The bank could wait until early morning, and with any luck, he'd have beaten the bustle of Thornhall's epicenter.
Which was all well and good, until he arrived at the lush inn, was escorted to a chamber perhaps more grand than his own, only to find himself alone with his thoughts and the rich, magnificent surroundings. For a time, he merely stood there, staring at the canopied bed, the white fur the chiffon rippled down over. Most of Thornhall was oceanside, and the inn bordering the stilt rise of the citadel was no exception. From the open oriel window, the drone of the heavy waters did precisely what they did back at the royal apartments: mysteriously sucked the sound from the bedchamber, replacing it with a peculiar warp and buzz of ocean life that seemed far closer than it truly was.
He started there, closing the windows promptly, though he found himself then gazing out at the rocky decline. The Sirista's words had a drone of their own, reverberating in his head on and on, until moments, perhaps even hours later, he found himself opening his eyes slowly, head resting against the cool surface of the glass, staring out at the distance.
Funny, he thought morbidly, how much salt was in the ocean. Why not just perform the purification process there? A limitless supply of salt to apply to the skin the Lady Constance would open upon his wife's back with the whip, but even funnier than that, he found all things even mildly related to the open waters...personal. Sacred, because the only time he'd ever come to appreciate it had been when he'd been with her.
The next time he closed his eyes in a blink, he opened them to find himself collapsed fully clothed on the bed, staring up at the fall of chiffon.
That damn Father was out of his mind to even for a moment think to pair the Lady Constance's holy virtue to Rhenan's nonexistent one. And a wedding? When would this even occur—before or after his own to the heretic? Which would the people laugh at more?
Not that he exactly cared whether or not they mocked the wedding, but him.
And a place away from his father's degeneracy to conduct Princess Astrid's purification... Where did such a hidden place even exist? Did Lady Constance believe he had remote access to secret dungeons made precisely for conversion or torture? Did he look that much like his brother?
His lids closed again and didn't open until there was a knock on the door.
"Your Highness, the innkeeper and kitchen staff enquire upon your much anticipated attendance to dinner."
He didn't remember sending the messenger away. He didn't even recall the sudden wave of sleep to crash over him, but the fourth time he peeled open his eyes from the slew of forgetfulness, he gazed through the window at the great orange ball pasted over the ocean. Was it rising or falling? Rising in the west or east?
His clothing was strangely fastened to his torso and limbs, clammy and sticking uncomfortably, and when he rose, the draft to take him made him all too aware of the excessive dampness cloying at his skin. Pushing himself to a stand, he found the furs disturbingly wet. What would the cleaning maids think of that?
Another knock, this one decidedly hesitant and quiet.
"Enter," he commanded, swiping his sleeve over his forehead then frowning at the cold, drenched material.
The doors opened slowly, the boy dressed in red and black garb bowing deeply, and when he spoke, his voice, or rather the stammer, reminded him all too much of a certain someone. "Y-your Highness, forgive the... um, intrusion, b-but your carriage..."
Unlike the other someone, for this boy, he had close to no patience. "On with it or have another relay it."
Visibly stiffening, he said quietly, "Your carriage is ready."
For what?
The bank.
Now he was the one to stiffen. "Why was I not woken sooner?!"
The boy dared a tentative glance up, having yet to rise from his bow. "We tried, Your Highness. You sent them all away."
From the tone the boy used, he gathered it was in no kind manner of which he'd done so.
"Water," he bid the messenger. "And tell my men I will be ready shortly."
With more stammers and clearing of the throat, the boy departed finally, a servant reappearing with his request before he was yet again left alone. And only when he stood, swallowing one of the few remaining black capsules, did he notice that errant drone of the ocean again. Eyes narrowed, he turned a glare to the windows to find them hanging wide open when he'd swear he'd had them closed.
Upon inspection, he found the distant sky to be bruised black and grey with telltale storm clouds, the sun's rising nowhere to be found, though that too, he'd swear he'd seen.
*****
Thornhall Castle, Redthorn
He was indeed the first to arrive at the ten feet tall doors of the Citadel Bank, a heavily rusted bell the size of a shipping crate dangling over the entrance, the brick work brightened a pale pink by the stucco finish. Why was it all of the venues, from left to right, favoured a similar build? The structure was located on a slight inclination, and as he craned his head to the very top where the winding avenue curled out of sight, he saw only buildings of brick, paste and stucco. Perhaps it was because the Sirista was so tightly woven in this region of Thornhall, that its simplicity had influenced its architecture.
Luckily, the walks were blessedly vacant, no one around to spot the prince and make a scene of it. Perhaps the portent storm had steered the wiser away. Should it not have, he wore his hooded maroon cloak, and the only sign of royalty to his person were the guards which flanked him from a distance.
Inside, he waited in the antechamber, receiving nondiscrete questioning glances from each and every robed figure to pass him by. Most of them were old and almost all of them wore thin-framed spectacles, moseying by with a rather off-putting hunch about their spines. It was perfectly clear these dark wooden walls had never seen royalty before, let alone serviced them or knew the polite manner in which to do so.
The air was musty, a scent brought on by none other than that of truly aged paper and decaying leather, and the seats were suspiciously clean, contradicting the rest of the environment.
Tristian stood, arms crossed, staring at all of those who stared, his mask blank, theirs curious and only a little hostile.
The banker who met with him was perhaps the shortest man he'd ever seen in all of his days. Not quite like a dwarf, for his proportions were proper, but his frame was meek, his head bald, his eyes big and brown and the brown robe he wore surely had to be first tailored for a child's height before presented to him.
Moreover, he openly expressed his dislike of Tristian by the grumbled command for him to follow.
By nature, Tristian stood rooted, waiting.
The old man glanced over his shoulder, ominous eyes challenging his own. "You have lead in yer shoes, boy?"
"In the event your sight has failed you completely, allow me to inform: I am royalty. You are nothing. Your introduction was poor, as is your attitude. I'll have a separate banker. And you, old croon, are officially relieved of your position."
"Oh, I am?" said the scrawny creature. "A shame that would be, seeing as I am the only qualified banker and accountant to have dared to show his face on a morning as dark as this one."
Tristian gritted his teeth. "Then who are the other unsightly shadows skulking by?"
"Record keepers. Now do you wish to discuss monetary matters or stand there and complain, as is a most profound talent of all royals?"
Left with no other option, he followed.
Their talks went as well as one could expect: disastrous. Partly due to the nature of their discussions—the banker revealing information that inflamed Tristian beyond his own comprehension. Then due to the banker withholding information that inflamed Tristian even further.
Because he was but a prince, said the soon-to-be-workless banker, some files—namely those in relations to the crown, king and queen's accounts—are simply unattainable by you. Honestly, no matter the extent of your temper, I cannot go against the law your father and his father's father enforced. After
all, this is the Citadel Bank. We do not abide under threat nor bribery like that of the Royal Banks. Would that be all, Prince Tristian? Would you like an escort to your carriage?
Removing the man from his station had suddenly not been enough. Rather than see the task done, he merely took the man's name and traveled back the direction of the castle, where, as the banker had been correct in stating, the bankers did indeed abide under threat or bribery.
He returned to the familiar erect structure of stone and ever-living life of the court, making way straight for the Royal Bank, a modest estate posted west of the Great Hall, and seeing as he was not one for bribery, he retrieved the sought after documents in no time at all.
Their contents sent him storming across the bayards, through the already heavily pouring rain, and straight for his father's study.
*****
He turned a corner within the castle and nearly ran directly into his brother. The man cantered aside in one fluid motion, then cocked his head at his brother's hurried state.
"Should I be worried?" Rhenan asked in a voice that said clearly that, even if he should have been, he would not have been. He was dressed as per his usual feral habits—black leathers and wools and deadly weaponry slowly becoming one with his flesh and bones, braid tucked in the heavily adorned top attire, front curls shorter and dripping as though he too had just come from the outdoors.
In his rush, Tristian had forgotten to rid of the wet cloak draped down his form, having lowered the hood. The humidity and rain left his hair awry, his vision interrupted here and there, but even as the irksome strands dried and stuck to his skin, he cared little of his appearance just this once.
Greater matters.
Horrendous matters.
"Tell me," Tristian started through gritted teeth as he removed the retrieved documents from its scroll seal and practically shoved the yellowed papers in Rhenan's face. "That I do not see a dash, a negative mark, in front of the crown's holdings."
Rhenan looked at the paper, though his eyes didn't truly look at the scrawled ink. "Negative mark... Like the crown has been naughty?"
"No, Rhenan!" he growled, then lowered his voice to a hiss. "Like the crown is in debt. One million and five hundred thousand roses in debt."
"Oh," his brother said.
"Oh?!"
A shrug. "I've already known this. What's taken you so long? Oh, wait, I recall. You told me it was none of your concern. Father's profligacy has been going on for years now. His insistent submission to the western lands' demands were bound to corrupt the crown's funds sooner or later. Not to mention the five trade ships he sent across seas in his endless pursuit of tree silk. Also, not to mention his excessive incursions of festivity. And, not to mention—"
"That is not all," Tristian ground out, pondering if he would greet his father with words or his fist. "He borrowed funds from my personal account!"
Another shrug, and Tristian nearly gave his brother the fist reserved for their father. "You should have moved it to a private one, or even an unlawful, funneled one. Really, Tristian, I'm surprised you didn't predict this."
"Has Mama not been keeping record of this? Has she not made attempts to stop it?!" Here he'd gone on to instigate the lower economical state of the Lymereans and here...
"Where are you going?" Rhenan called out, heavy on his suddenly storming heels.
"To have a word with Father." He knew the man was wide awake, for he would never miss breakfast and Mama had likely woken him even earlier to get the incompetent fool dressed. And as per usual, "I know he's playing with those infuriating boats!"
Rhenan, now laughing behind him, said, "Are you going to scold the king? A slap upon the risk and take away his toys?"
He ignored him, marching through the halls, leaving a wet trail upon the marble floors all the way to the threshold of his father's study, where upon a reluctant but required knock, the king told the guards to welcome them inside.
No sooner was Tristian smacking the paper onto the special crafted desk, unable to hold back his snarls.
Sure enough, King Gregor sat bent over the desk, head down as he tinkered and controlled model ships and boats, pushing them through the imitation rivers carved into the desk and its shallow waters, quite possibly excreting a child's mimicry of the boats and its sailors. But the man halted at once upon the presentation of the bank documents, his gaze slowly traveling up Tristian's arm to meet his furious visage.
"My son!"
"No," Tristian grated, pounding a fist atop the papers, the water in the desk splashing from the jar. "This will be no moment of ignorance, Father, for you know exactly what you've done."
The king glanced briefly to Rhenan who was making himself comfortable in the chair before the desk. "Oh? What have I done, son? Sit, speak with your fa—"
"You put the crown in debt! You borrowed funds not only from across the seas, but from my personal account. And you did so knowingly."
Gold eyes had the temerity to look perplexed, puzzled, then a large hand went scruffing at his greying beard. "I don't believe I have—"
Tristian stabbed a finger at one of the six copies signed and dated by the king himself.
His father squinted as he read, still stroking his beard, then glanced up when finished. "Mmm, so I have." A jovial laugh followed, and Tristian resisted cramming the material down the man's throat and saying the king had merely lost his mind and tried to devour his crimes.
Instead, he did nothing more than close his eyes, forcing himself to recede back into that plane where emotions ceased to persist. A place so cold, the ice climbed through his blood and left him numb to it all. The fire in his abdomen died away, the rage haggling at the back of his tongue dissolving, replaced by the fuzz and churn of chills. The sound of the rain pouring, going rampant against the long, glass scale of the study's windows became the only sound.
When he opened his eyes, he dropped into the seat beside his brother and looked across at the king who had resumed his pushing of the boats. "I spoke with Father Conwell and Lady Constance. I told them of the void union."
"A brave deed, son, for I'd have simply written a letter," said his father without gazing up.
Of course he would have. "While dismayed by the turn of circumstances, the Father was insistent on reconciliation."
"And how so?"
"He demands a marriage of royal blood, regardless of the face attached." When the sentence drew forth no response from either male, Tristian sighed and specified, "He would see my brother and Lady Constance wed."
"What?!" exclaimed his brother.
"A marvelous idea!" proclaimed his father.
"W-wed?" Rhenan had sat up straight in the wingback chair, eyes wide. "Has the Father taken ill? Does he not know me?"
Tristian flicked a wrist. This, he'd already had the pleasure of musing internally. If one removed the characters behind the two destined to be wed, truly, it was not a bad union. He could not say the same for his and Astrid's, for that was a conflict of faith on a much integrated level.
"Well," Rhenan said slowly. "I've never spoken to the girl myself. Is she one I might—"
"No," Tristian negated instantly, then to his father, "The primary concern here should be the funds for both weddings. I've yet to decide which would be best to glamourise more, my own or my brother's. I could well marry Princess Astrid in a wine cellar, but to do so would subtract from the appeal and acceptance of the union. But if I am to be as profligate as my father is in all things, the Sirista may see this as further insult. Not to mention, the crown has no funds to fund either and I am certain, upon reviewing this with Mama, she will agree it is a horrendous idea to borrow further from separate kingdoms. Not until the debt is resolved."
Gregor huffed once, then conceded that the topic was worthy of his attention. He shifted from the boats to glance over the documents again. "Your mother's account—"
"We are not even thinking about Mama's account. We'll be lucky if she lives to see another day afte
r this is shown to her."
Now this struck true fear into the king, his father reaching across the table to snag Tristian's cuff. "Boys, you mustn't tell your mother of this. She is under the impression the kingdom is very much afloat and prospering. If she hears otherwise, the blame will be beset upon me and then it is I whom she will direct her disappointment."
Yanking back possession of his hand, Tristian glared. "You should have considered this before your reckless spendings."
"Aw, Tristian, be nice to Father," said Rhenan. "We will fix this. The weddings will go on."
"It is one thing to say it, another to see it done."
Rhenan shrugged. "I'll pay for my own wedding. And you didn't say Father borrowed you into debt, so surely you've funds enough for an extravagant show of your own?"
On this, Tristian faltered. "The funds are indeed my own. The wedding is a public matter and should naturally be funded by the crown."
"But you never utilise your funds," Rhenan reasoned. "Why not deplete them on the little ice lily? Or better, have them fund the wedding."
He would sooner throw himself into the Oreum than look to the heretics for a solution. He said so. Then he added, "And I've plans for my own funds."
"Such as?" His brother looked to him with full curiosity now, his father doing the same.
Not that it was anything to hide. "I visited the Citadel Bank today and received records of the available plots of land near to the castle. I wish to purchase one of them and have a chateau built upon them. As it is a personal desire, it requires personal funds. Something Father clearly has no concept of."
"Build a chateau?" Gregor asked, overlooking the other commentary.
"Yes, Father, build a chateau."
"For... what?"
"For Astrid."
Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1) Page 37
