"He sacrificed his own men to save himself."
The Queen nodded, she'd done much the same. No one won a war by being the good guy. "Toss a title or a scrap of land to a man and he'll fight to the death for you. Ignore him and he'll convince twenty of his fellows to abandon you."
Aldrin swallowed the news hard, like one of Mitrione's dinner rolls, but he could see the bitter nugget of wisdom. After all, what was another piece of his soul? Eventually, he nodded to her, fine, let the Knight have his accolades.
"Excellent," Moren clapped her hands, happy her puppet was performing, "I have arranged a small, courtly proceeding. Nothing too fancy, we can't afford it. You'll simply give your generous thanks and dole out a few words of triumph and hope for the kingdom. I already have Barnabas working on your speech."
Aldrin's head rose and he looked deep into those calculating eyes. A small smile curled around the edges of his lips, but he flushed all emotion from his voice, "Very well. If I must."
"'Ey, stop poking!"
"If I were poking, you'd know it."
"How's that?
"You'd be bleeding all over the floor," Isa responded to Kynton as she poked him again with her finger and laughed. A genuine, almost warm laugh. The priest's jaw hit the floor.
Ciara shook her head, and turned her eyes to the procession before them. A handful of men stood at attention around an empty chair. Not much had been said about this gathering, only to round up everyone in the castle and get them to the great hall. King's orders.
She hadn't seen Aldrin since the whole tower's roof exploding incident, he'd been swept up by a wall of stone and politics. A small part of her suspected she'd never really see him again, the boy had been drown out by King Bonaventure. He really needed a better first name.
"Oi! Why don't you poke Ciara instead? She's just as much in the way as me," Kynton waved his hands at the witch, snapping from a lack of sleep and a lack of bacon in his gut. Cursed witch downed the last strip just as he got to the kitchen.
"Because she's still in armor, you moron," Isa countered. Then looked over at Ciara, "Why are you still in that, anyway?"
Ciara shrugged, her shoulders jangling, "It's comfortable enough."
The short man who looked more like a basset hound haunted about at the foot of the makeshift throne and cleared his throat. When that had no affect, he banged a stick that looked a lot like Isa's discarded staff against the ground three times. "All shall rise for our Lord."
This earned a strange glance from the assembled minions, who were already standing. Maybe they were supposed to stand more? Whispers and murmurs replaced the silence as everyone tried to determine how best to not piss off their new king. Starting off on the wrong foot with royalty was a good way to lose said foot, and possibly your head.
"Oh, for Scepticar's sake," Ciara muttered, before holding her hands up to her face and shouting, "Get On With It!"
The basset hound blanched at her lack of decorum, his chest puffing like a bird about to face down a rival. Ciara only laughed back in response. She'd never hear the end of it from her mother later.
A familiar blonde head poked about from the side entrance, his eyes scanning the crowd. Before he could find whatever he searched for, Aldrin felt the thousand pound stare of very bored, very assembled citizens. He shuffled out into the hall as every eye followed him, trying to muster up a bit of dignity even as the royal clothes scratched his skin. He missed the old, ratty tunic.
Moren followed quickly behind, her presence enthusing her men, as their clapping and cheering overtook the others. The few servants politely brought their hands together, and Albrant's men glared on. They'd lost so many while the Queen waited.
"Yes, jolly good. Wonderful show," Kynton clapped enthusiastically, holding his hands above his head. "Was that it? Can we go now?"
"Shut up, priest," Isa muttered, poking him in the side with her elbow again.
Aldrin paused before the chair extracted from the kitchen and set aside specially as his throne, then he looked out at the sea of faces, each without their own place to sit. "My lord," the toady insisted, pointing towards the cushioned seat.
Instead, Bonaventure turned to face his subjects for the first time as something other than the spare prince. "My people..." Moren's lips tightened at his decision to ignore decorum and remain standing, but she softened as the crowd clapped.
"I stand before you, not because of any work of my own, or any of my own skill." The crowd murmured, yes, it was rather obvious. Look at those arms. But Aldrin ignored it, his hands outstretched as he continued the part-time bard's words, "but because of you. Each of you sacrificed to bring us to this day."
Barnabas nodded, his lips moving along to his speech. Slowly, Aldrin walked towards the crowd, the men parting to let him pass as he talked, "Blood, lives, sweat and more blood. Each were shed to defend our home, to keep safe our home from the greed of the snaking Empire and their false god."
That got a fresh round of applause, which lit up Barnabas' face. Aldrin paused, waiting for the fervor to die down. "I could not stand here today were it not for you," his eyes searched the crowd and he paused upon the lone bit of color in a sea of white. Aldrin faltered for a moment, and with a dusky voice said, "and you will always be in my heart."
Barnabas looked over at Moren; the kid had gone way off script. The Queen tried to politely cough, and quickly intoned the next line under her breath. But Aldrin wasn't listening to either of them, instead he watched an always-stoic Ciara nod to him and then turn and shove the witch making gagging noises. He smiled for himself, before letting the King slip back into place.
"And amongst you are those who deserve special commendation for your efforts," he heard the gasp of relief from his two handlers as Aldrin got back on script and turned back to his throne. Again, he stood before it rather than sit as he steadied himself for the bitter pill.
"Come forward, Lord Albrant," he commanded across the hushed crowd.
Slowly the man disentangled himself from his few guards. He didn't look back at the one redhead still glaring death upon his back, nor at the daughter who refused to look upon him. Instead, he walked steady to the king and kneeled, his head resting over his still wounded legs.
"Sire," Albrant said.
Aldrin bit back the urge to correct him, there didn't seem much point to it anymore. Instead he placed his hand against Albrant's balding head, trying to not recoil at the man, "For your generous service to the crown in maintaining both our stronghold and reclaiming it," Aldrin looked above everyone's heads. He couldn't watch Ciara's face as the scripted words tumbled from his mouth, "I dub thee Duke of Lorquester and all the fiefs therein."
A few gasps broke out, mostly from the back where the servants were, as well as some very coarse language that caused Barnabas to blush. But the knights under Moren all clapped politely.
"Your Highness," Albrant's words tumbled from his mouth in shock, "I do not deserve such a gift."
"No, you do not," Aldrin whispered to the man, as he took his hand away.
Albrant staggered to his legs, looking into the cut off eyes of his new king. He knew then that his life would forever hang upon the balance of a blade. The new Duke bowed once more and returned to his men, a chill creeping along his spine.
Barnabas whacked his stolen staff once more upon the ground and started to say, "That is..."
"Wait," Aldrin said slyly, raising his arms up, "I am not finished."
Moren, already turning to leave, leaned into the king, "What are you doing?"
Aldrin smiled, the first genuine one he'd managed since he ensured his Kingship, "Setting things right."
He turned back to his citizens, "There is another who gave the greatest sacrifice any man can. Lady Bralda, please step forward."
The penny crowd broke into jabberings as their mistress' head snapped up. A few tears still clung to her eyes as the man who killed her husband was rewarded. She wiped them with the back of her sleeve and tried to arra
nge her apron as she pushed through the throngs.
The knights began to whisper amongst themselves at the women in rags coming to stand before the king. Momentarily, she glanced over at her daughter, but Ciara only shrugged in confusion. Then Bralda looked dead square into the king's eye. Aldrin laughed at that, they weren't a family that bowed.
"My Lord, I am Bralda, but I am no Lady," she said afraid he'd made some mistake and wouldn't take to being corrected.
"Not yet," Aldrin whispered to her before addressing the crowd, "Is it not true that your husband, a brave and accomplished warrior, sacrificed himself for every man who fought to free the keep?"
"Yes," Bralda said softly, as the sound of embarrassed armor scraping across itself echoed through the hall.
"And is it not also true that your husband was long in the service of the newest Duke of Lorquester?"
"Yes," Bralda cursed, letting the "until the bastard betrayed him" die upon her lips.
"Then I believe he deserved nothing less than a full knighthood," Aldrin said, his eyes never leaving Bralda's.
"What?" she asked, "You're joking."
"Sire," Barnabas interrupted, "sire, that...it's simply not done."
"I am king am I not? Can I not choose who I should and shouldn't title?" A grin of the cat that laid down flypaper in the canary's cage overtook Aldrin as the toady stammered in response.
"Knighthood requires land," Moren said evenly, as she doused his little rebellion in cold water, "It is nothing more than words without."
Aldrin nodded slowly, "Yes, I suppose you are correct. Then, Lady Bralda, I grant to you the Tower of Ashar and all the farmland within to support it."
The Queen frowned, her lip curling in disgust, but she was famous for knowing when to pick her battles. Let the child have this one. Barnabas continued to bluster, waving his staff around as if it could reverse time and muttering "this is not the proper form. He's gone off script!"
Only Bralda, the ever practical woman, looked Aldrin in the eye and asked, "How much do I have to pay in taxes?"
The King laughed softly and pointed his head towards Barnabas, "When my steward is done suffering a heart attack, I'll ask him."
Most everyone shuffled out of Bralda's great hall; only a few lingered around the edges, wondering if the new Lady of the land would be looking to hire. Times were tough.
"That was unexpected," Ciara said quietly, approaching her mother standing still in shock in front of the throne that was previously used to prop open the sticky pantry door.
Bralda turned and pulled her daughter close to her, "Your father would be so proud."
"I didn't think his tastes ran towards drafty towers."
Her mother rolled her eyes, and tried to smooth down Ciara's hair. It passed the outer orbit of unruly weeks ago and was heading into deep space. "I mean of you, you pisspot."
Ciara looked over top her mother, and swallowed down a frog in her throat, "He already was."
"Yes," Bralda patted her hand in a reassuring manner to prove to herself that not only was Ciara real, but so was the keep and a title. She'd be pinching herself for days.
"A hem," a soft voice tried to break up the mother/daughter bonding moment.
Bralda turned to her new King and tried to curtsy, but her hands were still wound through Ciara's and the girl only cocked her hip as if she'd been expecting him. "My Lord," the Lady of Ashar said.
"I was wondering if I could have a moment with your daughter. To discuss a few...things that needed discussing," the caravan of thought was slipping through Aldrin's tender grasp.
But Bralda barely noticed, all she heard was the King wanting something and her decades of servitude kicked in, "Of course, your highness." She rose up and patted Ciara on the hand once more, before whispering to her, "Be good, now. Don't embarrass us in front of royalty."
"Mother..." she tried to lean away from her.
"All right. I'm certain there's much to air out in this musty keep. The previous mistress couldn't be trusted to keep her own bottom. Oh, and finding you a proper suitor," her mother all but shouted to the rafters as she scurried off, plans for her fresh life streaming before her.
Ciara cringed, not looking over at the King, who only chuckled softly. He'd always wondered what it was like to suffer the overabundance of love. Neglect didn't seem so bad at times.
As Bralda's shoos at the few remaining knights carried across the echoing hall, a loud snap of the doors closing signaled their first moment alone since...gods, had it really been the tomb? Ciara ran her fingers around the unsitable throne and asked, "So, King then?"
"Yeah."
"How's it feel?"
"Like they would put a housebroken poodle on the throne if anyone would bow to it," Aldrin admitted. "And I hate these stupid robes," he cursed, yanking at an ancient ermine fur draped across his back.
"Shoulda stuck with the armor," Ciara said, tapping her fingers against the metal plates ensconcing her. Probably why her mother didn't bat an eye at leaving the teenagers alone, they'd need a can opener and a good hour before they got anywhere. A dangerous blush almost divulged her thoughts, but Aldrin was inside his own mind.
"Perhaps, next time," he said, unthreading the fur and letting it fall to the floor. More than likely some ancient ancestor he never heard of rattled around in his urn at that slight, but he didn't much care.
"You think there will be another goblin guided prophecy that calls for a pair of kids to travel half way across the country to save all of magic from a maniac?"
Aldrin sighed softly, "Perhaps next time it will be an Ogre instead."
Ciara laughed imagining the Ogres of legend, some nearly ten feet tall with fists the size of cattle, dancing and cavorting like the Caretaker after he got to use one of his really interesting lock picks. It was not an adventure she'd turn down, she had to admit to herself. "Now what?"
Aldrin raised an eyebrow at her and said as straight-laced as he could, "Aren't I supposed to ask you that?"
Again she snickered, she was probably still suffering some brain damage from the fall. Laughing seemed the simplest answer to the giant question mark before her.
But Aldrin stepped in to answer her, "Moren's all but appointed herself my regent. She's got troops preparing to move back to the castle in a few days or so."
"You sure got her knickers in a knot knighting my father, didn't you?" Ciara asked, having watched the puckering lips of the Queen.
Aldrin smiled to himself, "Yes, yes I did. And there is much more she shall have to 'deal with.'" It had been a very cool reception after the King tried to dismiss everyone, then realized he had to lead the recessional. Moren slammed her fist through an ancient painting, but didn't say a word to Aldrin. She only turned on her heel and fled back to her generals. "It is folly that none but a few clerks can read the piles of books scattered across Arda. I intend to change all that."
"Get the Knights all together reading 'Blue Cheese and Roast?' I'd pay to see that," Ciara smiled to herself at the pair of blood curdling men bent over a child's picture book trying to figure out what the "t" sound is.
"The priests of Scepticar could throw a fuss, but let them. They have enough problems already," Aldrin said, "Explaining magic to the masses will not be such an easy task, but if anyone is up to the challenge it's the men and women who have the ear of a god." He'd been thinking about this a lot, so much even Ciara was impressed. Maybe the country wasn't as in the midden as everyone feared.
"Kynton. Get him to give a blessing, or read a homily or something about how magic's a blessing from Scepticar for all our hard work," she said pragmatically.
Aldrin nodded, yes. Ignoring magic was a certain detriment in what was to be the coming war. Embracing it, studying it, using it, could be their only hope of survival. The malleable un-priest would be perfect for the job. And some small part, a young boy that wanted to curl up by a fire and pick apart a dwarven mechanism with his greasy fingers, recoiled at the stern political machination he'
d become.
A warm hand slipped into his. Aldrin blinked, he didn't even realize he'd been silent, trapped in his own head. But after spending so much time together being torn apart and built back up, Ciara grew a sense for when he was on the verge of a nervous collapse. At least he wasn't screaming about her not letting go this time.
"Moren's already set in motion my betrothal to Henrik's fiancé," it slipped out of his mouth even as his free hand tried to silence it.
But she didn't release his hand, instead she tightened her grip and Aldrin returned the same. "My mother's probably got a line of men auditioning for my hand this very moment." Neither were happy with their coming nuptials.
"We could run away," Aldrin said, half serious.
Ciara laughed, "Yes, live on the edge, change our identities, skirt from small chicken farm to slightly larger pig farm, offering to trade work for food. Sounds like a good way to die young."
The King knew in his heart that he could never abandon his people, not after the choice he made to put himself on that cursed throne in the first place. Maybe one day he'd finally make that murder worth it and balance out his soul.
"Taban actually offered me a job, of sorts," Ciara admitted, surprising herself to bring it up.
"Oh?"
"Something about me paying off a debt."
"His debt, I assume," Aldrin muttered, again displeased with the assassin.
She nodded, unsurprised at his vitriol. It was not an offer she really wanted, to trade her freedom for a life of serving a triplet of kings. But then, if she stayed, if she married, it'd be much the same. She'd just have to answer to her mother, and whatever knock-kneed knight she pulled into the 'happy family.'
"I know that face," Aldrin said softly to her and smiled at her look of surprise, "You've decided something."
"We spent too much time together," she prodded, getting a small laugh from him and a nodding agreement that they had. "Which makes it all the more damning, as you're right. There's still so much world to explore, and Isa seems about as lost. I'm sure I could talk her into coming along."
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