hunting foes both real and imagined. Then had led to the fateful day, when rebellious nobles offered to make their uncle a king. Was it any wonder that Mercia had fallen? Ruled by a usurper, chaos, a tyrant and a dunce, a once-proud kingdom had become easy pickings. That was why Harold knew he couldn''t follow in the footsteps of his main character. Couldn''t let his character''s brothers talk him into waiting out the coming storm. The Reign of Blood had done much to weaken Mercia. More, in Harold''s opinion, than the devious schemes and plots of opportunistic powers. If he was serious about being a great king, this would have to be his crucible. But did he value that over his life? ¡°You are dismissed,¡± he said finally, and the maid took it as her cue to curtsy and hurry away, leaving him to think in the somber darkness. Chapter 3- Tentative Plans Daylight came, and with it a knock at his door. Harold, ensconced in soft bedding, made to sit up even as Baldy barged into his room, dragging behind him a frazzled attendant. ¡°Rise and shine!¡± he yelled and Harold winced as the shout echoed in the cavernous quarters and rang in his ears. But he rose, then looked about for a change of clothes. The attendant, guessing at his problem, approached, a silk bundle in his arms. Ah, Harold had forgotten. Princes didn¡¯t dress themselves in Mercia. He had written it in for historical accuracy, but having another man dress him as if he were a doll appealed not at all. ¡°Leave it on the bed,¡± he ordered, and the attendant hesitated. Baldy looked between him and the attendant, and then clapped a meaty hand on the man¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Do as the prince says,¡± he interjected, and then dropped into a sotto whisper. ¡°His highness has been a little cranky after we interrupted his lovemaking.¡± The attendant nodded, and then backed out of the room. Baldy followed him, offering a jaunty wave before closing the door behind him. What a dick. Harold had liked Baldy at first, but undercutting Harold in public was unacceptable. He balled his hands into fists. It didn¡¯t make sense. His main character was a prideful man, a man who despised insubordination and didn''t care for excuses. Left to his own devices, he would have stripped Baldy and Castell of their positions. Perhaps even have them flogged for insubordination. So why were they still in his service? It was a mystery that Harold was keen to unravel. Castell''s existence had hinted that minute things- little details he hadn''t cared to specify- might be different than he''d expect. That was the true danger of transmigrating years before his novel started, Harold conceded. World-building didn¡¯t demand the same exacting level of precision that writing a novel did. At least he did know the broad strokes- that was already priceless knowledge. Harold untied the silk parcel, unfolding clothes and setting them on the bed. He traded his loose robes (a Mercian nightwear staple) for thick cotton breeches. Then he slid into an elaborate red tunic embossed with delicate gold fish-shaped filigree. As he strode towards the door, he admired how each fish had a ruby for an eye, which he felt added a sense of life to the outfit. Being a prince did have its perks. He opened the door and headed from his chambers, taking in the opulent surroundings. It was one thing to write of marble floors, of intricate mosaics laden with precious jewels. It was another thing to see it with his own eyes. Here: the Caribbean blue of lapiz lazuli- the moody purple of amethyst- the grassy hue of peridot. There: soaring Gothic arches- diptychs of varying sizes and styles- tapestries of forbidding men in armor and on campaign. Harold tried to feign nonchalance, but the curious look Baldy sent him was sure proof of failure.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Harold almost didn¡¯t care. He looked up and down and left and right and always there was something more, some detail or artistic flourish that demanded his attention. As they approached the Sublime Porte, great statues and sculptures began to appear. Harold could see stone Nagas- wise demigods, half-man and half-snake. There were heavenly nymphs and courtesans engaged in playing stone sitars, lutes, and even tabla. Soaring above were the statues of the gods. Mighty Surya, the Lord Sun, towered above all, His imperious face twisted in disgust as He struck down terrified beast-men. To His right was Agni, the Lord Fire, depicted purifying and banishing a potent rakshasha. Vayu, the Lord Air, loomed over a floundering fleet, His cheeks frozen in the deepest of breaths. But Harold no longer had the time to stop and gawk. Before him was the thick wooden door that led to the Sublime Porte, the throne room. The Porte also doubled as the place where the Mercian royal family had its mandatory family meal. Priam I, Priam the Founder, had created this odd tradition. The man (now reduced to a name and a legend) had established the Kingdom of Mercia through great struggle. Fearing the ills infighting would bring, he had mandated his descendants to sup together and build solidarity. Over centuries, this commandment had devolved into daily sharing the first meal. It had been a nice attempt. Mercia remained famous for its succession wars- the Reign was just the nastiest. Foreign observers who bet on civil war whenever a Mercian King died were often correct. Many ascribed this phenomenon to some innate Mercian failing. Harold knew the problem to be geography. The Central Plains, the lush Indus Valley and the fertile banks of Nile were the optimal niches for the human organism. Their high capacity for agriculture and riverine travel allowed for centralization and a bureaucratic center of power that held rigid control over periphery areas. In stark contrast, Mercia was a mountainous kingdom, like the ancient Kurdish lands. Divided by high mountains and rolling bands of hills, Mercia was hard to govern. Harold hadn¡¯t misspoken when he had called Castell a clan. The Founder had found Mercia a land of tribes and clans and had brought them to heel. With patient wooing and strategic marriages and sword in hand, he had united all Mercia. The balance of power since had only ever tilted against the royal family. By this era, the Mercian succession had become a chessboard for the great clans to jostle for prestige and power. Usually, princes courted these great clans as patrons. But it was not unheard of for the ducal clans to kidnap a prince, jam a crown on his head and fight a war in his name- irrespective of his actual desires. The plan Harold had come up with the previous night was simple. Trying to play the great clan game against an array of older and more influential princes was suicide. Even if he did succeed, he wouldn¡¯t have solved the underlying problem the kingdom faced. What he needed was fertile and productive lands from which he could levy soldiers and permanently alter the balance of power in the kingdom. He¡¯d racked his head all last night thinking of how he could steal or usurp the lands of one of the clans in the kingdom. Then, it had occurred to him: who said that the former owners of the land had to be in the kingdom? Now all Harold had to do was trick a paranoid old man (who¡¯d probably poisoned his father). Joy. Chapter 3- Frederick Harold was heading for the wooden door when the sound of quick footsteps came in from behind him. He turned about, only to see a painfully thin man hurrying towards him; surprisingly, Harold could identify him. It was Prince Frederick, the elder brother of his main character and a major reason he had managed to ascend to the throne following the Reign of Blood. The green eyes gave Frederick away, for he had an idiosyncratic shade that complemented his ruffled linen tunic. ¡°Dieter!¡± ¡°Brother Frederick.¡± Frederick didn¡¯t answer, huffing and puffing after his short bout of exercise. He really looked more skeleton than man, protruding elbows, thin wrists and all. Frederick gave their surroundings a nervous once-over, before grabbing Harold¡¯s right hand. Bemused, Harold let himself be dragged away, waving off Baldy and the attendant. What¡¯s his game? The moment they were far enough from the door, Frederick whirled about and stuck an accusing finger in Harold¡¯s face. ¡°Dieter, have you no shame? Why, are we not brothers? How have I erred that you would treat me so?¡± Harold grabbed the finger and then the hand, pushing it gently down and away from his face. Right, I¡¯d forgotten that Frederick was a drama fiend. There¡¯s probably a reason he¡¯s angry, but 10:1 it isn¡¯t as severe as he making it seem. He said as much to Frederick and the latter exploded, waving his arms in exaggerated consternation. ¡°Oh, lords above! What black deeds have I done, to merit being saddled with such defiant brothers! Drama he says! Drama! What degenerate times we live in, where the young spite their elders with impunity!¡± But you¡¯re only a month older than me. Still, Harold couldn¡¯t help the twitch that ran across his face, which evolved into full-blown laughter when Frederick waggled his eyebrows. But as the laughter faded away, Frederick grew more somber, voice dropping to a whisper. ¡°Dieter, did I not tell you to stay away from that maid?¡± Had he? Harold fought to keep a blank face. ¡°You may have said something to that effect, yes.¡± Frederick looked exasperated. ¡°Must you plunge your sword in every sheath you can find? Especially one of whose duplicity I had warned you weeks beforehand?¡± He massaged his temples. ¡°Ensnaring a prince for the price of a bastard daughter, that duke Lana sure is formidable.¡± Harold crossed his arms. ¡°What if I told you that I did not bed her?¡± Frederick gave him a pitying glance. ¡°I would take you at your word, my ox of a brother. But who else would? Appearances are as good as reality. The harder you deny it, the more the world will believe you to be in league with the duke. I do not need to tell you why that is dangerous.¡± Harold considered. ¡°But if her virtue is still intact-¡± ¡°You would have an impartial judge verify it? Hmm, perhaps the wife of a minister? Na?ve.¡± ¡°How so?¡± ¡°Do you think the duke Lana would give up the chance to push you into his faction so easily?¡± Frederick¡¯s lips curled in distaste. ¡°That maid would not be a virgin by sundown today, willingly or not. That old monster might even do the deed himself.¡± Harold couldn¡¯t even process the thought. ¡°His own daughter?¡± Frederick shook his head. I created duke Lana. Harold felt a little thrill of horror. It was easy to create ruthless men of great ambitions and greater depravities. Necessary even, because a villain was an agent of change, an important obstacle to be overcome. But he had never considered the human carnage villains left behind; they had only ever been faceless victims. ¡°Is there anything that we can do? For the maid, I mean.¡± Frederick gave him an odd look. ¡°Dieter, the more involved we become, the further we will be drawn into duke Lana¡¯s affairs. Besides, we are princes. We cannot sacrifice our interests for every tragic tale; the gods know there are no shortage of them.¡± Harold knew that. The ranks of the dispossessed were a river, not a stream. There was no shortage of former soldiers who had lost an eye, leg or arm to the tender attentions of a sword, mace, or arrow and had to beg for their living. Then there were the street urchins, the unwanted children of the painted ladies who plied their trade in the seedy outer district. Rarer was the occasional fallen noble, usually a well-dressed older man who sat listlessly on a cobblestone corner and wasted away. So why do I care? Was he really that much of a sucker for a pretty face?Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Frederick must have spied the conflict on Harold¡¯s face, because he softened. ¡°It is good you have a good heart, Dieter. But we cannot disregard our own prerogatives. Everyone cuts their own deal and it is up to the gods to judge. Anyways, dismiss her from your service at the soonest opportunity and keep a low profile for now.¡± Harold nodded, conflicted. Changing the subject, he asked: You have a plan?¡± ¡°I do, yes.¡± Now Frederick looked troubled. ¡°There¡¯s a storm coming, Dieter. Near daily, I get reports of men in the mountains and strange sails near our southern shores. No one has brought the matter up in court, for all the good it would do.¡± He raised his head, eyes flickering about the hallway before he leaned closer, whispering into Harold¡¯s ear. ¡°The heavens are just. The old usurper has taken sick and his grip on the reins is slackening. The old monsters of the court are stirring. When he dies-¡± ¡°Princes will vie for dominion, but blood will reign as king?¡± The famous saying had arisen in the aftermath of the era and eventually given it its name. ¡°Why, Dieter, I did not know you to be interested in wordplay and witticism?¡± Frederick seemed faintly pleased. Harold decided to push his luck. ¡°Then let me offer you another: the bamboo bends and endures, the oak stands and falls. Are you scheming something with uncle Guntus?¡± ¡°Well, I would not call it scheming with him as much as scheming around him,¡± Frederick allowed, before he processed fully what had been said. His eyes narrowed and for the first time, Harold could see a degree of genuine alarm in them. ¡°Where did you hear that?¡± Frederick all but hissed at him. ¡°I guessed.¡± Harold offered, but the words seemed hollow even to him. Sure enough, Frederick didn¡¯t buy it. He grabbed Harold by the mandarin collar of his tunic, arms visibly trembling as he pressed Harold against the palace walls. Harold leaned against the cool surface, shaking his head when he saw Baldy going for his sword. ¡°Look, Dieter, this is no laughing matter. Surely even you understand this? If we brothers are to ever be restored to our birthright- as father would have wanted- or even just survive, we must find a sturdy shelter and quickly! So, tell me, who leaked our plans to you?¡± ¡°Frederick, we are the sons of a well-liked king, taken before his prime. We are a threat to every prince whose faction we might join, and too independently-minded to be the pawns of some great clan¡¯s duke. So, what is left there for us to do? The only safe path that we might walk is that of renouncing our claims and living in exile until the board has been cleared. And the only one in our family that might aid us without ulterior motives is poor fat uncle Guntus, whose ambitions begin and end with wine and good food.¡± Frederick let him go, staring at Harold as if he¡¯d suddenly peeled off his skin to reveal himself to be a lizardman. ¡°You¡¯ve changed, Dieter. I thought you to be concerned solely with swords and riding, not intrigue and scheming. Have you always been so proficient? Or is another filling your head with thoughts not your own?¡± He added, somewhat accusingly, ¡°Even your speech has somewhat changed.¡± Harold chuckled, but there wasn¡¯t much mirth in his voice. I guess it was too much to expect the other characters not to notice. He had tried his hardest to ape the speech patterns and the voice of his main character but that was the voice of a Dieter a decade and a half older; he also couldn¡¯t help but drop in a few Haroldisms every now and then. And he had had no intention of playing along nicely with how history had originally unfolded; what was the point of this chance if he were too cowardly to strike out and try something new? ¡°Brother Frederick, what is it called when you know what is right and do not do it?¡± This had been one of his favorite passages from The Analects; sometimes he marveled how a Chinese philosopher from four-hundred and something years before the birth of Christ could strike so accurately at the heart of the matter. Frederick blinked at the non-sequitur. ¡°Dieter, what game are you playing? Answer my questions, don¡¯t answer me with another.¡± ¡°It¡¯s called being a coward. Yes, we can save our lives by bending like bamboo. But what of the kingdom? Father always told us that a king was the hero of his people. What sort of heroes would we be if we cowered in the shadows while armies march across the land and the people suffer?¡± Frederick scoffed. ¡°Heroes? Dieter, you weren¡¯t in the capital when father died. I was. I stood vigil as he died. He spent the better part of two days coughing up his lungs, splattering slimy red-white chunks into a dish and writhing in pain. By the second day¡¯s morning, he was begging for death, unable to eat or to drink. By mid-evening he had lost control of his bowels and the royal chamber stunk to the heavens. Where were the people then? Father had ruled justly and aided many, but only uncle Guntus and I stood by his side then. The ministers, the merchants, even our own clansmen spent that day kowtowing to grand-uncle.¡± He clenched his hands into fists and just for an instant Harold glimpsed the magnitude of the hurt lurking beneath the surface. ¡°They crowned the usurper before father had even stiffened. Some loyal subjects, these.¡± Harold wasn¡¯t willing to give up the argument. ¡°Frederick, even if you care nothing for the subjects, you must admit that a severe civil war would devastate our wealth and armies, leaving us susceptible to invasion from without.¡± Frederick sighed. ¡°I know, but what can be done? We can only rely on the mountains and hills to shelter us as we have always done; at this juncture, neither the great dukes nor the princes will see reason. And if we rally some clans about our banner- as I believe you to be suggesting- we would only further denude the land of men and wealth while most likely dying a dog¡¯s death.¡± Harold didn¡¯t hide the smile that stole itself across his face. Frederick looked at him quizzically. ¡°You have an idea?¡± Harold told him. Frederick fainted. Chapter 4- Cost of Courage Harold gently nudged the prone body lying on the marble floor with the tip of his bejeweled slippers. ¡°When are you going to stop pretending, Frederick?¡± Frederick jumped up to his feet, smiling. ¡°How did you guess?¡± Harold scoffed. ¡°Frederick, fainting men do not grasp their hearts dramatically and swoon slowly to the ground.¡± Frederick looked enlightened. ¡°Ah, so it is.¡± Then his face turned grave. ¡°I see the intent of your plan, Harold, but it¡¯s a dangerous gamble. The usurper fears us, Harold. If your plan fails- ¡° ¡°It will work.¡± Harold interrupted. ¡°Raising a punitive force is a good enough excuse and the Black Forest is far enough away that he need not fear us.¡± I hate having to lie to Frederick, but he¡¯s too good of a brother. At least this way, he can¡¯t try and talk me out of my actual plan. Genuine surprise should also spare him from the fallout. Swords talked. If Harold could convince Priam IV to give his kingly dispensation, he surely would gain immediate clout and power. But it would also tip his hand far too early, kicking up waves of alarm and make him appear a far bigger threat than he was. Worse, a 200-300 men army wouldn¡¯t count for much when the civil war began in earnest and armies thousands strong ravaged the land. No, Harold knew his greatest strength was that he had knowledge that no one else did. The power players all schemed and moved logically, but good logic from faulty predicates meant faulty conclusions. Grand-uncle Priam¡¯s attitude towards them was a prime example. Yes, Priam IV feared them. But only Harold knew the guilt that roiled his insides. The Mercian nobility chalked up the five brothers¡¯ continued survival to the old man not wishing to be branded a kinslayer. But men could be killed far more subtly. An accident here, a poisoning there, a duel or three gone wrong. If Priam IV had wanted them dead, they would have been dead. Guilt and the sense of right and wrong was the chink in the king¡¯s armor, the old man¡¯s one psychological weakness. And Harold was going to hit it for all he was worth. The road that would save Mercia lay through unconventional means and exploiting possibilities that others were blind to; not on the well-trodden conventional path to power. He would get his lands and troops, but he needed to do so in a manner that would surprise and upset the political calculations of his rivals. Harold walked past Frederick to the door, and pushed it open. A cavernous room opened out before them. At its far end was a seat wider than it was tall, made of wondrously worked silver filigree and amethyst-colored velvet cushions. Upon them sat an old man, and to his right side a crippled adult who bore a strong resemblance to him.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. There aren¡¯t really a lot of people here. The vast hall was almost empty save for a handful of people seated in divans scattered in a U-shape about the throne, the Sublime Porte. Closest to the throne was a woman, whose brown hair belied her advanced years. She had a weak chin and a mean little face, disfigured by warts and wrinkles even mercury couldn¡¯t hide. That would be Duchess Hilda, Harold surmised. Next to her sat her husband, the foreigner. Ferath mac Ailpin was a score years younger than his wife, and a merchant besides. That had been a nasty scandal. Harold¡¯s eyes flicked once more to the man on the throne. If it hadn¡¯t been for the support of her brother Priam, she would have been stripped of her title. Perhaps even exiled. The Duchess wasn¡¯t a true peer of the realm; she owned no lands nor commanded the fealty of any. The appellation had been just a courtesy title, but Harold knew how dependent she was on the stipend it provided. How else would she throw lavish parties or spend extravagantly to show off at court? Mercia had little enough wealth as it was. Ferath met Harold¡¯s eyes and smiled, waving his trademark ostrich-feather fan. Out of the corner of his eyes, Harold could see Frederick waving back. The two got along as thick as thieves: amicably, but without any mutual trust. How could there be? Ferath and the Duchess were Priam loyalists through and through. The other three men were not. He spotted Uncle Guntus first, the jolly fat man slurping up soup from a giant stone bowl large enough to fit a small child. Sitting next to him was a slender young adult in garish silks, who tipped his feathered hat rakishly at the new arrivals. But it was the man sitting behind both who sent Harold¡¯s heart a fright. The dark-haired, flat-eyed man sat rigidly in his divan, fork and spoon methodically dismantling the struggling frog on his plate even as its heart beat frantically and mutilated limbs spasmed, trying to escape. The Tyrant lives up to his reputation. The room was quiet as Harold walked towards the king, avoiding the empty divans about him as he beelined for the empty space before his grand-uncle. Frederick trailed behind, but Harold was not of a mind to notice. There was a strange sense of space with every step, and he felt rather like he had been returned to the football field right before a major game, acid lines of nervous fire running up and down his arms. I could die, Harold realized. If I¡¯ve miscalculated, if I¡¯ve misjudged his reaction, if I¡¯m wrong¡­Images of the Mercian torture chambers floated before his eyes. Harold had meant every word he had said to Frederick. He just hadn¡¯t thought that the price of courage could be so high. He hesitated. Why do I want to save the Mercian people anyways? He was no hero. It wasn¡¯t his style to risk anything for strangers. Sure, he¡¯d felt bad. But he¡¯d felt bad for starving children in Africa, but he¡¯d done jack to help them. And while he did like Frederick and the rest, but couldn¡¯t he just run away with them to a peaceful kingdom far far away? Run away? His fists clenched and Frederick shot him a warning look, probably misinterpreting his anger. Harold had run away from working hard, coasting on his natural athletic talent until he couldn¡¯t. He had basked in his glory days until their shine had worn off, leaving him stranded in an unfulfilling minimum-wage job. No, Harold wasn¡¯t doing this for the people of Mercia. But for the sort of man he wanted to become. And so, when the king asked curtly why they hadn¡¯t seated themselves yet, Harold replied, ¡°I''ll sit once you get off my throne, you witless, balding thief.¡± Chapter 5- Consequences Harold heard an affronted gasp (feminine- the duchess?) and the accompanying clatter of a fan hitting the marble floor. He felt the sharp tug from Frederick on his shoulder. But he had his eyes fixed on the king. Grand-uncle Priam was too old and wily to expose his vulnerabilities; within moments, Harold found himself met with a stony glare. But age and experience could not hide the heart¡¯s thorniest devils. For an ephemeral instant- so short Harold mistrusted his eyes- the old man had looked away, shrinking into himself until he was more crown than man. Harold¡¯s heart rose at the sight, fists tightening in triumph. I can do this! He continued: ¡°You claimed regency even as my father- your nephew- lay on his deathbed. You crowned yourself king before father¡¯s spirit had left his body and traveled to Yamraj. Before mighty Surya-¡± ¡°What will you do before Surya, Dieter? Denounce my father for being a usurper? Vow to raise an army to unseat him?¡± The first to retort was surprisingly neither the king nor the duchess but rather the crippled younger man who sat on the throne next to the king. ¡°Cousin, do not throw your life away wallowing in visions of what could have been.¡± The crown prince sighed. ¡°At least only our kinsmen are present here. If you had been this intemperate in front of the court, you would have left father with little choice but to punish you.¡± Of course, the duchess couldn¡¯t let that be. ¡°Besalt, ¡°she began in a sickeningly-sweet voice, ¡°surely such insolence cannot go unchallenged?¡± She scowled, and it did truly unpleasant things to the rows of warts and pustules that decorated her face. ¡°Hooliganism ought to be swiftly punished!¡± Besalt shifted in his seat. ¡°He could apologize, dear aunt. Come, Dieter, be reasonable and recant your words. The cooks have made a fine feast for the morning. Enjoy it with us!¡± Harold ignored her. ¡°Your mercy does you credit, cousin Besalt.¡± Too much credit. You¡¯ll die gurgling on your own blood in less than two years¡¯ time because you¡¯ll refuse to learn that there is a time and place for mercy. Now, how would my main character have put this? ¡°But I cannot swallow these words- these words like hot coals. I will not. I am my father¡¯s son. My father¡¯s keeper, though he resides now with Yamraj. I cannot stand in this hall before his throne and stifle my words: desecration, treason, vice.¡± ¡°Dieter!¡± Frederick couldn¡¯t take anymore. There was real horror etched on his face. Even betrayal. ¡°Have you gone mad?¡± Harold could see the unspoken plea in his eyes. What are you doing Harold? Not here, please. Not now. Harold laughed. Frederick, being a seven dollar per hour rent-a-slave was mad. Shuffling through life, drowning in cheap alcohol and cheaper amusements- that was modern insanity. This? Harold hadn¡¯t felt so alive in ages. His laughter rang in the throne room. It set off the duchess, who had opened her mouth to speak before the last echoes of his voice had even faded. But Victor beat her to the punch. ¡°Desecration. Treason. Vice.¡± His voice was flat, disinterested. Victor then looked up from his plate. Their eyes met. Harold couldn¡¯t help but imagine him in a lab coat and goggles. A latter-day Jane Goodall come from beyond the stars for one research mission: to observe and manipulate a hooting gaggle of primitive ape-men. ¡°Interesting words.¡± Victor continued. ¡°Impotent words. Where are the swords?¡± The rakish youth chimed in, face twisting in amusement. ¡°Swords¡­such an interesting topic. They come in all shapes and sizes- some are made for piercing men, others for piercing women. He turned, and mock-whispered. ¡°Dieter coz spent his night dallying with a maid and insults his Majesty come morn. Dear kinsmen, your Majesty, the issue is surely with his issue: a sword too dull, perhaps?¡± He shook his hands, tsk-tsking. ¡°Bad Dieter! Bad!¡± The duchess turned a bright puce. Rising from her divan, she alternated between looking at the rakish youth and Harold in growing displeasure, as if unsure who was worse. Finally, she settled on Harold and gave him a black look. Guess treason won out. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Her husband too looked like he had had enough. He turned to the king, a frown twisting his usually smiling face. The king met his gaze. ¡°Dieter, son of Leopold II.¡± King Priam sat on the throne, his look unreadable. Speaking in the royal we, he continued: ¡°You have insulted us. Accused us of deeds most foul. Incited the gods against us and besmirched our honor. Though princes are exempt from the crime of lese majesty, this is a privilege and not a right. Explain yourself. Now.¡± It was not a request. Harold rose to the challenge. ¡°All your Majesty has said is true. I have levied these charges and insulted your Majesty to your Majesty¡¯s face. I have done so to remind your Majesty of the debt your Majesty owes me and mine. A debt which I intend to collect; I wish to ask your Majesty for a boon!¡± Old Priam now seemed bemused. ¡°You insulted us¡­to ask us for a boon?¡± Besalt buried his face in his hands. ¡°Dieter, I do not believe I will ever understand how your mind works.¡± Frederick let out a commiserating groan. Harold replied before anyone else from the peanut gallery could chime in and derail his argument. ¡°It is simple. Your Majesty owes us much. I only ask that your Majesty repay us with what is our due.¡± ¡°And what do you feel is your due?¡± Old Priam played along. ¡°An ambassadorship to the Asturian Empire¡± Harold replied. It wasn¡¯t what the room was expecting. ¡°Dieter¡­the Asturians do not accept our envoys. They never have.¡± Besalt was the first one to voice his thoughts. ¡°All because the Founder was an Asturian knight.¡± He looked at Harold, befuddled. ¡°You do know that¡­right?¡± Harold nodded. Besalt continued. ¡°They see us as a breakaway Asturian clan- one to be humbled. They will never accept anything from us, Dieter, least of all an envoy. Doing so would be a sign that they recognize us as a kingdom and not- as they currently maintain- an overlarge, rebellious province.¡± ¡°I know.¡± ¡°Many have tried and failed to convince them.¡± ¡°I am aware.¡± Besalt shook his head. There was something strangely akin to pity in his eyes. ¡°Perhaps your brother was right, Dieter. Have you gone mad?¡± ¡°If he has, we will shortly know.¡± The king glanced at Ferath. Neither spoke any words, but Ferath rose from his divan and unbuckled his word. It emerged from the scabbard in one fluid motion, absent the scraping that might have bedeviled a lesser man. (Why wouldn¡¯t it? Harold had made him a swordmaster- one of the best.) Ferath stalked forwards and Harold began to wonder whether he had miscalculated. He can¡¯t just murder me in the throne room, can he? Had Harold underestimated the debt of gratitude that Ferath felt had towards his wife and his brother-in-law? Or had he overestimated how much guilt the king felt? Why didn¡¯t I grab a sword? His eyes looked hither and fro, but Frederick too was unarmed. Duke Ferath had crossed the distance between them with evenly-paced strides. Harold stood there, rooted to the ground. So be it. If I miscalculated, I miscalculated. The footsteps seemed like the tolling of an ancient bell, foretelling his doom. He closed his eyes. Time to pay the butcher¡¯s bill. He wondered how the steel would kiss him. Would it embrace his neck, sending his head spinning through the air? Would it cleave his belly, sending his intestines to fall like so many wriggling worms? Or would it thread his eye, the sharp pain fading as the sword mangled his mind? He swallowed. ¡°No!¡± Frederick stepped past him. The skinny skeleton of a man was trembling, but still, he advanced towards Ferath. Unarmed. ¡°Y-you people killed father. I-I will, I will not watch as you kill my brother!¡± Ferath snorted, flicked his blade upwards until its sharp edge lay pressed against Frederick¡¯s throat. Frederick flinched. The motion caused the sword to cut into Frederick¡¯s throat. Fat red droplets ran down his tunic and dripped onto the floor but the thin man still stood, defiant. Harold marveled. A tiger father will indeed never birth dog sons. Frederick had more in common with Dieter than the readers of his novel would ever have realized. ¡°Uncle Ferath, this is a bit much.¡± Besalt looked a bit green at the sight of blood. Duke Ferath inclined his head. ¡°Step aside, Frederick.¡± But Frederick stood there, his thin back seemingly as hard and sturdy as a great slab of steel. A strange feeling struck Harold, a deep and painful shame blooming in his chest as he watched the frail man protect him from the fallout of his own failed scheme. Man, I¡¯m turning into a sap. But he strode towards the sword regardless, the flagellating thrum of his heartbeat like the rolling cry of a war-drum. He strode, violence in his eyes, a readiness to kill and die in his very bones. A tired voice interrupted. ¡°Ferath.¡± It was the king. ¡°If the elder wants to protect the younger so badly, then he can share in his brother¡¯s fate. Take them both down to the dungeons.¡± Ferath frog-marched Frederick and Harold to the dungeons, leaving in their wake a trail of bright red blood. Chapter 6- Interlude INTERLUDE The sounds of scuffling footsteps faded, plunging the throne room into a thick and cloying silence. None of those present were keen on continuing their meal, not even Guntus. The servants waiting outside the hall knew better than to interrupt. So, they sat and absorbed the silence before the rakish youth began to clap. ¡°Bravo! Bravo, your Majesty! We truly do have the best entertainment. This was better than the jesters- by far!¡± Old Priam gave him a withering glare, but the rakish youth was unperturbed. ¡°So, what will it be, your Majesty? Hanging? Burning? The Cage? Or will this troupe of brothers live to play another day?¡± ¡°Simian!¡± Besalt looked horrified, and turned towards the king. ¡°Father, surely- I mean, we cannot. This- they¡¯re family. We cannot. We should not. Such acts are the province of beastmen and savages, not civilized men.¡± The rakish youth- Simian- smiled, showing off his pearly white teeth. ¡°As merciful as ever, my dear Crown Prince coz. Too merciful, some might say.¡± ¡°Simian, I know many regard me as too kind. Too soft. Some go so far as to say I have a woman¡¯s heart- that my condition has left me incapable of the strength and valor that must be the eternal companions of any great king.¡± Besalt tightened his fists. ¡°But what sets us apart from the uncivilized is the dharma: we know that sins dog the soul from life to relife, miring it in the muck and illusion of samsara. If killing with abandon and butchering our own blood is the price of greatness, I have no wish to pay it!¡± ¡°But others will.¡± Victor sat ramrod-straight on his divan. ¡°Only a firm hand can keep the rabble in their place.¡± Old Priam was roused at this. ¡°Simian, Victor, Guntus, enough. Take your leave. Besalt, sister, stay here. We would have some words.¡± The two curtsied and headed for the exit, Simian smearing the droplets of drying blood with his slippers. Guntus followed them out, patting his belly happily. As soon as the wooden door shut behind them, Old Priam relaxed, his wrinkles smoothing out. When the king spoke, it was without the royal we. ¡°Besalt, my son, you do not need to justify yourself to the likes of Simian or Victor. You are the Crown Prince! One day, you shall rule over all Mercia in my stead. Let them know their place, lest they covet yours and seek to steal it from you.¡± ¡°Yes, father.¡± Besalt said, in the tone of sons who have heard the same well-intentioned advice from their fathers a thousand times. He sighed. ¡°What will become of Dieter, father? Of Frederick?¡± Old Priam frowned. ¡°Those boys need a little sense, Besalt. Their insolence is worrying. I am thinking of having the older one whipped.¡± He rubbed his white beard. ¡°Four or five lashes perhaps- he is frail, no need to overdo it.¡± Before Besalt could interject, Old Priam continued: ¡°You need not plead on their behalf. I am of a mind to grant their boon, but I will not budge on the whipping. Those who insult a king of Mercia, even kinsmen, must pay a price for their transgression. Elsewise, men will learn that they may hold this crown in contempt- and that is unacceptable.¡± Then Old Priam added: ¡°Even were I of different mind¡­what I have said is what men expect, Besalt. If I slacken the reins any further, the court will take it as weakness.¡± The duchess seemed intent on proving his point. ¡°Brother, that is completely unreasonable!¡± she screeched, the high-pitched words doing little good for her flabby jowls. ¡°They insulted you- insulted us! You cannot give them an ambassadorship!¡± ¡°I cannot?¡± Old Priam repeated. By her widening eyes, the duchess realized that she¡¯d misspoken. ¡°I did not mean it like that, darling brother-¡± ¡°Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do,¡± Old Priam said and with each harsh syllable the duchess blanched. ¡°I am good to you, little sister, but you overreach with alarming frequency. Do kindly remember which of us is the king.¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The duchess looked crestfallen and hung her head sulkily. On perhaps anyone else, it would not have had the desired effect; the duchess was too fat and ugly in her dotage. But the eyes of old men overlay what is with what was. Old Priam could not help but see the young girl she had once been, clutching her elder brother¡¯s arm with the childish but ironclad certainty that he would make things right. He softened. ¡°I know you are afraid of what they might do,¡± he allowed, ¡°but you are letting a title blind you. A writ of ambassadorship is a perpetual order only discharged when the bearer (re)establishes official diplomatic contact with the peoples listed in that writ. The Asturians will not be so petty as to expel them from their empire. But they will never grant our envoys a shred of diplomatic recognition. Besalt, you realized what this would mean. Else you would not have tried to dissuade him.¡± ¡°Exile.¡± Besalt sighed. ¡°But I do not understand it, father. He goaded you-but what does he aim to accomplish? Scarce this morning I heard he had lain with Duke Lana¡¯s daughter. I feared for what mischief such a development might arouse, but by evening you have been given ample reason to banish him!¡± The king chuckled. ¡°This is a good exercise for you, Besalt. Tell me, what sort of boy is Dieter? Is he the sort to plot and scheme?¡± Besalt replied immediately, ¡°No, not Dieter. He is too hotheaded and impetuous.¡± He furrowed his brow. ¡°Father, are you suggesting that Dieter was acting at the instigation of another? But who¡­no, Dieter only listens to Frederick. So, Frederick orchestrated everything?¡± ¡°Many nobles disdain your uncle Ferath for being a foreigner. These men are fools.¡± Old Priam shook his head. ¡°One look, and he deduced the true culprit. Playing on Frederick¡¯s love for his brothers, he both delivered my disapproval and gave me an excuse to have Frederick jailed.¡± ¡°But now we are back to the beginning,¡± Besalt remarked. ¡°Why would Frederick-¡± ¡°Not so.¡± Old Priam stopped his son. ¡°Frederick¡¯s motivations are much easier to read. Put yourself in his place, Besalt. Imagine you know that a powerful duke is hellbent on roping in your impressionable younger brother because he wants a virile but easily manipulated figurehead and the veneer of a righteous cause. You have acted in the past to ward off this duke¡¯s schemes. When he sent gold and jewels, you had them returned. When he infiltrated your brother¡¯s royal guard, you had the entire guard dismissed and replaced. But now comes an unmitigated disaster: your brother has bedded the Duke¡¯s daughter. You can almost hear the wedding bells tolling. How do you react?¡± Besalt looked enlightened. ¡°I understand now. It is a drastic choice, but better than becoming Duke Lana¡¯s plaything.¡± ¡°Good!¡± Old Priam looked satisfied. ¡°As a future king, Besalt, you must learn that there are layers and layers to everything. Matters are rarely as simple as they first appear. A king must consider all angles and motivations carefully, lest he make a serious mistake!¡± Besalt digested this. ¡°My last question is: father, if we must have someone whipped, why are we whipping Frederick and not Dieter? Will that not give away the true motivation behind this ¡®punishment¡¯? Old Priam considered Besalt¡¯s argument. ¡°No. There is precedent. Arguably, the eldest son is responsible for the actions of his siblings in the absence of a father. Frederick will be thankful as well. If we were to lash Dieter, we would need to lash him twenty to thirty times at minimum. But all know Frederick to be sickly; it is enough to lash him four or five. The punishment will be a sop to Lana as well. Frederick has quite frustrated that old fox; hopefully, seeing the lad humbled will prevent him from raising a ruckus in court. This will work out best for all involved.¡± Besalt nodded, but unease still writ on his face. ¡°But what of Dieter, father? He is not the sort to forget or forgive easily. If we whip Frederick, Dieter might never forgive us.¡± ¡°Forgive us?¡± The king snorted. ¡°What is Dieter¡¯s forgiveness worth? The important one is Frederick. Frederick! And that one is too clever by half. He will see through the punishment and read our intentions. Dieter will do whatever Frederick convinces him to do, so there is hardly a reason to worry. Really, I ought to thank Lana. If he had not driven Frederick into a corner, I would not be able to pluck these thorns in our side and stymie Lana in the same move!¡± ¡°But, brother, why bother with this whole farce? Is this not the perfect opportunity to deal with them more permanently?¡± The duchess pursed her lips. ¡°None could say that you would have acted unjustly.¡± Old Priam scoffed. ¡°Half the kingdom thinks I had their father poisoned. Men whisper kinslayer, usurper and worse, at least when they think my spies cannot hear.¡± He slammed the throne with his fist, only to wince at jolt of pain that ran up his aged hand. ¡°I had no hand in that black deed! I coveted his throne, I admit it. But so did all the damned dukes in this kingdom.¡± He glared at his sister. ¡°If I had them killed, the other half would believe it too!¡± ¡°Father, in your estimation, who is the culprit?¡± Besalt asked. ¡°One of those ducal jackals, no doubt,¡± Old Priam replied irritably. ¡°They kill a man, and men think me to blame! Know this, Besalt. This entire kingdom is broken. Broken! Leopold saw that and they killed him. They would have killed his children too- or would have turned them into puppets- had I not seized the throne. Your nephews ought to thank me for saving our clan¡¯s birthright, Besalt, but instead they call me an old thief. There is truly no justice in this world.¡± Besalt looked at his father with conflicted eyes, but said nothing.