The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1)

by Kaeden, Tavish

  He left the mission the very next day, leaving me only a brief note of farewell and his many volumes of holy scripture. To my great sorrow, and shame, I have never heard from him again."

  As his story ended, Nicolas saw tears in the small man's eyes, and was himself choking back a sob.

  "You see," Jorj said sadly, "even now my emotions spill into you, and take hold."

  Jorj had retired early after that, expressing the desire to be alone for a while. Now, however, Nicolas could hear the man snoring softly in the shelter. With a great yawn, Nicolas decided that it was definitely time for him to sleep. He knew he should go into the shelter, but the sky was clear, the air was warm and the grass around him was so soft. For a few moments, he was just about to make himself get up, but the thought dissolved into nothingness as sleep overcame him.

  Chapter 19: Bokrham

  It was war, King Vichtor had said, that begot power. And power, in turn, begot wealth. The words had seemed only too true coming from the old King's mouth, and certainly the Blood Marsh under Vichtor's reign had never lacked for coin. Now, however, as Bokrham pondered the row of sweaty, wine-ripened faces in the hall before him, he could not help but think that there was a hole somewhere in the dead King's logic.

  The Blood Marsh army had conquered and now controlled the greater part of mainland Esmoria, after all. That should have meant that Bokrham, as Lord Martial of the Blood Marsh army, held more power than any other man alive. But if that was true, why was he sitting there? Why was he stuffed into a preposterous suit of clothes, serving heaps of his best food and wine to the realm's most insufferable, albeit obscenely wealthy, merchants in the hopes that they would cough up enough gold to keep the army's soldiers from starving?

  Bokrham despised these dinners. He hated keeping up a facade of interest as the men around him hotly debated the appropriate price for bushels of wheat, made bets against each other's trade caravans arriving safely from exotic locations, and slowly guzzled their way into a drunken stupor. It seemed that every five minutes Bokrham's frustration with having to put up with the company of the merchants would come to a boil, and he felt the urge to smash the nearest piece of crockery or storm out of the hall in a rage. It was only the thought of his men, desperate for supplies in the conflict-ridden borders to the north and east, which kept the great lord in his seat.

  Tonight's ordeal was especially trying, for Bokrham could not keep thoughts of his last discussion with Thilanea out of his head. An alliance with the Church? The idea did not sit well with him. The Church had kept itself aloof from politics for centuries now and had always stoutly refuted any claims that it was subject to any laws save Rekon's own creed. If the Sumpadri was seeking an alliance with the Blood Marsh, Bokrham was sure he would not regard the two powers as equals. Thilanea had visions of a Holy Monarch. The Sumpadri, no doubt, was merely seeking a sword for the Church to wield against its enemies.

  So lost in his thoughts was he that Bokrham had not noticed that the hall was no longer full of boisterous shouting, but was instead uncharacteristically silent. Everyone in the room was staring at a plump little man who had come to his feet, and was now standing atop one of the tables, the goblet of wine in his hand raised in Bokrham's direction. Helster Jogan's bald pate gleamed in the torchlight, and beads of sweat trickled down his brow. His face was more than a little flushed, but his eyes were steady, and his posture was stiff and formal.

  "My Lord?" the little man said, a questioning look on his face.

  "Oh…" said Bokrham, forcing his attentions back to the scene before him. "What is it, Jogan?"

  "I have a proposal for your Lordship, indeed for the realm itself, and with your permission, I would be heard this evening."

  "And what does this proposal entail?" said Bokrham, only vaguely curious. Helster Jogan was reputed to be one of the wealthiest merchants in the Blood Marsh, but the strange thing was, no one knew exactly what the man traded. Unlike most of the other merchants in the room, Jogan did not import exotic silks or spices from the Isles of Three, nor sparkling gems from the Isle of Edra. Instead, he owned huge swaths of land in the westernmost reaches of the Blood Marsh, and claimed to have made his fortune actually exporting a variety of crops. Jogan had been one of King Vichtor's favorite merchants, and was often invited to dine in the King's hall.

  "My Lord, my proposal concerns the sum of five hundred thousand in dry gold, as a gift to the realm to support its glorious campaign against those who would resist our dominance."

  Bokrham heard the gasps from the other merchants in the room. Five hundred thousand gold of any currency was an absolute fortune, but in dry gold, it was an obscene sum. It was more than double what Bokrham knew to currently be in the royal coffers, and was more than the crown had received from the rest of the merchants combined since the beginning of the campaign to conquer the mainland. Bokrham himself was a little awestruck by the offer, but he knew that such a wealth in gold could only come at a dear, dear price.

  "And what favor would you ask of the realm, in return for your…extremely generous donation?" Bokrham inquired, cautiously.

  "Why nothing!" Jogan smiled. "In fact, I only ask that the realm, that is, that you yourself, Lord Martial, accept yet another gift which I offer."

  "Another gift?" said Bokrham, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice. "What could you possibly…?"

  "My daughter!" beamed Jogan, before Bokrham could finish the question.

  Immediately, the hall exploded into chaos. Amidst the surprised shouts, cheers, and protests coming from the many merchants, Bokrham saw Helster Jogan clap his hands, and a servant rush to open the door at the far end of the hall. The door opened to reveal a small entourage, at the head of which was a small slim girl dressed in shimmering white silk. Keeping her head down, so that all Bokrham could see was a mass of healthy blonde curls, she began to approach the tables, trailed by several older female servants, and a few imposing guardsmen. As Bokrham watched, she reached the spot where her father stood, his eyes gleaming with excitement, and if Bokrham judged correctly, a hint of pride.

  "Lord Martial!" Jogan yelled over the noise of the others, "Allow me to present my only daughter, Ilia."

  For the first time the girl raised her head and gazed directly at Bokrham with startling blue eyes. Bokrham could see that she was not much older than twenty, and was possessed of a delicate beauty that left him momentarily speechless. For one suffocating moment, his head spun with thoughts of gold, enough gold to feed and arm his troops for the next five years, and of beautiful, tiny Ilia enveloped in his carnal embrace.

  "This is an outrage!" rang out a voice, loud enough to overpower all others in the room, and strange enough to capture everybody's attention. Bokrham turned his gaze in the direction of the outburst, and when it became obvious who had just spoken, his thoughts soured considerably.

  There were few Lords whose purses were so heavy that they not only supplied the army with men, horses, food, equipment and coin when called upon for their feal duty, but were also willing to contribute additional, sizable amounts of gold from their own personal fortunes. Lord Lale Dovorst was one of them. Had such donations been made out of a sense of duty to the realm, and the Blood Marsh cause, Bokrham would have applauded the man. But with every donation he made Lord Dovorst would complain bitterly, and publicly, that such donations were necessitated by Bokrham's incompetence, and that were a real member of the Mehlor family seated on the Blood Marsh throne, the realm's military and economic problems would be solved.

  It was no wonder, thought Bokrham, that Lord Dovorst was so outraged by Jogan's proposal. The mysterious trader's goal was an obvious one. He wished to buy his daughter a chance at becoming the Marsh's next queen. No doubt, Jogan planned to do his best to solidify Bokrham's claim to power, and he was betting on Bokrham to one day transform his rule as Lord Martial of the army into a direct claim for the Marshland throne.

  "Outrage?" Jogan replied, a tone of mocking indignation in his voice. "
Surely you jest, Lord Dovorst. What could possibly be wrong with giving the army an infusion of much needed wealth, and providing our hard-worked Lord Martial with a little comfort and distraction?"

  "Oh, spare us the flimsy pretense," spat Lord Dovorst. "Anyone can see that you seek to plant your little slut of a daughter beside the Blood Marsh throne. Well, let me tell you something, a million in dry gold is not worth the degradation of the royal line with blood such as yours!"

  The flush on Jogan's face deepened slightly at Lord Dovorst's words, but the little trader kept his composure, and quickly replied:

  "My Lord, you seem upset. Though I quite understand. But just because you lack the proper means to conceive a daughter of your own, and would not be able to afford such a generous dowry even if you did, does not give you the right to speak so disparagingly of my family."

  This last jibe earned a few scattered laughs around the hall, and even Bokrham felt his face twitch in amusement.

  "Why you little swine!" roared Dovorst, shaking his bandaged fist in the air. "How dare you speak to a Lord in such a manner. Why, if I were King, and it should be so I tell you, I would have your insolent hide strapped to a whipping post and flay that smug face of yours clean off the bone."

  "Well," retorted Jogan, "lucky for me then that you are not King. Lord Martial Bokrham, however, does sit the Blood Marsh throne, and I will leave it up to him, then, to consider my humble offer." As he finished speaking, he turned toward Bokrham, and bowed so low that his head was almost completely obscured by a wine jug. His daughter and her entourage all followed his example, and once again the room fell silent as all eyes shifted to consider Bokrham.

  Bokrham's instinct was to refuse the little trader's offer. Whatever his body might want, the girl was half his age and Bokrham doubted that she would make much in the way of a companion. Still, five hundred thousand dry gold might help revitalize the border campaigns, and replenish the crown's rapidly diminishing coffers. He might even be able to forgo these horrible feasts for a year or more, and then there was the childish, but undeniably savory benefit of completely incensing Lord Dovorst.

  Bokrham took a deep breath. His instinct had always served him well, and this was no time to start ignoring it.

  "I'm sorry…" he began, looking down at the bowed head of Helster Jogan. As the words left his mouth, out of the corner of his eye he saw an odious, triumphant grin spread across the features of Lord Dovorst. "…but, I cannot make a decision at this time," finished Bokrham, and was delighted to see the smirk vanish from Dovorst's face. "I will need some time to consider your generous offer."

  Again, the silence in the room was broken by a buzz of muffled gasps and whispers. Jogan stood up, beaming at the Lord Martial. "Of course, my Lord. Of course."

  A loud crash reverberated through the room as the table which Lord Dovorst had occupied toppled over sending knives, goblets, pitchers, plates, and other trappings flying.

  "You schemy…scheming bastards!" yelled a livid Lord Dovorst, his words slurring together and his face turning the color of the wine he had just spilt all over the floor. "You won't get away with this! The throne is mine, by right of Mehlor blood! No low-born thief and oafish thug can ever change that! Mark my words, I'll bring you down. I'll have your heads brought to me and thrown to my dogs…I'll…"

  "SILENCE!" roared Bokrham. Standing up to his full height, and clenching his huge fists in frustration. He had not expected this. Lord Dovorst must be either completely drunk or more a fool than Bokrham had thought.

  "What you have just said, sir, is treason. I should have you clapped in irons for that—or worse."

  "Ha!" cried Dovorst, his voice frenzied and cracking. "Treason against whom? You are no King, you overgrown lump of lard. I am of the late King's family. Who are you to accuse me of treason?"

  "I warned you," said Bokrham, trying to keep his voice level. The thrice-damned Lord have given him no choice, now. "Guards," he commanded, "take Lord Dovorst to the prisons. I will decide his fate later."

  Bokrham walked back to his chambers with venomous thoughts seething in his brain. Tonight had been more trouble than he ever could have imagined. He might have weathered the storm of rumors that were no doubt already flying through the city regarding Helster Jogan's marriage proposal, but once word got out that he had imprisoned Lord Dovorst, the fragile politics that surrounded the Blood Marsh throne would come crashing down upon him.

  But what could he have done? Just sit there while the spiteful Lord had openly threatened his life? Had he demurred, the respect it would have cost him was as dangerous to his grasp on the throne as his imprisonment of Dovorst. Desperation washed over Bokrham as he tried to think of what he could do to allay the situation, to prevent a realm already embroiled in two wars from beginning a third with itself. But, no matter how hard he thought, no matter how many half-formed plans came to him, he could only ever come up with one answer— Kazick. If he was alive, the man had to be found, before the whole kingdom imploded.

  Sleep that evening was out of the question, and Bokrham spent many hours pacing back and forth in his dimly lit chambers before he made up his mind. Tomorrow, he would be prepared for the worst. If a rebellion was to be, then he must be ready for it, ready not only with words, but the steel to back them up. He rang for a servant, and sent the boy scurrying to find the captain of the castle guard. When the man arrived, tousled and still drowsy from sleep, Bokrham ordered the man to dunk his head in the basin by the mirror, and when the man hesitated the Lord Martial did it for him.

  "I need you awake," he explained, without apology. "Summon the castle guard. I need every man armed and ready to take orders by dawn. I expect there to be a considerable amount of unrest in the city tomorrow, and I don't want to be caught unprepared, is that understood?"

  The sleep-sodden captain gave a stiff salute in answer, and Bokrham waved the man out of the room. He had just reached for his whetstone and some oil when a serving boy ducked through the doorway the Captain had just vacated, and held out a piece of parchment to Bokrham. He instantly recognized the seal as belonging to Thilanea, and he opened the letter without delay. If anyone had news of the first stirrings of an uprising, it would be Thilanea.

  The letter, however, did not contain any warnings of an uprising. Instead, it was an invitation, short and to the point:

  My Lord,

  I have just heard about what happened this evening in the dining hall. You need not despair. I would speak with you this evening at our usual meeting place, as soon as is possible.

  Your Watchful Servant,

  T

  As Bokrham read the letter, a glimmer of hope flickered in his breast. "You need not despair." If anyone was capable of devising a way out of this mess, it was Thilanea, and perhaps she knew something which would be of help. Within seconds the Lord had thrown the letter into the fire, replaced his whetstone on the shelf, and was out of his room and making his way toward the tower.

  Thilanea was waiting for him, and it was with considerable relief that Bokrham noticed she was wearing a nondescript, shapeless black dress. In fact, the style was so unlike Thilanea, that Bokrham, despite his current situation, actually found himself wondering why on earth she would own such a dress. His question was answered swiftly, however, when he saw that the lady was not alone. Seated in a chair by the window, in robes of white and green was a middle-aged man, his close-cropped hair the color of silver and his features gaunt and humorless. Even though he had never seen the man before, Bokrham knew who it was the minute he set eyes on him. It was, without a doubt, the Alpadri Korus.

  Anger, raw and unwieldy, boiled in Bokrham's veins.

  "What is he doing here?" he hissed through clenched teeth at Thilanea. She threw a concerned glance over her shoulder, before replying in a low, stern voice.

  "He is the only thing that can save this kingdom from civil war right now, after your colossal blunders this evening. You would be wise to give him every courtesy. Remember, he has just m
ade a very long voyage for the sole purpose of speaking to you."