The Madness of Kings

by Gene Doucette

  The room they’d given her wasn’t the same one she grew up in, which was appropriate; that other bedroom was in the royal wing on the eastern side of the castle. (Battine’s father was Kenson’s mother’s brother, which thanks to some kind of genealogical calculus made her and Porra members of the royal family rather than just relatives of the royal family.) The room now belonged to Yarson and Dimeroa’s son, Obenit.

  Battine was put up in a room meant for guests. She should have been insulted by this, probably—she was still a member of the royal family, as her position at the feast table affirmed—but the room they gave her was much nicer than her old bedroom. It just happened to be on the wrong wing, far away from where the Alcons were staying.

  Bringing Damid there required passing approximately a dozen guards and five or six cousins, every last one of whom pretended not to see what they’d seen, and about half of whom would be telling someone else about it at the first opportunity.

  Call me a whore, see what happens, Battine thought.

  “Well,” Damid said, on seeing the room, “this is much nicer than the one they gave me.”

  She pushed the door closed with her back and stood against it.

  “Shut up and kiss me,” she said.

  He did, then pulled back and looked her over again.

  “I thought this was about getting that dress off,” he said.

  “Oh gods, yes, please help. There’s lacing up the back. It feels like I’m being punished.”

  She turned around to give him a better look at the problem.

  “Yes, I see,” he said. “That’s…Let me try this.”

  He pulled at a knot at the top, which accomplished nothing but to choke her.

  “That’s not it,” she said.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “A battalion of court ladies. I had to beat them back before they colored my face unnatural shades.”

  “Was one of them raised by a Wivvolian seaman?” he asked. “I’d swear these are sailor knots.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  She left the door and dove into the wardrobe, where she’d stored all of her things.

  “Here, use this,” she said, handing him her sword.

  He raised his hands defensively.

  “I’ve never used one,” he said.

  She sighed, tossed the sword onto the bed, and took off the heavy dangling earrings the ladies who bound her in the clothes insisted on.

  More of Porra, she thought, dropping the earrings on the nightstand. Maybe I’ll throw them out the window.

  “It’s like using a large knife,” she said, regarding the sword. “Apply the sharp part to the laces; this isn’t complicated.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Don’t worry, if you manage to cut my neck by accident, the queen might give you a title out of gratitude. You’ll be fine.”

  He picked up the sword, looking very much like someone who’d never held one before.

  “All right,” he said, swinging it around like he was holding a tree branch. “Lie down and we’ll see if I can’t add literal sword wielding to the list of things I’m capable of doing in the bedroom.”

  She spread out, face-down, on the bed. He climbed over her, knees astride.

  “This is almost my second-favorite position,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “No, don’t do that,” he said. “You move too much when you laugh. Think of dreadful things.”

  “I will endeavor,” she said.

  “Thank you. All right, here we go.”

  She felt a sharp tug and then the sound of tearing fabric.

  “How attached are you to this dress?” he asked.

  “I’m literally very attached to it at the moment. But once it’s off, I’d just as soon toss it in the fire.”

  “Good.” He put the sword down, grabbed two sides of the dress, and pulled. The fabric split easily, revealing a heavy undergarment.

  “Buttons,” he said. “I know how to do these. Just so I understand, you are under this somewhere, yes?”

  She laughed again. “Another three layers and you’ll find me.”

  “Thank goodness. I don’t have any other plans but all the same, I think it would be awkward for everyone if you weren’t here.”

  He went to work on the buttons. “So, if you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “who am I standing in for tonight?”

  “Can you not undo buttons without moving your mouth at the same time?”

  “I can do many things at the same time. You’ve gone to great lengths to make sure as many people saw us together as possible; I assumed that was for the benefit of at least one witness.”

  “You aren’t standing in for anyone,” she said.

  “Good to know.” He ran his fingers along her bare back. “All done.”

  “Thank the gods,” she said, rolling over and slipping out of the ruined dress and the petticoats. She still had on the boots, but nothing else.

  She retrieved her sword from the bed, and pointed it at Damid.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  It wasn’t fair to say that Battine had assumed sex with an outsider would be substantively different from sex with a local. But she wondered about it. Not that there could have been that much of a difference, aside maybe from regionally specific fetishes. Like, it could be that Inimatans were unreasonably preoccupied with toes, or Wivvolians with teeth.

  But if Damid Magly had any odd proclivities, they weren’t on display in either their first or second go-round. He was sturdy and he knew his way around, two facts that probably wouldn’t sound to him like compliments.

  One critique: he didn’t want to go to sleep when he was done. He wanted to talk.

  “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m dwelling on this,” he said. “And I want you to know that I truly don’t mind being used, but it would be much more pleasant if I knew why.”

  He was sitting up—again, instead of falling asleep like he should be—so she sat up as well.

  “That wasn’t adequately pleasant?” she asked.

  “Not what I’m saying. I’m saying you skipped ahead.”

  “If I waited for you to take the lead, we’d have never gotten here.”

  “Now you’re just deflecting. Come on, Battine, I know you went to see the king, and it’s obvious I’m here to piss someone off. Was this for Ken’s benefit or someone else? Just tell me who I should be avoiding for the next two days.”

  She sighed. “Both of them, I suppose.”

  “Kenson and…and Porra? Maybe I should leave the country now.”

  “Oh, they won’t bother you about it at all. It’s me, the unblessed that’s the problem. I’m the living instrument of the Outcast writ flesh and this is the role they expect me to play. So I’m playing it.”

  “All right,” he said. Then he fell silent for a while. But he didn’t lie down or roll over, so she knew he had more.

  “Another question,” he said.

  “I’ll be charging in sexual favors after this one,” she said. “Unless I don’t like it, and then I’ll just have you exiled to the hallway.”

  “Fair enough. Why haven’t you just left?”

  “Left the castle?”

  “Left the Middle Kingdoms. You had a chance, didn’t you? Your Haremisva?”

  He was referring to the ceremonial passage of a child to an adult. It was a Septal ritual that occurred just prior to an adherent’s ninth birthday, generally around their thirty-fifth season. Haremisva was celebrated in various forms around the world, but it held a particular significance in the nine kingdoms, because in the kingdoms Haremisva lasted for a year.

  The very first question a practicing Septal (and they were all practicing Septals) in the Middle Kingdoms was asked, on the occasion of their Haremisva, was whether they intended to stay or not. They weren’t expected to answer until the year was up; during that time the Haremisval was free to visit other countries and try out life on the outside. Pro
vided they returned within the year, their place in the Haven would remain secure.

  Most who were given this permission to leave didn’t do so, although this was likely more due to a lack of means than anything else. None of the countries to the north or south of the Middle Kingdoms were particularly appealing, either as places to live or as tourist attractions. A real Haremisva pilgrimage could mean traveling as far as Geo or Dorabon, and it was an economic reality that hardly anyone outside of the families and the top of the merchant class could afford to do that.

  “I thought about it,” she said.

  “Where did you go? I assume you traveled.”

  “No, nowhere. Stayed right here in the castle for the whole year. Just like every other year, save for when I attended studies at the Great Temple. Kenson went away, to Inimata. Didn’t return until his last day. That was a tough year.”

  “You two were close.”

  “Yes. But I’m done answering everyone’s questions tonight. Either we get some sleep or some exercise. No more talking.”

  “Yes princess.”

  “And don’t call me that.”

  Chapter Six

  Queen Porra Alcon of Totus kingdom sat on the edge of the loveseat in her dressing room and fumed in silence. She was alone, so there was no need for silence, but she felt certain that if she were to release the scream lingering at the back of her throat it would shatter the windows and bring down the walls.

  Battine, she thought. Battine, Battine, Battine. She always has to push.

  Never in the history of the nine kingdoms had an unblessed been less grateful for what they had than her sister. It wasn’t at all long ago that the families banished them outright. Before that, they were stoned, or drowned, or smothered in their sleep.

  Not Battine. Not stoned or drowned, smothered or banished. She was given a title and a castle with holdings. Deflower one future king and the world is yours.

  And yet she pushed.

  Porra looked at herself in the vanity mirror halfway across the room. She’d managed to remove half of her jewelry before deciding on the need to sit down and compose herself. It wouldn’t do to indulge in a tantrum. That wasn’t a luxury the queen was allowed.

  “But she can do as she wants,” she muttered.

  Word that the Princess Battine took the outsider—Magly or Bagly, Porra couldn’t recall—to her bed raced through court like a horse on fire. This, after her inappropriate private meeting with Kenson. The court wags would be talking about that delicious cause-and-effect cascade for weeks.

  Kenson was no help. Of course he wasn’t. He didn’t hear the whispers, or if he did he didn’t care about them. “It was a private meeting,” he’d said, after Porra had broken up their little engagement. “Who would know, and who would care?”

  “Only everybody,” Porra had said. “There are no secrets here.”

  The king had laughed at this. It was an…unstable sound. (“Is the king well?” was a familiar question of late, albeit never posed to Porra directly. It was always said in private, in places where she wasn’t supposed to be able to overhear, by someone—a lady in waiting, or a cousin, or one of the staff—pointing at their head to illustrate what kind of wellness was being scrutinized.)

  “This life is nothing but secrets,” he’d said. “The rest is the gossip of children.”

  Then he’d retired to his chambers, which were different from the queen’s chambers.

  The fact that they slept in separate beds dramatically underscored the last word he’d spoken.

  Children.

  King Ho-Kenson and Queen Porra had no heirs, and it appeared that unless someone took the time to remind him how babies are made, they never would.

  Something put him off the notion.

  If it was her, she didn’t know what it was that she’d done.

  When Porra looked at herself in the mirror—even in a mirror half a room away—she saw a young female Alcon, as beautiful as any other young female Alcon. Indeed, given she and Kenson were only a year apart, the face in her mirror looked only a little different than the face in his mirror. To be repulsed by her physically made little sense; they all looked like this.

  That was, of course, skirting the point, which was that she did not look like Battine Alconnot, the unblessed stain on the royal family. If Battine were capable of siring children, Porra had little doubt that Kenson would have defied the Five and turned her into the first outcast queen in history.

  But all of that was old news. He knew well before their marriage vows that he was getting Porra and not Battine. He knew this even before he was of age to take any such vows, and before the crown was his. And he knew that the continuance of the line was the reason he took those vows.

  Qad emmar ad offium, she thought. More than love, duty.

  It wasn’t her; the cause of his reluctance lay elsewhere. She just couldn’t work out exactly where.

  They’d gone to the Great Temple together, mere days after their mother Yewa passed.

  (Anticipation of the trip to the temple was no doubt what helped spur Porra’s foolish-in-hindsight insistence that her sister come to the Feast of Nita.)

  In the kingdoms, blessed had to declare their intent to bear a child, and then they had to go to the Great Temple for a weekend for something called pre-conception counseling. The exact nature of that counseling wasn’t public knowledge, so Porra didn’t know what to expect. What she got out of it was a half-day of touring the place she’d be staying once the pregnancy was confirmed. (All royals carried to term on Temple Island when at all possible.)

  What Kenson got out of it, she didn’t know; they were separated on their first morning. What she did know was that he returned from the trip listless and disinterested…and he’d only gotten worse since. But he was only one of hundreds upon hundreds of kings who’d received the same counseling; it couldn’t have been that.

  It had to be about Battine. Something he saw or heard there reminded him of the love he swore up and down he’d outgrown years ago.

  “Gods damn her,” she muttered. “Again.”

  How could an unblessed still wield such power? How had Porra allowed her to?

  No matter. If Batt didn’t leave of her own accord by morning—especially after her outrageousness with the visitor from Inimata—Porra would ask her to leave. With the palace guard at her back, if necessary.

  “Enough,” she said, standing. She walked to the edge of the room and pulled on a cord, which sounded a bell in the room next door. Instantly, six ladies bustled into the room.

  “Your majesty,” they said, in something like unison.

  Porra raised her arms above her head, so they could reach the pins holding the back of the dress in place.

  “I’m ready to retire now,” she said.

  In the forty minutes it took to extract Porra from her clothing and remove all of her jewelry and makeup, the ladies managed to gossip non-stop about every possible subject imaginable except for Porra’s sister or the outsider. This reflected a degree of political acumen belied by their age and gender. It was also what made them so valuable to Porra; they were a direct channel to the pulse of the court. What people allowed themselves to say in front of and to a pretty girl was just breathtaking. This was why Kenson’s nonchalance about the persistent whispers so enraged her; he didn’t hear them, but it was all she heard.

  When they were done, they escorted her to her bedchamber.

  “Stoke the fire,” Porra said. “I feel a chill coming on. And Vexy? Please notify the king that I’m retiring for the evening?”

  “Yes mum,” Vexy said. She was a sharp one; reminded Porra of herself in a number of ways. Her father was a textiles merchant with a good professional relationship with Mursk and Wivvol, two of their southern neighbors. If Vexy was very lucky, once her bosoms properly bloomed she’d catch the eye of a royal a safe distance from the crown.

  “Will you be wanting morning bells, my queen?” another of the girls—Aleiti was her name—a
sked. Porra knew considerably less about Aleiti’s life, because the girl didn’t interest her.

  “Yes, by six,” Porra said. “I’ll see off the hunt at the break of day.”

  “Of course.”

  “My queen,” Vexy said. She was at the door which led to the common room, on the other side of which was the king’s bedchamber. “Sorry to say his majesty isn’t in chambers.”

  “He’s not…but we only just…Are you certain?”

  “Yes mum.”

  All the girls had stopped what they were doing. They appeared paralyzed by thoughts they couldn’t express.

  Laughter. That was what they were containing. These little bitches were laughing at her.

  “Leave me,” Porra said.

  They did, silently and immediately.

  Porra climbed out of bed, threw a wrap around her shoulders, and walked across the cold stone floor of the common room to the king’s bedchamber.

  It was indeed empty. He had no further engagements for the night; she knew this because she knew his schedule better than he did. If there was a matter of state, she would have been notified.

  Thus, he was doing something he didn’t want her to know about.

  She walked around the room for a bit, if only because he never invited her in himself. No fire, and his bedclothes were still where they’d been set out by the staff; he never even began the process of retiring.

  There was a scrap of paper on the floor under the writing desk. It looked as if it had been meant for a waste bin, only whoever tossed it there had bad aim.

  It was a note.

  We must meet tonight, it read. Can’t wait another day. It was signed, Your old friend, Damid.

  Porra had to read the note several times before it came to her precisely who “Damid” was. That he was anyone’s “old friend” was new information. He was also the man Battine took to bed, which meant…she didn’t know what it meant, but Battine was at the center of it, clearly.

  Again.

  Porra hurried back to her own bedchamber and went straight to the bottom drawer in her writing desk.