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Arista didn’t attend Wintertide.
It was a common occurency, as she preferred to avoid social event involving politics, but that time it had been Alric’s decision, and against her preference. She would have gone to see Modina – ot Thrace, as she kept calling her. It was the reason Alric was against it. It was clear the Church didn’t like the idea Arista and their precious Daughter of Novron were somehow friends and the voice it was spreading around were less than appreciative.
Alric had known that he would collide with the Church enough not to mix Arista in the middle.
But Arista, being Arista, hadn’t accepted it with grance.
Consequentially, the moment Alric put his foot back in Essendon Castle after ten days of Wintertide celebration and horror and two days of travelling, she was already there, ignoring his tiredness and all the etiquette.
“So?”
One simple word that gathered all the questions in her mind. It had such a complicate answer Alric was too tired to give her now.
“Forget your birthday party,” he said instead, as he marched inside, his wool coat flapping behind him. “We’ll have work to do, sooner.”
She immediately caugh the implication of it. “So bad?” In her tone, she was blaming him. “Do you think they’ll invade us?” She followed him easy, as she had longer legs than him.
“Not for a little while, I think.” Alric didn’t stop, soldiers and attendants scrutting around to let him pass. “They have to consolidate their power first. Modina’s coronation and Ethereld’s abdication in her steady were the first steps.”
“And then? There will be war?”
“If I don’t bend my knee to them, yes. Probably. I don’t think they’ll leave us alone.” Alric reached the door of his room, then turned to face her. “I have no intention to do that.”
Not after Saldur’s betrayal. Not after that sentinel murder Fanen.
Surprisilingy, Arista nodded, in quiet acceptance. “What can I do?”
“You are the Ambassador of Melengar. Get ready.”
Once Alric had complained about the amount of papers and reports he had to compile daily. Now the fact that his desk was almost empty soured his mood. It was a physical confirmation of the state affairs, other kingdom and fiefs and companies isolating Melengar in order to appeal the New Empire. Arista wrote to him regular, but her letters weren’t of any consolation.
She should be on Galeannon now. In the two previous month she’d travel towards Warric, Rhenydd and Maranor, with little success. Alric had good hope for Rhenydd, at least, but King Utrich and his family’s demise had changed plan and the kingdom was now loyal to Empress Modina.
King Frederik, as much as Alric’s remembered, had no guts enough to change his mind about joining them, despite Arista’s hopefully commentary. At least, the Imperial Army wasn’t marching on Medford yet, and by Hadrian and Royce’s last information they hadn’t any plan yet. But they were ready.
His self-pity while re-reading the letter was interrupted by Captain of the Guards Jeremy. He bowed curtly after allowing the entrance: the idea of a future war had made him gloomy and now he spent his entire time being assured the soldiers were in their best shapes and the weapons sharp. The arrangement for the army had been instead assigned to Sir Ecton, with Count Pickering’s supervision.
“My apologies, Your Majesty. I have been informed from the border sentinels about the arrival of an Imperialist envoy form the Galewryn bridge.”
Alric rose an eyebrow. “An envoy? Now?” When Arista had been in Aquesta, they’d refused to listen to her explanation.
“Members of the Nyphron Church.” Jeremy nodded, well aware Alric had purge Medfrom from their presence as soon as Arista had told him about Saldur’s involvement in their father’s murder. “A man that introduced himself as Deacon Thomas and a group of seret knights.”
“I was pretty clear.” Alric crossed his legs. “I don’t want anyone associate with the church here.”
“We are aware.” Jeremy’s expression didn’t falter. “But the Deacon was very persistent. He wished for an audience with you, as it was a matter of the outmost importance.”
Alric was about to tell him to fuck off, but years as a king had helped temperate his impulse, if only a little. He still didn’t want them in his city, but he remembered the name of the Deacon. It was the same that, during the last Wintertide, had told Modina’s feat at the Noble Feast. It wasn’t hard to guess what he wanted to talk about with Alric.
However, it was interesting, because until that moment Modina had been a ghastly presence, all of her correspondence and action dictated by her two regents as she recovered by killing the beast. The Deacon was the one person that had met her beforehand so maybe he had knowledge unknown at the most.
“Fine, I’ll see him.” Alric threw the letter he was writing away. “But only him. His escort will remain outside our lands. And your guards will escort him in and out.”
With another bow, Jeremy left.
Alric wasn’t in any mood to celebrate. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one. Warric Castle at Wintertide had always buzzing with excitement like a hive. Servants and attendants, despite the increasing fatigues, were more than happy for the upcoming contents and joursts that would come with the nobles gathering, and the food remaining from their tables. For nobles families, it was always a way to strut.
That year, however, the mood was gloomy. Servants and attendants appeared wary, worried, and they only reserved brief look at the upcoming arrivals, fast in their dismissal. No great entrance, no cheerful salute, no big caravans of entourage only for show. People whispered in small group and halted immediately when someone strangers came nearer.
Alric brought with him only Count Pickering and Marquis Exeter and Sir Ecton as the only knights. Judicing by the small number of tables and seats at the feast, he wasn’t the only one with a small escort. Even if all the kings of Avryn were there, they were accompained only by the head of their fiefs, when usually it was an excuse to have sons and daughters together. And even the fiefs – only members of the Thirthy-Two families were there, not the minor nobles. And some knights: Alric recognized Sir Breckton, of course.
And there was Bishop Saldur, too, sitting at the place of honor. Count Pickering was fast to block Alric’s path before he had the insane idea of going talk – or better scream – accusation at him, when he only had his sister’s words against him.
When all of them were seated at their place, before the food was served, Ethereld stood up. The silence became even more steady at his gesture.
“Everyone, thank you for coming again at this Wintertide celebration.” His voice carried the strenght of command, but there was also something else, a carefulness on it. “This year, we have another reason, a better one, to celebrate the new year. As you all are informed, the Heir of Novron, the promised savior, has been found.” He gestured at a shy middle-age man sitting next to Saldur. “I’ll have Deacon Thomas, who witnessed the great gesture of Modina, daughter of Novron and Maribor!”
Too much theatrical for Alric, who scolded.
Deacon Thomas stood up while Ethelred sat down again. The man wasn’t used to speak to such a prestigious court, but his voice was secure, trained after so many preaches, and he had a glint in his eyes, the fervent convinction of his faith that he’d like for everyone to share and believe. Saldur, the snake he was, wasn’t never so fervent.
The story, although embellish by Deacon Thomas’ appreciation of it, wasn’t different from what Arista had told him. She hadn’t been there when Modina – or Thrace, as Arista’d called her, another proof of the ruse the Church was perpetrated – slay the beast, but she’d met everyone and her presence in Dahlgren at Modina’s side until she was dragged away in Aquesta had given her more knolowledge than most.
By the look in everyone, they also knew most of the tale. However, they appeared moved by the tale a lot more than Alric himself. That wrteched Ballentyne even dared to clap, pretending to wipe away a tear when Deacon Thomas ended his tale.
Ethereld adressed the crown again, while the Deacon sat down. “Our dear Modina can’t join us for the celebration, as defeating the beast took all of her energy.” Murmurs of disappointment, since no one had been able to see her in months. “But she regained enough strengh for her coronation at Wintertide.”
Coronation of what kingdom, Alric barely restrained himself to ask. Unaware, Ethereld gave him the answer.
“I’ve been waiting all this time for Novron to come back to us, and now she’s here. Warric will be her, under her command. I’m glady step back in her steady.” He gestured with his head at Saldur, who nodded.
“His Excellence the Patriarch will be there to crown her as the rightful Heir of Novron,” he explained. “For now, both I and Lanis Ethereld had been appointed as their regents until she will be healty enough to take her place as our Empress.”
Alric’s fury flared. The man had killed his father and now he was rewarded of a command because of a well-made ruse that everyone was so eager to believe.
“I know how all of you were waiting for this moment.” Saldur’s voice was saccarine, but not without a hint of a threat. “I hope all of you will be wise enough to offer Empress Modina Novronian the Empire that was once Novron’s.”
“And that’s it?” This time, Alric didn’t restrain himself. He stood up before Count Pickering could stop him, almost throwing the chair in his movement. “This woman arrives and claims to be the Heir and we’re supposed to give us our Kingdom – the Kingdom our ancestor had fought and died for?”
A cold silence followed this declaration. All eyes were on him, but there was only indifference in them, as his words were a minor occurence.
Then Ethereld spoke. “Yes.” It was simple as that. “I am a firm believer that Modina Novronian, daughter of god Maribor, will bring us to a new age of peace and prosperity. I am glad and honored to give her everything is hers to claim.”
That was absurd, considering Ethereld had been a warmonger in the past, and a good general, happy to fight for his land. But he was about to be nominated regent of an Empire, so despite his blabbering about religion and faith, that was a political move. But the others?
Alric turned to his fellow kings. Armand of Alburn was a newly appointed king of a minor family, not even a member of the Thrity-Two House, so his minor attachment to the kingdom could be explained. Frederik of Glamennadon was a weak man in a very harsh kindgom, so no wonder he didn’t want to fight, but the others? Utrich of Rhenydd was a monarchis, as Alric’s father had been, and Viktor of Maranor reigned over one of the richer and ancient land of Avryn. And XXX of Dunmore? He’d fought a bloodshed war to steal those land from Alburn and Trent in the past and now he didn’t want them anymore?
“What about you? Your family has history, prestige, and take care of the lands since the Empire fell. You’re going to throw everything away?”
Again, silence. No one was there to back him up, even if they didn’t speak against him. It wasn’t necessary, as his complete isolation was enough to put him in a corner. Alric felt he was the only sane person around.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Alric, dear, please.” It was Saldur. “I know you’re young, and that brings rush decision with it. You have to see the big picture. Your father-”
“My father was a monarchist.” And you killed him for it.
“Yes, I am quite aware. But he’s death, and you’re not. Now, listen, the Heir of Novron is the rightful rule of Avryn. You all are here just to take care of it until the return. Now she’s here. You may feel it is unfair, but if you stop to think for a second-”
“Don’t you dare.” Alric was tired to have Saldur speka like that, as if he didn’t know anything. “And it’s King Alric for you.”
He sat down again, with such strengh that the chair’s legs banghed on the stone floor. No one spoke until Ethereld called for the meal to be served, and then hushed conversation began, softer and smaller than usual, and everyone was very careful not to talk about what had just happened.
“If my father would have been here,” Samuel Exeter said, “he would have drawn blood.” Simon Exeter had hated the Imperialist with a burning passion and hadn’t hid it.
It was a sympathetic way to support Alric, who was too angry to appreciate it. He didn’t want to watch Count Pickering or Sir Ecton’s unconvinced expression, even if they hadn’t commented on his outbust, so he focused on the plates in front of him, stabbing the food with the fork as it personally offended him.
And after dinner, instead of remaining for the dance and the usually political talk with other kings and nobles, decided to strut back to his room before he insulted or get insulted further, leaving Count Pickering behind to assess the situation and then report back the crown humor to me.
Alric hated that Mauvin wasn’t there with him, but he couldn’t be helped. Almost no one had brought their Heir with them, and Mauvin was still recovery, even if only mentally, from Fanen’s death and his own wounds. Yet, Alric felt naked: Mauvin would have been on his side, not as one of his noble but as his friend. Alric could have vented with him without being judge, without expecting good advices.
Marquis Viktor Lanaklin and Marquis Bernum intercepted him in the hallway behind the ballroom, as they had wanted to ambush him. But out of every noble from other kingdom, he knew them the best, because of the relationship between the Lanaklins and the Pickerings and because Bernum’s daughter was Samuel’s wife.
“We completely agree with you, Your Majesty,” Lanaklin said. “This entire story is insanity.”
“Ethereld didn’t even ask us of any member of his court,” Bermun added. “He only speaks with the church. Bah! I’ve no fought for that. I absolutely refused to recognize this woman we even’t ever seen as our betters.”
Alric felt some kind of relief at the idea that he wasn’t the only one to think that. However, he would have preferred if they would have spoken at the feast instead of giving everyone the idea that he was out of his mind.
“We are ready to support you against Ethereld’s orders. After all,” Bermun grinned, “he isn’t our king anymore.”
Lanaklin was less assured. “We don’t know if they will attempt something. Better be ready.”
There was an implied warned and request over there, the idea that Alric also needed to suppurt them in their indipendence clam if the situation arose. And the fact that this New Empire might take with force what couldn’t take with faith and convinction.
Alric nodded in agreement. He didn’t need his council’s opinion, as he’d already made his mind clear in the past months about Melengar’s future. If the Empire wanted his kingdom, he would have to fight for them.
“Excuses us.” They had nothing more to say to him. “We need to mantain appearance. And maybe find out some others.”
He watched the mas they entered in the ballroom again. In that moment, Utrich came out, followed by a couple of his knights. He and Alric shared a look, but he didn’t stop to talk with him. He only whispered, as he passed, “An advice: even when you’re right, it’s better learn when to remain silent.”
Again, a confirmation that Alric wasn’t alone in his conviction. And Urich was a monarchist, as he’d thought. And yet, they had let him alone in that room.
Alric welcomed the Deacon in his throne room, with all the insigne of his position: the golden crown, the fur mantle, one of his best attire. It was part of his role, even if recently he hadn’t attended many audience in that room. Even people in Melengar didn’t have much to say to their king, as they perceived that the air around had changed. Another thing Alric had despised back then and now lounged.
The Deacon was exactly as Alric remembered him from Wintertide, with that energy and that glint in his eyes despite his middle-age, something that came because of a blind faith. He was a little bit thinner, thought, which gave Alric the impression he hadn’t indulge in Warric Count’s pleasures.
“I am unaware of the etiquette of the New Empire.” Alric’s voice resounded in the empty room. “But here in Melengar it is customary to kneel in front of the King.”
However, he gestured at the two guards at the Deacon’s sides to remain standing. He didn’t want to force the man, just seeing his reaction.
The Deacon bowed his head. “I mean no disrespect, King Alric, but I can’t kneel to no one but Empress Modina. She is the daughter of a God.”
It had to be expected, still it enraged Alric. “So you say.”
“I am the living testimony of her power.” The Deacon seemed more happy for the opportunity to speak about her than upset at Alric’s untrustiest. “If you allow me-”
“I already know the story. I was at Wintertide and my sister was in Dahlgren.”
That made the Deacon posed for a second, as he elaborated the information. The last events hadn’t contribute to improve Arista’s reputation, especially about her being a witch. Alric had some reports about voices turning around, so now the fact that she’d met Modina was in the best case cancelled, in the worst turned in a cautionary tale about her presence hiding malicious intent.
“Tell me what you want.” Alric didn’t let him the time to conclude his thoughts.
“I am not a politician.” Deacon Thomas licked his lips. “I am a believer. It was truly a miracle that I witnessed Novron’s daughter glory. I am not interested in kingdoms or empires, only in her as she is the promised savior. I felt it is my duty to bring words about it everywhere.”
Alric wore a bored expression. “You already did.”
Deacon Thomas’ eyes wandered. “I was entrusted with the task to spread the word about the Empress to everyone, including commoners. I already preached in Warric, Ghent and Rhenydd. The regents suggested me that your kingdom would benefit-”
“Saldur is one of the regent, is he not?” Alric barely restrained himself to shout. “Are you aware that he is responsible of my father’s death?”
“I was not.” However, the Deacon wasn’t shattered by the new information. “Like I said, I don’t care about politics. I only care about the fact that, finally, the promised Heir of Novron is among us. I have to inform everyone.”
Alric’s breath increased, following the surge of his rage. That man had the gut to come to him speaking of truth, and faith, and promises of a new golden age when his father’s traitor sat on a throne together with his precious empress which, if Arista was right, wasn’t even the real heir. The Deacon could babbler as he wished it wasn’t politic, but it actually was.
The words were harsh in his mouth as he tried to speak calmly. “Do you know Tolin Essendon’s story?”
“I do. It was the founder of this kingdom.”
“Exactly. He fought and won against Trent.” Alric remembered how proud of that heritage his father had been. “Tell me, Deacon, where was Novron back then, when Tolin’s people died to create Melengar? Where was Novron, when Bishop Saldur of the Nyphron Church conspired in my father’s murder? Where was Novron, when the seret killed Fanen Pickering?”
Again, the Deacon’s beliefs didn’t faltered. “Men can’t be arrogant to understand Novron’s reasons. But if he sent his daughter now-”
Alric stood up. “Melengar owes Novron nothing. I owes your Empress nothing. And no one – no one will come to Melengar’s soil to preach in their favors as long as I have breath in my lungs.” He lift his hand and the two guards immediately moved.
“King Alric, I beg you to reconsider it.”
“Escort the Deacon out and be assured that he and his escort departed within the day.”
Although the guards grabbed him by both arms and dragged him away, Deacon Thomas continued his sermon, not suppliant, but in a patronizing way, as he was talking to a child. “You may have been wronged by other men. You have reason to be angry. But please, think about your people. They deserve salvation. They deserve to know about Novron’s Daughter. You deny them…”
The heavy doorS of the Throne Room closed, cutting out the Deacon’s voice. In the silence and solitude, Alric slumped down on the first step of his throne. Evaporated the rage, only tiredness remained.
The first months after the Dahlgren’s accident didn’t bring many chances. Nobody had yet see the supposed Heir of Novron, and nobody had done more than talk about what was going to happen. Cossipondences and trades between kingdoms continued regularly and borders were opened.
As much as Alric wished to have a face to face with Saldur – the man, however, was very carefully to remain far from Medford – he hadn’t reason yet to antagonize the Church of Nyphron, as they hadn’t made any move against Melengar.
So, when a group of five seret knights, disarmed but with their red and black uniform, presented themselves at Alric’s daily audience in his throne room, he was wary but not particulary irritated in their regards. If a sentinel would have been with them – a particular one – then it would have been a different matter.
They waited their turn in silence composture, then marched in uninson as Julian called for them since they were next in line. They bent their knee, as it was customary, but only briefly, to point out that it was a politely gesture but their loyalty was elsewhere.
“State your petition,” Alric said. He’d been there since early morning and the golden crowd was heavy on his head. “The Patriarch has a request for me?”
“Yes, by orders of Sentinel Luis Guy Seret.” That name created a surge of bile in Alric’s throat, but the seret didn’t seem to notice it. “We are here to take Mauvin Pickering in custody so he can face judgement for killing a seret knight.”
Alric stared at him, paralized. He knew that, by the Church’s rules, attacking a seret was a death penalty offence, the reason why Arista’d sent Mauvin away with Royce and Hadrian in their way back. However, he’d believed that the Church had other things to attend to and that they wouldn’t have the courage to come and ask for something like that.
The seret didn’t notice his bewilderment. “We are aware that he seeks refuge in Drondil Fields with his family. We request you assert your authority over your nobles to resolve this question. No one is above the Church’s law.”
In the enourmous space of the throne room, people in waiting had stop talked to observe the situation. The sight of seret knights were unusual, and their request even more. But everyone knew that the seret’s authority was superior to kingdoms’ border as they obeyed only to the Patriarch.
Alric was aware of the public, which gave him the small opportunity to breath before answering.
“I’ll let you take Mauvin,” he murmured, slowly, weightening every word, “the day you deliver me Luis Guy Seret so he can face my judgement for the murder of Fanen Pickering.”
The seret knights were taken aback that an answer they didn’t expect, but they were fast to recover. It gave Alric the indication they expected a refusal, maybe they also wanted it as an excuse to attack Melengar, in one way or another.
Alric didn’t care. They’d killed Fanen. Almost killed Mauvin. They shouldn’t have used this to get in his kingdom.
“If you refuse to listen to the Patriarch’s request, we will report back to Sentinel Luis Guy about it. I twill be seen as an act against the Church.”
“No.” Alric stood out, and was grateful for the seven steps to the throne that made him towering despite his short heigh. “You made an act against one of my men. You were the one in my kingdom, right now, pretending justice against a crime you perpetrate. You say I committed an act against the church? Well, if you insist, I give you one.”
He turned his head to Jeremy, who, as the Captain of the Guard, was in charge of the securiti of the throne room. With him, some of his best soldiers, that monitorez the passage of subjects for the audience. At Alric’s gesture, they gathered around their captain.
It put the seret knight on guard: they weren’t armed, and right now they were in a foreign kingdom with no back-ups. If they were captured, or killed, the news would spread, but it would do little to them. However, they didn’t change their attitude.
“Captain, escort them out and be assured that they leave the kingdom for good.” Alric turned to face the seret again. “By royal decree, starting from today, no members of the Nyphron Church is welcomed here. No priests, no bishops and certainly no seret!”
How dare they ordered him as he wasn’t the king? They wouldn’t touch Mauvin. He wouldn’t allow it.
The first act of war, and it hadn’t been made by the New Empire or the Church. Alric felt better about it, and he could relaxed again once the red and blakc uniform disappeared behind the door, dragged away by his soldiers.
The buzzing of people had started again, after the commotion. If it was positive or negative, Alric couldn’t say. But he had to inform Count Pickering immediately of the question and about his new decree, in case the Church made some other attempt. He was sure they would be even more adamant than him in protecting Mauvin.
“Audience is over for today.”
The turmoil outside brought Alric to leave open the windows of his leaving room. From the safety of his personal wing, he noticed smoke, grey and swirling, from the North-East part of Medford, the area of Gentry Quartier.
“A fire?” he wondered.
It wasn’t an unusual sight, but it was more common from the Artisan Quartier, where the workshop worked with flames, or the Merchant Quartier, because of the large storages. The muffled screamed appeared angrier than scared.
Then Alric saw a city guard running through the gate. Jeremy was already there to welcome him, as around him soldiers and attendants gathered with uncertain curiosity. A second later, Jeremy ordered the gates closed and that was Alric’s push to move.
He intercepted Jeremy on his way to the square, clearly coming to look for him. Alric hadn’t never seen him so frantic, not even when Alric had announced the possibility of a war.
“Your Majesty, I need you to remain inside, safe.”
Cold fear froze his spine. “What’s happening?”
Jeremy was conflicted by his necessity to protect the king and the fact that the king himself should be the one giving orders. “A revolt broke out. People are assaulting building in Gentry Quartier, but the mob is organizing itself. They are on the move.”
Alric wasn’t sure to have understand. “A revolt? By whom?”
“Medford people. Mostly from the lower quartier, but information says that artisans might been among them too.”
“But… why?” Alric was suddenly brought back at his father’s death’s night, when people had spoken to him words he hadn’t been able to process in his mind.
“Deacon Thomas was screamed about the Empress while we escorted him away.” Jeremy was ashamed of it, and even a little bit worried about Alric’s reaction. “People understood you refused to let him speak and they aren’t happy about it.”
Jeremy was right about fearing Alric, because Alric was beyond fury now. His people – his own people – are protesting against a decision, siding himself with a foreign Empire made up of lies. Worse, they wanted to be feed those lies, ready to destroy their own city for them?
Alric run.
“Your Majesty, please…” Jeremy trotted behind him. “It may not be safe.”
“Well, call for my bodyguard. I appointed one, hadn’t I?”
To be honest, Alric hadn’t seen Mauvin recently. His appointed as the king’s bodyguard had been a formality more than anything, a way to give Mauvin something to be distracted with, because for the moment Alric hadn’t been in need of protection.
On normal day, they would have joked about it. But nothing was normal since Fanen’s death, at the point that Alric wondered if he hadn’t dream the days Mauvin smiled. The days Mauvin kissed him, calling him ‘his king’ when now weren’t even there to defend him.
Unaware of his soldiers’ protest, Alric reached the walkway of the castle walls, the one above the gate that connected the square to Gentry Quartier. Then, he saw it.
It was a thigh crowd of screaming, enraged people, a river of faces moving together in a wave. Alric saw the fire, the destruction they left behind him, the way they screamed and enchanted, made-up weapons in their hands. The yells formed coherent words as they advanced.
“Death to the godless king! Death to the godless king!”
It was him. They were talking about him!
His people – the same people that had revolted against Braga and cheered for him as he’d ride back to Medford now wanted him dead. And because of a girl they hadn’t even seen but apparently she was their savior.
Alric felt his entire body tremble and he couldn’t afford it. King didn’t show weakness, that was his father’s mantra. He pressed the palm of his hands down, hard, on the walls’ stones, the crumple surface scratched his skin.
Someone in the mass had created a puppet made of stray, pressed it a piece of paper and then put it on fire. As the paper crumbled and turned into dust, Alric recognized it as one of the poster for the Crown Conspiracy play, the one with his face on it.
“You can’t stay here, Alric. We don’t know if any of them have bows, and they seem revved up enough to try.”
It was a Pickering, only not the right one. Jeremy had liked called for the Count, or maybe the Count was searching for him, giving the dangerous situation. Either way, it was there, gesturing at Alric to move away from the parapet: even without his crown, Alric was enough recognizable from distance.
Alric looked at him, realizing he couldn’t act like an afraid children in front of his Lord Chancellor and most trusted noble, even if it was Count Pickering, his father’s best friend.
“What’s your idea for taking care of this… situation?”
Count Pickering throw a side-way look to the crowd: they were almost at the gates now, still screaming “Death to the godless king!” as it was a prayer.
“The city guard can’t hold them. Didn’t hold them. And even if they can’t penetrate in the castle, they may risk the entire city. We should send the army.”
Alric ducked his head to Jeremy. “So be it.”
In the past, he had faced an impending death, rushing to the city walls in order to spare his people by killing each other over Braga’s conspiracy. That day, he didn’t remain to see his soldiers scattered that same people he swore to defend.
It was a pityful sight, even after recovered. The burn had scarred most of his face, turning him into a horrific red mask, without an ear and without most of his hair.
Alric couldn’t restrain himself from flinching in disgust and, as much as he tried to conceal it after, Hilfred saw it as he lifted his gaze. However, as he was used to, he didn’t comment.
“It wasn’t necessary for you to come here, Your Majesty,” he said instead. “You’re probably too busy to the like of me.”
“Nonsense.” Alric waved his hand in the air. The nurses took it as a command, so they left, leaving the two of them alone. “Of course I want to see you back healty.”
While Fanen had died, Hilfred and Mauvin were only wounded, but badly, Hilfred even worse than Mauvin. Having them back was refreshing for Alric, gave him the idea of a return to normalcy, when he was fully aware that things would never be the same.
“And your service will soon be required,” Alric continued, pacing in the nursery room. “We don’t have nothing official, mind you, but it is entirely possible that will face some conflics with other kingdoms. Arista is still the ambassador, and her presence may be required elsewhere. For now she won’t move so you can-”
“I have a request.”
Alric posed, surprised. He and Hilfred knew each other since they had been kids, but Hilfred had always showed so much respect for his betters than the suddend interruption was a novelty. Alric nodded at him to continue.
“I’d like to be esonerate from her Highness’ service. I… want to leave.”
Still sitting down on his bed, Hilfred looked at his interwined hands. Alric ihnaled deeply, then hold his breath, unable to process the information.
“I…” Arista’d told him briefly what happened with Hilfred, how she’d felt guilty that her order had obbligated him to stay inside when the beast had attacked. “If it’s about Dahlgren, I can assure you nor I neither Arista were unsatisfied with your work. You know Arista, she’s prick sometimes, but she’ll get along.”
A pained expression appeared on Hilfred face, before he shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“If there is anything I can do… I can increase your pay. I can give you lands.”
“You know why your father gave me the role of her Highness’ bodyguard.”
Alric knew. He doubted anyone in the castle wasn’t aware of the fact Hilfred was in love with Arista, which made him the perfect bodyguard. The reason Hilfred’s desire to leave was so shocking. Arista was the only one completely oblivious of it, which, Alric imagine, could be problematic at least. If he would have been in Hilfred’s place, Alric would have snapped at her during the first days. She had been pretty intorelable as a teenager.
“Please.” Hilfred moved slowly, his sore muscle still recovering from the long stop. He kneeld in front of Alric, head down, hands on his legs. “I can’t do this anymore… If I ever serve your family well, please grant me this.”
“What are you plan to do?”
“I… don’t know. But I can’t stay here.”
A sudden, peregrine thought came to Alric’s mind. After all, Hilfred’s father had conspired to kill the royal family and effectively succed in killing Alric’s mother and almost Arista, if not for Hilfred’s intervention. Saldur could have been behind that first attack too, and he definitely had know Hilfred senior.
“Will you go to fight for this new Empire?”
“No!” It was a plea, eyes shocked. “I will never drew my sword against her Highness- against his kingdom. I swear on…” His voice trailed down, as he didn’t know to possess something enough worth to risk.
And Alric believed him. He wondered what his father would have done, in his place, as he’d been the one to use Hilfred’s love against him. Alric decided he won’t do the same.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with a new role? I can have you back at the Guard.”
“I can’t serve anyone else.”
In his mind, he thought about Mauvin. Even if their situation was foundamenatlly different, as Mauvin was one of his peers, he was also his defender, always ready to reiterate how Alric was his king, since they were children. Alric couldn’t image a world without him at his side.
They wouldn’t be together, however. If the situation would become too painful for Mauvin, would Alric be able to let him go? But it was also true that Mauvin’s reciprocicated his feelings, even if any of them had dared to talk about it. Arista didn’t.
He nodded. “I grant you permission to leave.”
Sir Ecton and Jeremy brought their report to Alric in the Council Room, even if only Count Pickering was there with him. It wasn’t council day, but Alric felt it was time to summon an emergecy one, giving the situation.
“Medford is under control again.” Jeremy remained standing at the doorstep, rigid, as he felt the revolt could restart at any second. Instead, Sir Ecton moved at Count Pickering’s side. “Most of the crowd dispersed when they saw the army, but we had to subdue some of the most insistent.”
There had been some casualities, and a less number of wounded than Alric expected. Gentry Quartier took most of the damages, when the revolutionaries put the shops on fire, but it had been contained before it spreaded in other areas of the city. Alric gritted his teeth: with the necessity of preparing an army, it wasn’t the time for unattended expence.
“We rounded up the rebels, but we took in custody only six of them.” Jeremy’s eyes switched to Sir Ecton, who nodded.
“I felt it was useless to fill up the castle’s cells. The six one were identified as the most adamant, and the instigator of the resistance.” Sir Ecton watched Alric, but he talked to Count Pickering. “But, if His Majesty considers necessary we have the means to arrest the others too.”
Count Pickering observed Alric, who had a dark expression focused on the empty table in front of him. “I think our priority should be assess back the authority over the people.”
There was more in that sentence than it was said. Alric eyed the Count, reading between the lines. A revolt against the king wasn’t something they could pass over. Teatrening the king’s death was straight-up treason, with only one consequence: death.
Alric wasn’t soft enough to restrain from execution orders, and he’d done that in the past. However, this was a different matter. It hadn’t been a direct murder, as it had been with his father, nor a quest for power like with Braga. His people were angry at him and he wondered if executing some of them would worsened thing. But, fo course, showing lenience could be seen as weakness and Alric couldn’t afford that either.
His mood switched back and forth from fury and sorrow. Hasn’t he been fair and just, since he’d became king? The harvest had been good, nobody had suffered famine during the winter, and spring prospected being good as well. Alric had used his personal funds to offer the commoners feast for the Autumn Gala and Wintertide and planned to do the same for his upcoming birthday. Sure the trade had slowed down, but that was Warric’s fault, not his.
And then the refusal of letting a priest spreading lies demanoed all his works. It didn’t make sense and was just unfair. Alric didn’t know how to remedy it. He wondered how his father would act. He remembered that, after his mother’s death, his father had almost killed Saldur in a fit of rage. Now Alric wished he’d done that, it would have solve some problems.
He knew what he had to do. He turned to Jeremy.
“Tomorrow morning, have all them pubblic flogging. Divided them in all Medford’s squares, so no one will miss that.” He stopped a second, when Count Pickering raised an eyebrow. “Fifty slashes each.” It was like a death sentence, and they knew it. “If they survive, let them in display all day and then let them free.”
Jeremy nodded, with a bow. Sir Ecton didn’t move until Count Pickering ducked his head.
Taking advantage of the pause, Alric added, “And make sure everyone knows that it is the punishment for anyone that dares keep the cult of Novron in my kingdom.” Then, to the Count, “Do you think we should decide for a curfey too?”
Count Pickering pondered it. “No, I don’t think it’s necessary for now.” He shot a look to Sir Ecton. “Let’s monitoring the situation for now, and see if it’s definitley under control before imposing new rules.”
Alric nodded, so Captain Jeremy and Sir Ecton left.
Despite the presence of Count Pickering, Alric let himself loosing a little, with a heavy sigh, and closed his eyes. Again, he wondered what his father would have done in his steady. Surely he wouldn’t have bent the knee to the Empire, after advocating for monarchs indipendence. But perharps he would have been a little bit diplomatic with the priests.
Or he would have listened to advisors. Count Pickering had been the one stopping him from killing Saldur, after all. Alric turned to the man, who wore an unreadable expression, the one he had during fencing matches.
“At this point, I can’t call back Deacon Thomas. It would be seen as a retreat for my part.”
Count Pickering was surprised by the suddend output. He looked at Alric, expecting him to say something else, then turned away, at the windows. “The preach was an excuse. They want power over Melengar, with all the consequences.”
Even if he hadn’t said out loud, Alric understood what he meant. Which brought Alric to his next line of thoughts.
“Have you found Mauvin?”
The Count shook his head.
Mauvin hadn’t be seen, despite the chaos that had busted out because of the revolt. Alric was too tired to be angry, but Mauvin should have been there, assessing the situation. Instead, he was hiding somewhere to avoid any complication. He’d been like that for a while. At first the hiding places had been predicatably, allowing attendants to spot him easily, but he’d become sneakier.
“He’ll appear for dinner.”
Alric wasn’t sure he had the stomach to eat. He stood up. “I’m going to write down some letters at the coucil members.”
“You shouldn’t be alone. Not after today.”
Count Pickering didn’t speak out loud, but his thoughts were simple: if commoners revolted because of their faith, it wouldn’t be impossible for some of the palace staff being in agreement with them. Threatening outside the castle walls had less risk than being alone and unarmed when someone was in your same space and could harm you.
Alric refused to be scared in his own house. “I suppose to have a bodyguard.”
It was somehow strange to see Count Pickering so lenient regarding his heir’s misconduction. In the past, Mauvin’s education had been stricter than Alric’s, with subsequentially more punishments. It didn’t stop Mauvin to be a pest, yet they were the testimony of the Pickerings’ pride and honor to be the most loyal and capable servant of the royal family.
That day, the Count didn’t seem inclined to scold his son for disappearing in a moment of risk. His expression was sour, resigned at Mauvin’s isolation and sulking. Alric tried to understand him: he’d lost a son and the other had taken the blow in the worst way. He probably didn’t want to press someone that was already in mourning, fearing to do more damage.
Alric was mourning Fanen too. He was his brother, if not by blood. But king couldn’t indulge in sorrow more than he already had, and his feeling already brought the kingdom over disaster. What he wanted was to shake Mauvin over it, if the Count wouldn’t.
“He’ll get along. With time.”
“I hope so.” It came out harsh.
When Alric left the council room, he gestured at a soldier to come with him.
“Guard up! Shield down! On the right!”
The heavy iron blade rattled against the shield. Alric felt his arm trembling because of the hit and gritted his teeth, trying not to lose his balance or backing off. Tibby, put in charge of the lesson by Captain Jeremy, went for another lunge, which Alric parried, this time with his sword.
“Very well, Your Majesty.” Tibby brushed the sweat out of his forehead with the back of his hand. “Your reflexs are sharpening.”
Alric made an unconvincing snort, as he felt his entire body suffering for the heavy training. He’d always hated it, and as a child he’d avoided it as much as possible. His uncle, someone Alric didn’t like to think about, had taught him the basic, but no more than that-
It couldn’t be helped, though. If there was a war waiting for him, Alric expected to partecipate during the battles, like he’d done for the Battle of Medford. He needed to be prepared. It was also good for improving his army’s humor and loyalty: they still remembered his run towards the city’s gates and the fact he was training was appreciated.
Tibby was a good teacher, but not the best swordsman out there. Alric couldn’t ask either Count Pickering or Sir Ecton to teach him. And he needed to keep his nobles on the positive side, so he wouldn’t ask them for help, not even Samuel Exeter.
“Your Majesty.” Julian Tempest appeared on the doorstep of the armory training area. “Count Pickering and his son are here. I’ll have them wait in your studio.”
Mauvin! He could become Alric’s teacher from now on. He was a good one, even if Alric expected from him to be playful, and trutting about his superior style. It was obvious. And true. But Alric could endure it, if it meant having his best friend there.
“Thank you, Julian, tell them I’ll be there soon.” Then, to Tibby, “Let’s call the day for now.”
A quick cleaning and a change of dress and Alric went to this office. Count Pickering sat down at the armchair near the fireplace, comfortable as he was in his home, and gestured at Alric with a nod of his head. Mauvin, instead, stood still at the center of the room. He lifted his eyes a little at Alric’s entrance, but the greeting was so low Alric almost missed it.
“Your Majesty.”
Surprised, Alric stopped. Usually, when they saw each other, especially if a long time had passed, Mauvin wasn’t thrifty of public display of affections. Even if his father’s presence would have impede him to exagerated, at least he would have smiled.
Alric hadn’t seen Mauvin since Fanen’s funeral. In that period, he was still recovering from his own wound, so Alric hadn’t pressed the issue. The pain for Fanen’s death was fresh in Alric’s mind too, and Mauvin’s utterly defeated behavior was to be expected. Despite Count Pikcering’s comments about his elder son’s humor – one of the reason he’d advocated for Alric to nominate him as his bodyguard – Alric wasn’t prepared for the display in front of him.
Mauvin still wore the black clothes of mourning, and had no sword at his belt, when he almost used to go to sleep with it. He didn’t smile, neither with his mouth or eyes, which tried to keep lower as possible. Dark circles were around them, shoulder dipped down.
For a second, Alric forgot about everything, his imagination about the rest of the day divided between sword training and cuddling crashing down. He’d enough to take care as a king, he’d hoped at least to have Mauvin to make his mind at rest.
Count Pickering, feeling the coldness of the room, stood up. “I’ll leave the organization to you two.”
Mauvin nodded at his father, just barely. Once he was outside the room, Alric walked to be in front of Mauvin, who still hadn’t moved from his position. Because of it, it was Alric that lifted his hands, brushing slowly Mauvin’s arms until he could interwined his fingers with the other’s.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Mauvin accepted the gesture passively, still not looking at him. “I disagree with your decision to make me your bodyguard.”
“Why?”
The restrained sob was clearly in the way Mauvin swallowed, his adam’s nibble bouncing. “I can’t lose another brother.”
Alric inhaled sharply, but didn’t let him go. Mauvin had always be his protector, since they were children. Alric’d never fear anything when they were together, even if they’d escaped unattended from the palace. The ghost of Fanen, most of the time with them during their escapades, was tangible with them in the room.
What happened with the seret came from second hand tales, because Mauvin’d refused to talk about him with Alric. However, Alric didn’t fell less safe only because that had happened, and didn’t blame Mauvin for it.
Observing at his pale face, the beautiful sharp features covered by the messy hair, the long eyeslashed that covered the black deep eyes, Alric wanted to caress it, and wanted Mauvin to hold him and tell him everything would be alright. This Mauvin didn’t seem capable to do so.
“I need you here,” he only said, tightening the grip on Mauvin’s hand. “Just your presence, for comfort. Can you do that?”
Without looking at him, Mauvin nodded.
Alric hadn’t eaten at dinner. He wasn’t hungry. The smell coming from the tray Tilly had brought in his private room only increased his nausea. From there, he could still see some smoke coming from Gentry Quartier, a reminder that just didn’t go away.
To distract himself, he focused his gaze on Tilly’s expert movement as she undressed him. It was such a ordinary action that he never occur to him the way she did it, how her hands unbottoned the doublet or how she let the tunic slid from his shoulder. She never looked at him, not even once.
Chosing her to be his favorite chambermaid had been for Alric a sort of compensation for the years of service, and also because he trusted her when naked. She had been grateful of the honor, or so he’d thought, and she hadn’t denied him sex when he’d felt like that. They hadn’t been together for a while, no since Fanen’s death. He wasn’t in the amorous mood.
Things could change. Things had changed.
“Do you worship Novron, Tilly?”
She halted, surprised by the question. She still didn’t look at him. “Like everyone else, Sire.”
Alric realized he knew little about her except for some of her quirks. She had a family, of course, sisters and brothers, he was sure of it.
“Like the people out there today?”
This time, she looked at him, her eyes wide in horror. “I have nothing to do with them. I swear on Maribor. Your Majesty, if someone tell you differently-”
“No, I have no complain.” Alric shuffled: the question had let Tilly’s work blocked, and now his shirt hang fastidiously over his shoulder. She hurried to take it off. “But I do wonder if you don’t share their belief. Maybe you also would prefer serving the Heir of Novron.”
Why not? He’d believed his people to agree with him, to want Melengar to remain indipendet from the Enpire, just like his nobles had approved when he’d announced it at the council. That day he was proved wrong, so it wasn’t far-fetched to fear that similar feelings were sharing inside his own castle.
“Maybe you hate me all this time.”
“No! Your Majesty, that’s… What happened today was terrible. I hate them, not you! You’ve been kind to me and I-”
Alric stopped her with his hand. “Of course. Of course.”
He shouldn’t have asked. What could she answer, than her loyalty, when she was in his castle, at his mercy? If she confessed any form of infedelity, he could have her removed, or whipped, or even executed. Even if they were alone, Tilly was probably one of the few people around that couldn’t overpowered him. He wouldn’t get sincerity out of her.
Despite being still half-dressed, Alric gestured at the door.
“You may go.”
Tilly’s eyes were watery, her face pale, her lips trembled. But before she spoke, the door opened and Mauvin, dressed completely in black, appeared. Neither of them had heard his arrival, so they both flinched in surprise. To Alric, he turned sooner in annoyance, while Tilly took it as a signal to go. She didn’t even grabbed the clothes to put them in the wardrobe, as she dashed out of the room, almost running into Mauvin in the process, as she kept her head bowen.
Mauvin watched her walking away with a unconvinced expression, before closing the door. “You shouldn’t ask her things that put her in a difficult position.”
The slap wasn’t planned. It came out naturally, the sound of the palm slamming against Mauvin’s cheek.
In all those years of friendship and more, Alric had never hit Mauvin. They’d fought, as children, sure, and they had had disagreement over things. And yet, here it was, the red sign of the hand on the fair skin, the small sign of a red scratch where the seal ring had struck.
Mauvin was right, of course. Asking Tilly about her loyalty had been a foul move from Alric’s part, since he had no reason to doubt her, not after so many years of service. Alric didn’t care: he was beyond fury, the fact that Mauvin hadn’t been with him when he’d needed him the most and now had the guts to come only for complain about Alric’s behaviour.
Mauvin accepted the slap with grace. His expression didn’t change, nor her lifted his hand to touch the wounded part. His gaze was lower, at his shoes, arms hangling freely at his side, shoulders dipped down. It was the new Mauvin, the one all gloomy that made Alric wonder if he’d imagine Mauvin’s smile in the past, because the man in front of him seemed incapable of any expression.
“Where have you been?” Alric lowered the hand that had struck. “You’re my bodyguard. Maybe you don’t notice I needed you today? Answer me!”
“Everything was under control.” A whisper.
Alric wanted to scream. To hit him again. Nothing was under control. But even if it was, Mauvin should have been there. Out of everyone, out of the nobles, the soldiers and even Tilly, Mauvin was the only one Alric didn’t doubt when it came to loyalty.
Mauvin was his best friend. His brother. His lover. He should have been there to support. Alric wouldn’t have asked anything from him other than his presence, reassuring. With Arista away for her diplomatic mission, and Hilfred gone, and Fanen dead, Mauvin was the only one left.
“I needed you and you. Weren’t. There.”
If Mauvin wanted to apologize, he didn’t have the strengh to do so. He remained standing there, facing Alric’s fury like an oak tree faced a tempest. If it would be eradicated, so be it. Alric hated it.
At first, he’d like Mauvin’s presence to be comforting. Even if none of them were in the mood of enjoying sex marathon, Alric would have been content with a hug, or some cuddle, or even a little kiss on the cheeks on the forehead. Something simple, to remind him that despite the angry mob, he was still loved.
Now he wanted Mauvin to fight back, to scream back at him, to defend himself, to do something other than standing there like a ghost.
But Mauvin did neither, just observing Alric from below, his head still down.
That patethic man in front of him wasn’t his friend. Alric could barely stand the sight of him.
“Get out.”
Without a word, Mauvin obeyed. He even seemed relieved when he closed the door behind him.
Alric waited for the steps to disappear in the silence of the royal wing before collapsing on the bed, ignoring that he was still half-dressed and that the remaining clothes, including the fur mantle, were abandoned in the nearby chair, and that the fireplace needed to be revived.
Now that he was alone, he could stop pretending to be strong. The tremors caused by the fear of the revolt returned and he abandoned to it, letting a sob of horror erupting from his throat.
And alone he was, not only physically. People in his life were either dead, or away, for one reason and another. And the only one there didn’t even want to touch him. He was completely, utterly alone.
Alric sunk his head in the pillow and cried.
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