Thirty Eight

All I ever learned how to do was silence myself, and now I must be king?

First, we hear from a slight young man in oversized velvet robes standing on a balcony overlooking the castle garden.

The shadow of the window ledge fell upon the fifth tile. Time for lunch had passed, two tiles ago. It had been the first when I had first asked Nemshe to bring me some tea.

People wonder what illness cut into me that I do not fill into the heavy robes of my royal lineage. The fine and comforting purple velvet flaps around my frame—an underfed body more frail than the pastured serfs. I would love to fetch my own tea, but the fact of the matter: it is not done.

A vile and draconic fire rages in my belly, demanding that I run through the palace demanding my due like a storybook duke.

Nemshe would be beaten, till her pain matched my tantrum. Her cries would echo in my dreams, and some—Aunt Salia, for one—would say it is due, but I know the truth of it. We are all burdened by the sickness that has fallen upon the royals. The death of my uncles, and the bitter labors of the doctors to rescue my aunt for the throne. Regent Salia, until her children come of age. My needs can steep a while longer.

Thirty-six of my family dead left a wound in the nation larger even than in my heart. Only one, frail woman guarding the throne against my coronation. I picked up my empty cup, to drink meditatively of the emptiness with my fallen kin.

Nemshe's voice cut through the air. "Relek, your highness—mazes below! someone brought your tea?—her highness Salia requests you."

I saw the alarm in her eyes, and smiled sadly, upending my up. "Your failure is in shadow, a secret."

She bowed deep. "A thousand pardons. Everyone says I should let your wishes fall." She blanched, and took a wooden sword from the wall. "You should strike me."

"Should I?" Most of my family would, if only ceremonially. I stepped past her, and smirked, gently stroking her hair and shoulder. "A valiant statement."

She winced at the familiarity.

How had we grown so far apart? As children we had frolicked together, avoiding the real royals. "Forgive me. Rise."

She used the wooden blade to stand. "It would be an honor, your highness."

I shook my head, sadly. "I read the truth of that in your face."

She protested, "I was unprepared."

My voice turned stern. "You are a friend."

Nemshe stepped back and blushed, eyes wide.

The fires in my belly refused to remain stoppered. "And very much more valuable in that than some…."

"Ooh." She bowed her head and gave me a wicked grin, twiddling the toes of her elegant boots near mine. She bit her lip. "A concubine, highness?"

A flush of pure joy forced me to look away. "You know we've no such things in our society."

She looked down at our feet, her own feet pointed toward my chambers. The smile on her lips turned wry and taunting.

The urge to let her go there tugged at me. "Now let us address Salia."

"She is not well. I fear you may have to take the throne."

I imagined myself like a child atop a wild stallion, tossed this way and that. "Dark days."

A look of surprise flashed upon Nemshe's eyes, and she nodded, almost a bow, before turning away.

As she led the way, my eyes played in the folds of her dress, the crimsons of the skirt and the maroon of the vest. How had a serving girl's dress come to be made of such delicious velvets?

"Salia's reign will not be well taken." She took a sprig of some herb and snapped it in half, holding it beneath her tongue.

"She is a fine and upstanding royal."

"I can already feel the pinch in my feet softening. Slip this into Salia's potion, will you?" She offered me the other half of the sprig.

I took it and pocketed it.

"I intended her to get the whole dose, but…"

I stopped, to wait for her to finish.

"My courage slips as she draws near." She shrugged. "And how else might you know it is safe?"

I politely ignored the vile nuance and followed her to my aunt's sickbed.

"Nemshe you wicked and profligate woman," Salia scolded. It took her an effort to sit up in bed. "I warned you I needed my nephew immediately."

She grabbed the whipping sword, and offered it to Salia. "Perhaps your stalwart strikes shall educate my villainous flesh."


I took the sword. "No, Salia, you are too tired."

"And you are too soft." She reached for the whipping tool.

I held it back.

"Highnesses, please, I am ready to take the full force of my punishment." She showed the twig to me. "I submit to your fate."

"If Relek feels so strongly it is upon him. The damage to your discipline will soon be his alone."

I fended it off with a sign Althus had taught me, my attempts at magic more useless than my words. "Do not say this."

"I am not long for this world." She shook her head. "Whatever curse has come upon us, you are the strongest of our kin."

"Do not say it." I stepped closer. "There is no other who can answer the throne."

"i told you it would be an honor. The first to use that room in a long hundred of summers."

Salia laughed, falling back into her pillows. "Oh well, of course you should be the only one to discipline your concubine."

The consort's salon is a glorified bird cage, however luxurious. A bed better than the king's quarters, covered in glistening silks behind prison bars to keep people's hands away, behind a tapestry that barely hides her privacy. As king, perhaps I should expand the curtain. I ran my fingers through my thinning hair.

Would the throne be any better? I hoped for someone to stand between me and the citizens, a herald to rally the people. Even Salia's wicked head would carry the crown better than a voiceless haunt like myself—well, if Nemshe's cure for wickedness left enough of Salia to rule.

***

I envied the wine my servants drank—it might loosen my tongue, yes, but also drive me to the fool. Like all decent monarchs, I kept to the tea. Imported from the east, this enhanced the minds of those who drank it.

My tea sat there steaming.

The east, where my nightmares had come from. "Althus, I cannot take the crown."

"You must. A land without a ruler…"


"I've a dream. The eastern tiger men, Joto-kai and Kaminegg…"

Althus coughed a laugh. "Those are children's stories."

I shook my head. "Many a noble family has met a deserved end, ripped to shreds by these men from the eastern palaces."

"They are for evil kings, tyrants and fools." Althus huffed and strode to the window. "They are not coming for you."

"Is there no way I can be kept from the throne?" The image of the tigers gripping me with silver-gloved hands and tearing me from limb to limb went through me and I nearly vomited my tea.

"They are not for you."


But I heard the doubt in his voice, And the sadness. We had all seen so much unbelievable death, in these past three years since our champions brought forth the treasures of the tombs. Perhaps our entire nation was cursed.

"It is but a season, your highness. You have a fine mind and a good heart. You will be a beloved king."

If only it were true. But I dared not mention this to Althus.

***

I paced the streets in a black linen under robe, having left my crown at the throne, finally walking to the baker's house.

The blinding heat of the building warmed the cold parts of my soul. But Mr. Baxter had far too little flour. "My good man Baxter. It is Freyday. Tomorrow we feast."

The baker smiled sadly. "My King, Relek. I don't know what to tell you."

"I should hope, the truth." I pointed to the pile of dough and bags of flour. "Come now, how can you make the festival cakes with such a paltry offering?"

"That's just it. Your minister of accounts has only approved half this much. Been told to make enough for the important people."

We do not have important people in our nation. "But surely he will come to his senses. If you are delivered enough, then you will make the proper festival lot?"

"I will work day and night if need be," Baxter said, slapping the sword at his waist. "But I don't think I'll get that chance. His lordship was very clear, there's… nothing we can do?"

"If there is to be nothing for the common folk, and there are no important persons in my kingdom," I whispered, keeping my ire to a minimum, "all of this must surely go to waste."

Baxter said, "I don't know, your lordship. What can we do?"

Majesty. Baxter named his king like a lord—literally no more authority than Baxter himself. And why shouldn't he—he baked and guarded the bread. Who was I to sit upon the throne? "Perhaps the minister of accounts shall see the error."


Baxter's shoulders dropped. "Lordship. I'm sorry, your highness. The dragon's justice be kept."

The keepers of divine order, the dragons would not stir for less than a horde of demons climbing from the mazes below. But, the thought of a righteous fury coming down and burning the unearned plenty fumed in the back of my mind. I felt their ire burning in my stomach, however. "We shall see."

***

The morning of the festival day came. People arrived, lining at the feast table, unaware that they had been excluded.

I strode forward, still wearing my black robe—unworthy of the royal shade—and a black circlet of a crown. People lined up, tired, squirmy, to taste the luxurious cakes.

I found a small, hungry girl who, from the stains on her knees, had been clearly working in the gardens, and led her to the front of the line.

As I approached, the faces all got pale. Baxter approached me. "Highness, please. You know there isn't enough for her."

"But she is small. She will eat but little."

He pulled on my sleeve, his voice quiet and desperate, "I told you I could not make enough."


I pulled my arm free and looked each of the officiants in the eye. Each dropped their gaze. "Is this true?"

After a long inbreath, the minister of accounts nodded. "Yes, your majesty. I have instituted proper austerity. There is only enough for the important people."


"Beg your pardon, Minister. Do you know the meaning of your words?"

Everyone kept silent.

"Because this little girl here is as important as any of you." I strode forth to the statue of the Father of Harvests and took his torch in hand.

"Please, your majesty," the minister begged. "Do not do this."

"Like the Dragons above, when I see something monstrous, I will bring fire down upon it." I stared down each of them. "Can none of you produce enough for the entire populace?"

One by one they bowed and shook their heads.

I brought down the fires of the Summer Torch down on the plate of cakes, setting them aflame, and shouted, "Hear me. My people have failed me. None shall feast this day."

Someone cried, "Woe betide us, our king feels we are monstrosities from the Mazes Below!"

Baxter simply stood crying at the flames, the others turned their face away as the entire table caught in flames.

Nemshe ran up to me and pulled my robe to lead me away.

I followed her urgent lead. "Did they not see how paltry the offering was, what brigandage my minister had pulled?"

"Relek, Relek, what shall we do with you?" She led me aside to what I can only assume was a secret servant's tunnel.

"I won't have them look upon our fat frames feasting while we deny them the product of their own labor."

"Are you ready to tell them that?" Nemshe said, opening the secret gate.

"They will not listen." The tears burned behind my eyes. Letting them out would be a comfort, soothing, that I didn't yet deserve. "That's why I should not be king."

"'Leaders eat last.'" The wave of her hands, as if pointing to a book, told me it was a special quotation.

Did Nemshe read? I stopped to really look at her.

Nemshe pushed me into the hallway. "You're the first king we've had like that in ages."

***

Next, we hear from Nemshe as she patrols the shadows in the garden outside the court mage's tower.

I watched with horror as the destroyers—two tiger headed sorcerers, rumored to destroy terrible nobles—walked over the guard at the entrance to the wizard's tower.

I ran to the guard, who lay out, his spear released. No blood. This man slept, perhaps a magical curse.

I had not seen any blood on the tigers, but had no clear way to be sure they were flesh and blood rather than specters of justice. I ran up the stairs.

Althus stood over a bejewelled scepter, reading from a book.

He paused at the moment near to casting, just as the effect began to spark. The energy fizzled and passed.

Like a breeze on my face that didn't touch my hair. This went off like I had done so many times in trying to 'read' a stolen scroll. I'd never seen a professional magician do that, but I knew well the cause. You don't have time to stop and orient as you are working. "Ah, Althus?"

"Yes, yes, Nemshe. Has his Majesty a request?"

"I saw your…." The blood ran from my face. Was Althus a traitor, having summoned these, demonic tyrant killers? "Visitors."

"They refused to help. Said that I could fix him with this spell." He huffed. "Of all the chicanery, Joto-kai said that I can fix my king with a toy."

So it was true. But Joto-kai had refused to destroy my beautiful boy. I fell back on my coquette games: tilt my head, give a lackwit smile, and repeat the last phrase, "A toy?"

"The Aura of Instrumental Objects."


A supremely useful spell often derided as for charlatans—because it primarily made mundane items glitter like toy magical devices—it had a way of driving a person to actually attempt things sooner and longer. "Instrumental objects?"

"Precisely. The mad wizard from the east seems to think that all Relek needs is to speak up."

Exactly so. "To speak up, you say." For all that, my little echoes proved how little it took to change the world.

"Yes. I am to enchant this mace and offer it to him to help him speak up." Althus huffed. "If I can ever muster this spell."

That would indeed change the entire mood of the nation, if Relek could stop being a brooding judge and become a leader. But I would need to deliver it—we wouldn't want him being enchanted to give himself pep talks. "We have time before Relek's next tirade. I have never known such a thorough magician. Review the page, you'll be on top of it before you know it."

He seemed to relax at that. "Of course. It isn't that urgent, however dire. But how shall I present it to him?"

"Oh, I think I can be of assistance."

"Are you sure?"

I gave Althus my lopsided smile. His expertise lay only in reading the directions, not in applying the magic. Relek needed me to hand it off to him. "You told me that the spell is to help him speak up. So that's how I'll use it."

"Right, right, that is exactly what the spell does—it makes you do whatever you're told it is for."

Basic spelllore. Any adventurer or apprentice should know this, but Althus would not know how to apply it. "Please, lordship, it is to one of us…" A conniving rogue? Yes, but no. Not out loud. Though we are the earthy register of the wizard, I do not know the text to cite. "A servant, to know how to present such things." The safe answer. It would calm him.

His face softened. "Yes, precisely. You may tell him that I have refurbished it." With a proud smile, he handed it to me.

It hummed deep in my bones, and glittered in a way that outshone the crown. "Truer words were never spoken, lordship."

***

Again we hear from our terrified king, in his private study near the throne room.

I found myself staring into the mirror, mouthing words of defiance at the bandit who had come to conquer my lands and drain my people's treasury. "There will be no tribute to a bandit," I whispered.

I knew the words my forebears would speak, a thousand ways to say no. "I cannot in good conscience yield a single farthing to support your crimes. I pledge the whole of my treasury to defence in preference to a servant's purse for a highwayman's toll." But what was the difference? Even dying, Salia's voice would have been sufficient to daunt this emboldened rake.

My beloved girl Nemshe strode in carrying my grandfather's scepter, bringing a bright smile to my lips at the curve of her figure and the angle of her smile.

But grim times had fallen upon us, and perhaps soon it would be totally appropriate for me to join her as any other servant. "Oh, Nemshe, we are utterly ruined."

"Althus has prepared this for you." She offered it to me. "To augment your voice, to make yourself heard—to make felt the danger of a king's ire."

It was hopeless, even with the power of my ancestor's magic. I took the thing.

Just holding my legacy in my hands caused me to remember the stories. Of the small young man with a rock against the swordsman. Of the ancient duchess speaking in protest to the elder gods.

I found a strength in my spine as I waved this mace about. The bandit king wants to levy a tax upon me, he can bloody well answer my archers. I strode toward the door.

"Your Majesty," Nemshe said, moving as if to hold me back.

She said that with a respect that I had never noticed. I could almost hear her say, don't hesitate.

She knelt down. "We are counting on you."

I might well die facing this, but if so, I would die well. I nudged her chin to bid her rise, and gestured for her.

She fell in behind me.

I strode forward, past the curtain. "There shall be no taxes paid to bandits. If you want our money you must loot it off our dead and bleeding bodies."