by Garon Whited
Prince Larsus, as appears to be traditional, invited me to dinner. It was a pretty good dinner, too, by most standards. I had a little trouble with it, mainly in keeping a straight face through some of the dishes. He likes his food… um… “flavorful,” I think is the kindest term. I smiled and chatted and ate it to make Mom proud of her good little monster.
Although, if you ever have the opportunity to pass on their local hot sauce, do.
After dinner, he waved his personal guards away and invited me to take a walk with him. I blinked, waved away my three, and walked with him along the battlement-roof of the castle he called home.
“Lord Halar,” he began, cane clicking as we strolled, “I am told that you are the last of the Lords of Night.”
“That’s what they tell me, too. I don’t know of any others that are still around.”
“What are your intentions toward Rethven?”
“Toward—? Oh. I don’t have any intentions. My goal, here, is to find Byrne, pummel it until they cry for mercy, and then punish those responsible for giving me grief. After that, I plan to go home and pretty much ignore Rethven, except as it figures into our trading policies.”
“I had thought you intended to conquer old Rethven and assume the throne.”
“Whatever for?” I countered. “I hate being a king. I can’t think of anything more boring. That’s why I have a council and make them do most of the ruling.”
“Truly?” he asked, grizzled eyebrows rising.
“You bet. They only need me for interesting stuff—King’s Justice, that sort of thing. Political crap bores me to tears.”
“You interest me strangely,” Larsus said. “You are a king, much-beloved by your subjects, yet you are a blood-drinking monster from the Elder Days.”
“Elder Days?”
“The days before the Church of Light drove out the darkness. When I heard of you and the fall of that Church, I asked my tutor why darkness did not spread over all the world. It seemed a good question. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose it would. But why would I want that? I just want to be left alone to do my own thing.”
“Yes, I have heard that, as well. Is it true that you take the living down the paths of the dead and into to next world?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I just escort them to the Grey Lady and she does the work. Depends on their preference, really.” I didn’t add that anyone trying to kill me was expressing a preference for the express route in the afterlife through my digestive tract.
“Yet, you are reputed to be a worker of miracles in keeping people from death.”
“Paradoxical, isn’t it?” I chuckled. “You could say that, knowing as much as I do about dying, I’m good at knowing what keeps someone from doing it.”
“That would follow, I suppose. Yet I have never heard even a legend of one of your kind doing such things.”
“You mean, a legend about our good deeds and our proper place in the scheme of things that survived the era of the Church of Light?”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Yes, I see.”
We walked along the roof, reached a sentry at his corner, nodded at his salute, turned, continued walking.
“You have raised up a mighty army,” he noted, nodding toward the forces camped beyond the city wall in the evening light.
“And some of them will still die,” I noted.
“Does that bother you?”
“Immensely.”
“Why?”
“They came to fight for me, their King. I don’t like other people doing my fighting for me, not when they could get killed doing it. I’ve never liked it. It’s my kingdom, so it’s my responsibility.” I gestured at the encamped troops. “They are my responsibility, and every one of them that dies is my failure.”
Larsus stopped walking and leaned on his cane. He looked at me with a hard, evaluating gaze.
“And what would you do if I told you that my men are, even now, scattered through your encampment, about to ambush your army?”
“I would throw you off this roof hard enough to make you splash on the courtyard stones, then sound the alarm, fight your ambushers, and then turn my attention to reducing your city to gravel and flaming ruins.”
“And what of my family?”
“If they surrender, they won’t be harmed. The ones who fight will die.”
We looked at each other for long seconds. Finally, he smiled and nodded.
“Then it is a good thing I have chosen to side with you,” he said, turning and walking again. After a moment, I moved up beside him and fell into step with him.
“That was a test?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“A test of what?”
“If you do not know, then it is even more valid,” he observed.
“I passed it. Can I know now?”
“No, I think not. It would do one such as you no good to know, anyway.”
I didn’t ask what he meant by one such as you. Either he was referring to my monster tendencies or my naïveté. Either way, I didn’t want to go down that road.
“So, why are we up here, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“You have a reputation for working miracles, for ruthless punishment of the guilty, for remarkable mercy and generosity, and for other things. I am interested in a miracle.”
“What sort?”
“Can you bring back the dead?”
“To talk to? Or pull them out of the ground and give them life again?”
“The second.”
“No.”
He grunted and we walked several paces in silence.
“Forty years ago, I had a dream,” he said, quietly. “I saw Rethven reunited, a whole kingdom again. A crown of fire hovered over the throne in Carrillon, shining with justice and mercy, while a scepter of darkness smote the wicked. It changed me, that night, from a worthless, callow youth into a man. It gave me purpose. It gave meaning to my life.
“Since that night, I have thought and fought, making Philemon stronger than ever before, seeking to make that dream come true.
“Now,” he said, almost whispering, “all my sons are dead, lost to war and disease. I have only daughters…” he trailed off, seeking words. “They cannot fulfill my dream. Some have spirit, drive, lacking only the proper gender. Others are truly useless things, fit only as decoration and the production of heirs.”
We rounded another corner of the castle roof, nodding at the saluting sentry as we did.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“Marry my daughter—any of them that pleases you. Rule Philemon as part of your kingdom. Promise me that one day you will take the capitol to Carrillon and restore Rethven, and that my line will live on in yours.”
It was my turn to be silent for several paces. If he wasn’t lying through his teeth, the important thing was the reunification of a shattered kingdom. If he was lying, it was a good one. Since he was a professional aristocrat, I assumed there was more to it.
“What,” I asked, “makes you think this is a good idea?”
“I will have a daughter with a strong husband, one who can rule wisely and well—or who has a council that can do so. She will bear you sons and combine two noble lines. And you will have Philemon as a place to call yours, here, on this side of the Eastrange. With this as a base of operations, you could do what Byrne cannot: conquer all of Rethven without killing every prince in every city.”
“Oh?” I had my own ideas on whether or not I’d have to kill every prince, but it wasn’t a good time to mention that. And, while I don’t like to murder people, there was one prince that was on my “better dead” list anyway. I may not have learned my lesson with Tobias, but I didn’t disregard it entirely, either.
“Yes. The princes of Rethven will not bow before each other; we are peers. But you, coming from beyond Rethven, bringing with you an army unlike any other and a legend that casts such a long shadow before it… you could persuade Baret to join you, and with P
hilemon on one side and Baret on the other, Wexbry would see wisdom. From there…” he shrugged. “I believe it would take some time, if a bloodless revolution is your preference, possibly longer than my daughter’s lifetime, but you have time, do you not?”
I thought about it. He had a point. Submission to an external, overwhelming force might actually be easier than bending the knee to your neighbor, especially if it could be put in terms of alliances rather than subjugation. It’s a pride thing.
“Why should I marry your daughter?” I asked. “More to the point, why do you want me, specifically? You do know I’m a blood-drinking monster; you said so.”
“Yet you have thousands who follow you for no greater reason than their love for you,” he reminded me. “Perhaps there is no greater reason. My spies also tell me much of your policies as King, your people, how they prosper under your rule, your kindness even to those you owe nothing, and your vengeance on those who would harm those you love.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you would never love any of my daughters, but you would honor our agreement until the end of her days.”
“Spies, huh?”
“Call them observers, if you wish. You have your own, I feel sure.”
“Fair point. But why should I marry her? I could manage to re-take Rethven without that help; it would just take longer. And I have time, as you noted.”
“But can you be sure that you will take Byrne?” he asked. I didn’t answer immediately. “If you marry my eldest, Lissette,” he continued, “I will declare for you, becoming the Duke of Philemon—or Count, or Baron, whatever Your Majesty decides—and my men will become your men. My domain may not be as extensive as some, but I field a force much larger than a typical city, as well. Agree to my proposal, I entreat you. Marry Lissette. Be our King. Then will I give you three thousand fighting men.”
Son of a bitch.
After explaining that I needed to consult with some councilors, we went inside. I got out my mini-mirror and called Tort, asked her to get people together at her end; I’d be calling back on the main mirror we’d brought with us.
Then I had a brief attack of sunset, cleaned up, and went out to find my war-tent. This was not a decision I wanted to make alone.
You know how I know I’m terrible at being a king? My biggest concern was how Tort was going to take the idea. If I was a good king, I’d be more concerned with what was best for the kingdom, not for my girlfriend. While I might not be “in love” with Tort, as such, I still love Tort; she’s important to me. Her happiness is important to me.
Come to think of it, though… she might take it well and bounce toward someone familiar, like Thomen. That could work out; I have no doubt he would be a much better significant other for her. But it would hurt her to make the transition like that, and I won’t have it. If Tort is dead-set against it, it’s not going to happen.
See what I mean? Terrible at being a king. I’m not so good at being a social engineer, either, apparently. Even for a semi-undead monster, I suck.
We gathered together in the big tent, set up the mirror, and we had our meeting. Tort looked out from the mirror and Amber looked out from the mirror behind Tort—a fiery reflection in a reflection, a conference call. I explained the deal Larsus offered and told them to discuss it. There followed an awkward, thoughtful silence. Kammen broke it.
“Is she pretty?” he asked. Everyone stared at him for a heartbeat, then Torvil and Seldar burst out laughing, followed by everyone else.
“I have no idea,” I admitted, once I got the upper hand on my mirth. It felt really good to have the tension break open like that. “I haven’t seen any of them and I didn’t ask. Besides, Larsus is suggesting his eldest—Lissette, whoever she is. This isn’t about looks or personal feelings. This is about a political alliance.”
“I know. But you can still pick the prettiest one, right?”
I looked at him with a new suspicion. Kammen doesn’t always seem the smartest guy in the room. Now I wonder.
“I suppose I could,” I answered, “but this is a political marriage, not a love affair. I’ll be interviewing the girls later. For now, discuss the deal itself, not the qualities of the prospective Queen,” I prompted, and they did.
They hammered out the pros and cons fairly quickly. We would get a foothold in Rethven, a lot of troops, much more support from a local city, a major trading partner (especially since Baret would let Karvalen goods and transport pass without fees), a Queen, and, in time, an heir that wasn’t dedicated-by-default to a particular religion.
I didn’t say anything about that last. I think Tianna might grow up to do a fine job of being Queen of Karvalen. She has that stubborn, independent streak. Better yet, her mother is a trifle disappointed or disillusioned with her goddess. It could work out.
On the other hand, this would foreclose the option of marrying politically anywhere else, and Philemon was, when you got right down to it, a small city. Carrillon would be a much better move, politically… but they weren’t offering. And Philemon, as part of the Kingdom of Karvalen, would require a hefty garrison, surrounded as it was on three sides by other political powers. There was no easy access between Karvalen and Philemon for any sort of rapid response to a military threat.
The consensus was that they were reluctant to spend my political capital—that is, the chance to marry the King of Karvalen—so quickly. On the other hand, the gains were definite, material, and immediate, as well as having the potential to play a significant role in a long-term strategy to reunite the whole of Rethven.
To my surprise, Tort was the one who finally called for a vote, then threw down the first vote in favor of marrying me off.
I didn’t know whether to feel relieved, affronted, or scared. I settled on scared. I usually do; I frighten easily. I could use a running chicken on a yellow field as my heraldic device.
The rest of my councilors voted with her until it was Amber’s turn.
“How soon will the marriage take place?” she wanted to know. It was hard to hear her; her voice was quieter without a fleshy throat. I resolved to build a legitimate conference call system for the mirrors.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I got the impression it would be immediate.”
“How will that affect the war?”
“We double the size of the army?” I asked, puzzled.
“I mean, how will this affect your participation in it? Will you wait until your hair grows long again?”
Marriage. I wondered if I should test Larsus’ daughters to find one good with a razor. Suddenly, my scalp itched.
“I doubt,” Torvil said, “that His Majesty will be participating in any actual combat.”
“The hell I won’t,” I replied.
“I withdraw the comment,” Torvil said, faintly, and all three of them looked more worried.
“Someone explain to me this custom about the groom getting a haircut at the wedding,” I said.
They explained, in various ways, about the bride either cutting the groom’s hair or shaving his head; it varied according to taste. The custom seemed to be similar to a honeymoon. During the hair-growing period, the newlyweds were pretty much off-limits. The two were supposed to be on their best behavior for each other as they moved into their marriage. For the weeks or months involved, they built good habits for living with each other.
It also provided them with a cooling-off period for disgruntled suitors, angry fathers, and similar disruptions. Taken to an extreme, it could be used as a dodge to get out of military service, but that was usually regarded as going a bit too far. The goal was to provide the couple a period of social tranquility and reduced worries, not a get out of the draft free card.
“All right,” I said, finally, “I think I get it. First, I’m not getting my head shaved. Second, if I feel I need to get down into the fight, I will. With that understanding, do we still think this marriage is a good idea?”
They did.
Well, crap.
It looks like we’re h
aving a wedding.
Monday, August 9th
Instead of interviewing the prospective brides, I sought out a lady who served the household as one of the nannies/governesses/whatever. I got her opinions on the children, which narrowed the list considerably. The daughters’ ages did a lot of that; they were nineteen, sixteen, twelve, eleven, and ten. That gave me two that I might consider. Then she told me that the eldest was unladylike and totally beyond control, playing at being a warrior, while the next eldest, the sixteen-year-old, was very much a lady—loved fine dresses, jewelry, and all the luxuries that a princess should.
Turns out Larsus thought much as I did, although for different reasons. Lissette was the eldest, and at nineteen, verging on old maid. Add to that her tendency to enjoy swordplay more than wordplay, or musical plays, or just about any other form of recreation… yeah, he was going to have a hard time marrying her off to anyone else.
I give Larsus this: He doesn’t dawdle. There’s a war on, and he knows it. He didn’t waste any time and he didn’t waste any effort on overwhelming pomp and ceremony. A high stage was constructed, some bunting applied, and a trio of priests appointed—apparently, there are separate goddesses for marriage (Hekalia) and love (Frianna), plus a god who oversees the fairness of bargains, contracts, and agreements (Mector).
He didn’t press the point about the bride shaving my head. Smart man.
Armor all polished up, Bronze gleaming, Firebrand on its best behavior, leather clean and oiled, banner flapping from my (borrowed) lance, I rode up to the platform while the audience of thousands watched. I think I managed to climb the steps with something resembling dignity. The rest of the ceremonial party was already waiting, as is the custom. I ritually parted the guards around my prospective bride, “forcing” them aside, and took her hand.
