The King
The man walks at a steady pace. His steps barely lift the
white/
The settlement around the palace should be a city, but it looks more like a slum. Even from the main road he walks in from, misery reigns, all the way down to the castle gates. He sits to rest on the step of one of the still, empty fountains, facing those same gates he'll be knocking at in a few minutes, pondering.
Nobody accosts him. Some look at him with curiosity but from a distance, other pretend to ignore his presence. He makes a mental note of the pattern that has emerged from his stops, local garrison means less openly friendly people, and stands up.
Nothing seemingly moves behind the palace windows or on its walls as he approaches, even though his whole journey cannot have gone unobserved {BTS}«Who is this stranger?» «Nobody knows, my lord.» «And he comes from the south?» «Across the border, apparently, my lord.» «Yet he is not one of them. I don't like this, I don't like this at all.» «Would my lord prefer he'd … be taken care of?» «I would very much like so, but we cannot act so hastily, without knowing who he is, what he wants, and most importantly who he has behind. I don't understand. He could be a spy, but he is too bold in his approach, unless even that's just part of an act. And our informants haven't been able to get anything out of him?» «Nothing, my lord. Only trivial chat, but nothing about the purpose of his travels, or even their origin.» «This suspense is killing me. And now he just sits there, like that, as if to provoke me … ah, he is coming here, then.»{/BTS}. He finally lifts one of the knockers of the front gate, and slams it hard three times.
The voice on the other side isn't quick to respond, and brusque in the tone. «State your name and business.»
«I am here to confer with the lord of these lands. My identity is for him only.»
Time passes as his reply is relayed and a response prepared. {BTS}«Finally, a good opportunity. Prepare him a bath, get him comfortable and relaxed, and squeeze all you can from him.»{/BTS} The gates then open slowly. «My lord welcomes you, and begs forgiveness for the delay. You have traveled much, a bath awaits you, and quarters will be arranged if you wish to prolong your stay.»
As the traveler steps through the gate, his gaze gets lost for a few moments in the high vaults that surround him, the luxury that hides beneath them, the sharp contrast with the misery he has just stepped out of.
«You may inform your lord that I do not wish to impose for longer than necessary, no quarters will be needed. I would appreciate a visit to the baths before meeting with him, though.»
His guide turns to their right, walks him down a few corridors, then stops in front of a set of doors. «You may refresh from your journey here.»
The traveler crosses into some sort of antechamber as his guide swiftly walks away. Three young women, wrapped in bathing towels, and with slippers at their feet, are waiting for him. As he takes a few steps, looking around, barely an eye for them, they bow «we're here to offer our services …» «That won't be necessary.»
Another set of doors opens into the bath proper, where steaming water is waiting for him. He ponders the locations, both sets of doors opening towards the inside of the antechamber, and finally relieves his shoulder of the weight of his backpack. The tallest of the women timidly attempts a new approach «Our lord wishes …» «You may thank your lord for your hospitality on my part, which I will do myself later on. I wish to be alone for the bath.»
The women bow again, then move towards the door, as the man begins to remove the outer layers of clothing. The tallest again hesitates before leaving. «Do you wish for one of us to stay behind, in case you change your mind?» «I will not change my mind. Out.» She leaves, closing the door, {BTS}«He's going to kill us.» «There's nothing we can do! Do you want to make the guest angrier?» «He's still going to blame us!»{/BTS}
The man waits until the indistinguishable blabber behind the door has faded, then finds a wooden bar to cross the doors shut with and finishes disrobing himself as he walks into the bath.
He's startled from the nap he has dozed into by a loud knock on the antechamber doors. As he stands from the bath, the same female voice calls out from behind «My lord wishes to offer you some lighter clothing, if you wish to dine with him.»
The man puffs, and steps into the antechamber. «They won't be necessary, but I'll gladly share a meal with my generous host.» Time to get things rolling anyway.
He ignores the rustles behind the last protection from the tranquillity he'll have until who knows when, then finds a new set of clothes well isolated into a sheltered part of his travel backpack, wears them, complete with boots, and finally frees the doors of the wooden bar that has preserved his quiet. There's the offered set of clothes folded on a stool, and matching footwear under it. There's also his generous host, waiting for him, with four guards.
«My lord.» «My lord.» There's a moment of silence, before the host takes his first steps down the corridor, with his guest soon following, side by side but for the guards. «I hope everything has been to your liking so far.» «I've had a much needed rest from the journey, and I thank you for it. I hope my choice of clothing is appropriate for the occasion, and really make an understanding that I do no make it a point to refuse hospitality when it is given.»
The host shakes his head, smiling «No offense is taken. Your comfort is my priority, and you may rest assured that your clothing is most appropriate, maybe even more than what I was offering.» They walk into the main halls, and again the traveler gaze spans the high vaults. «This is a palace worth of a king.» he murmurs.
«Oh, hohoho, please, my kind sir, this is no king's palace. I'm just a humble minister, the rector of this province.»
«Still looks majestic enough.»
«Oh, if your journey has brought you here from the east or the south, you may be misguided in your judgement by having crossed the poorest areas of this province. The rest of the province is much better off, and the kingdom provides for his trusty servants.» he mimics a short bow, to remark it's himself he's talking about.
«Yet the palace was built here.»
«Oh, our king insists that we be close to the least fortunate.» «Why would he do that?» «To help us remember who we are here to serve, protect, lift the fortunes of.» he shakes a fake tear from the right eye, looking up at the vaults himself «He's a mighty noble spirit, our king.»
The traveler is still looking at the vaults, his head so thrown aback that he's basically looking right above, walking blindly, and his voice can't be heard when he exhales: «I can't believe a mighty noble spirit would let this happen.»
Even though the sound doesn't reach him, the host has no trouble understanding the sentence. He loses his broad, smiling mask for a second, the look in his eyes turns suspicious, aggressive, and then it's gone.
«My friend, you're still carrying a heavy burden, wouldn't you rather wish to leave your luggage in a safe place, than carry it with you?»
«Says the man who walks around with four guards in his own palace.»
The Rector smirks. «Even under the protection of the kingdom, enemies lurk in the shadow. Enemies from outside, especially in outer provinces like ours, but even enemies from inside, conspirators plotting against our king himself, let alone us lowly ministers, much easier targets.»
He stops.
«These are my personal guard, my most trusted men. They would follow me through Hell if I commanded. I entrust my life to them, surely you can entrust them with your luggage?»
The traveler slightly swings his backpack, letting it drop at the feet of one of the guards. The Rector smiles, and continues: «Since you've wished to not have quarters prepared, I'll have your luggage delivered to my own. Trusted men constantly watch over them, from the inside and the outside. You have nothing to worry about.» A rapid jerk of the Rector's head, and the guard swiftly takes off with the backpack.
The host swings his arms towards the large double doors waiting for them, and they cross into the dining hall.
As requested by etiquette, the traveler, guest of honor, is placed in front of the Rector, his host. But, against the guest's expectations, they are sitting at the middle of the long sides of the table. The head seats are empty on both ends, and even the chairs are missing.
The traveler quickly learns that the young woman sitting at his right is the Rector's daughter, and that the rest of the guests are of no importance, just the usual series of leeches and aspiring leeches looking for crumbs to fall from the metaphorical table of their owners, as they consume freely from the physical one.
There are guards everywhere. Four guards, with a new one replacing the one that took custody of the backpack, stand no more than a few steps behind the Rector and the other guests on his side. Four more guards, without the markings that the traveler assumes indicates the personal guard, stand behind the other side, keeping the same distance.
Another full row of guards is sparsely but regularly placed all around the walls of the hall, not all of them visible behind the columns that fence the table on both sides.
«So, my dearest guest, where do you hail from, and what news do you bring.»
«I come from the south.» «You don't look like a man from the south.» «I'm not from the south.» «Oh, I would say so, you look nothing like one of those barbarians. Your clothing, your attitude, your skin even show you as more of our brethren.» the Rector leans closer «In fact, I would even dare say you look familiar, as if I knew you from elsewhere already.»
Initially visibly annoyed by the persistent interruptions to his replies, the traveler throws back his head in a laugh «Oh trust me, you don't know me, you don't know me at all. But I've been told I'm a man of a thousand faces: wherever I go, people will remark a fleeting resemblance to someone they know. I've been taken for the husband, son, brother of a lot of people I've never met in my life before. People have stopped me on the road to greet some long lost friend, before realizing their mistake.»
The host shakes his head «Fascinating, isn't it.» he turns on both sides, as to engage or look for confirmations from the other diners «But you're obviously not from the south, and yet you come through from a land of raiders, who often don't hesitate to trespass into our lands, and attack our poorest frontier villages.» He sighs «We're stretched so thin, we can barely keep their raiding patrol at hand.» Then, on a more cheerful note, and with a bright smile «And yet, we manage, and most of the raids turn into barely more than a scare, and rarely any damage or loss of life. I trust you had a safe journey.»
«I've had the luck of not coming across any raiders, and I've immensely appreciated the efforts to offer me whatever hospitality they could, by the people I've met. This land is truly a generous one. I've always tried to never take more than the bare necessities.» He skims over the detrimental details he'd like to spit in the face of his host. This is not the time.
«We take after our generous king, always be blessed his soul.» «Always be blessed.» like a chorus that startles the traveler. The Rector continues «And I've been witness myself of your frugal, restrained nature. You're an admirable fellow indeed. I can't wait to hear what brings you here.»
«I would rather discuss it in a … different context, I'm sure you understand.» «Of course, of course, I'm just saying that you know how to keep up a lively curiosity.»
Especially when people keep interrupting me, the traveler thinks. But it is time to counter: «Oh, I have some questions of my own, you know. This king of yours, for example.» The Rector face looks shocked by the casual tone with which the traveler talks of his esteemed king, but the speaker is unabashed and continues «Would those most trusted men of yours, your personal guard that would follow you through Hell, also follow you against him?»
«How dare you!» the Rector stands suddenly, purple with rage, toppling his chair «How dare you walk into my home like this, and even just suggest that I may want to do something like that!»
The traveler stands much more calmly, shifting back his chair. The guards all around shuffle nervously on their feet. The other guests sit as still as they can in their chairs, trying to make their presence not noticeable even by their breathing.
«I wonder how many of these guards would jump to my order, were I an emissary of the king,» and suddenly the traveler voice gets stronger, imperative, but not louder «Guards, arrest this man for high treason.»
Nobody moves. The guards still shuffle nervously on their feet.
The Rector grows even more purple, for what his blood still allows. He shouts back «You're no emissary of our king! I personally know each one of them, and am a good friend of many of them. G(uards, arrest this man).»
The traveler voice takes over, covering the Rector's order. And it's a completely different voice this time, even a different tone, and it's incredibly louder, as if it was emanating by the traveler's whole body. It's a command voice, and it repeats the order «Guards, arrest these men for high treason!»
The guards finally move, getting closer to the table, moving towards the Rector side, some more determined than others, but still with no apparent conviction. Only his personal guard, determined and trained, moves in sharp steps, surrounding the Rector, who is now shrieking at the top of his lungs «Why are you doing this, why are you following his orders, he's no king's emissary, he's an enemy, an infiltrator, he's here to sabotage our …»
«He's the king.» the voice of the daughter can barely be heard between the breaths the Rector has to take in-between his shrieks. «What?» and it's suddenly falsetto «Why didn't you tell me earlier!»
«I tried to tell you,» the daughter murmurs exasperated, as if trying to be heard by his father only, despite the immediate proximity of the King himself «you never even looked at me, and I've been trying to attract your attention for the whole dinner, without drawing his. How is it always my fault?» her fists drop violently, as if to hit the non-existent arms of her chair, as she stands up.
The hand of the King is instantly on her shoulder, and drives her back to the seat. «You will be seated.» His voice doesn't have the command loudness anymore, but is still the new one. He looks around «Everyone will be seated, until I say otherwise.»
The Rector points his finger at him through his personal guard. «You leave her alone. You lay a finger on her, I will come back from the dead to curse you and your family down to your last descendant.»
The King steps away from the table, walks around «You will do nothing of the sort. And she will face judgement, like everybody else in this room, like everybody else in this palace, like every single soul in this province, for their choices and their support of the most viscid, despicable vermin my kingdom has ever seen. I will learn of everyone if they were ever supporting of your schemes for luxury and power over the good of my people, or if they truly believed to be serving me through you.»
He stops in front of the tightest square the four men of the personal guard can form without squeezing their Rector dead. «These men, for example, you truly have chosen them well, and I now know the answer to my question, even though I know just as well you never intended to move against me. But they've obviously made their choice. Guards, take their weapons.» He snaps his fingers. The guards hesitate.
«Ah!» a foolish joy lifts the spirits of the Rector. «No one dares touch my personal guard!»
«I do.» With absolute calm, the King grabs the halberds they cross in front of him, and pulls them away, then suddenly jerks them off the guards' hands, and drops them on the floor behind him. He proceeds towards the other two guards, but all of them just drop all of their weapons on the floor and stand back. The Rector throws himself at the floor, as if to grab a weapon, but the King stops his hand with a boot, then the other «You will do nothing so foolish.» as the guards quickly clean up the pavement of all weapons and start manacling the four men of the Rector's personal guard.
The King forces the Rector to roll over, keeping his neck down with a boot.
«I will eat your soul. You won't have peace any more in your life.» the Rector manages to growl, eyes shot with blood, as he desperately lifts the boot that is holding his necks, and tries to gnaw at it.
«Pathetic.» The King kicks to free his boot, and walks away as guards lift the growling Rector and shackle him up.
The King looks around, and finally points at the youngest of the guards. «You! You look young enough to hopefully not have been corrupted by this despicable worm. I need … no, wait.» he stops to think.
«This palace has cells?»
«Yes, sir.»
«I want the lady» she points at the Rector's daughter «in a safe cell. She will be given a liter of fresh water and a loaf a bread, two times per day. I want two guards outside, one man and one woman. They …»
«We … we don't have female guards, Your M…»
«There's no female guards? What do you do with the female prisoners?»
No peep from anybody. The King, now standing at the corner of the dining table, clenches his fist, slowly counts down from five in his mind. Then suddenly the fist comes down, smashing on the table, cracking the wood. Manifesting no pain, he reprises «As well. So you'll be one of the guards.» there's a muffled laugh somewhere behind him, his reaction is fast and unpredictable as before: he turns and grabs the sneering guard by the face, and drives his head full force against the nearest column.
«Mental note,» says the King aloud, but as to himself, as the now still body of the guard slumps to the floor «remove the helmets if you want to actually smash their heads in.»
A dreary silence fills the room. The command voice comes back again «I will not tolerate derision nor disrespect for …»
«But I'm not even …» it's barely a whisper, but it doesn't escape the King's ears. His voice suddenly becomes conversational «That's hardly the point, boy, it's not about you, it's a matter of principle: nobody should care about anybody else's sexual preference, except for their partners. In bed.» He waves his hand «Bah, you get what I mean.»
He turns back to the hall. The look on everyone's face is still more terrified than before the head smash, despite the puzzling experience of the interrupted speech and conversational remark.
«You» he points at another guard «will keep guard to the lady with him. Neither of you will touch her except to apprehend her if she tries to run away, you will not speak to her, nor she will receive any visits. You will stand guard until two of my men come to relieve you. I will get to know if any of my orders have not been followed, and strike down personally anyone who disobeyed. You» he turns to the daughter, whose fit of rage against the father has passed, and who now seems to be simply waiting for her destiny to be fulfilled «will cooperate with your guards, both the present and future, and await your judgement. You will not leave your cell until that time.» The King spreads his arms, then brings them together pointing in front of him. «You may go now.»
The Rector's daughter stands on her own, then walks away between the two guards. The King turns now to the guard that was standing right behind the just vacated seat, and enquires «Where does your fealty lie?» «With my King and his emissaries, Your Majesty.» There's no hesitation in the guard's voice, and he looks back straight at his King with grounded serenity.
«That's easy to say.» «Your Majesty may test me as he pleases.»
There's a few seconds of silence before the King continues «How many men are in the personal guard of the Rector?» «Twelve locks of four in service here in the city, Your Majesty. Three are in active duty at each time, one by his side, two by his quarters.»
«And I don't suppose the palace has a cell large enough to hold all of them.» The guard looks down, but doesn't reply «Do we have cells that can be well defended against an attack?»
The guard brightens up «We do, Your Majesty! There's an isolation cell at the end of a corridor, with a few larger cells on the side. The corridor is long and can barely fit two men walking shoulder to shoulder. A few good men could easily defend the cell from an army.»
«You will pick your few good men and lock the Rector in the isolation cell and the personal guards we have in one of the side cells. They will all be given a liter of water and a loaf of bread each, once per day.» he then leans over so that only the guard can hear him «Your men will not be relieved by anyone until I personally come down with my men and relieve them. They are to strike down without hesitation anyone, including my men, that pretends otherwise. I will make myself recognizable by my signet ring, but they will not accept relief from anyone but me, not even from anybody else with my signet ring. Just me, and only if I show my signet ring. You will bring as many men with you now as you feel safe to traverse the halls of this palace and protect the prisoners and the guards with, but you will only leave down the smallest number you feel can stand their ground while taking turns resting. They will use the empty cell closest to the entrance of the corridor for their rest and relief, and never show that there are more than the active men defending the corridor. You will send everybody else back before you give the holding guard their instructions, then you'll get back to me. I need someone else I can trust to direct operations while you're gone.»
«Your Ma…»
«Also please stop calling me ‘Your Majesty’, it gets on my nerves, just call me Sir, as you would with any other superior. You will also inform your men of this, but only after the rest is gone.»
«Sorry, Your … Sir. I will. You may refer to the man standing exactly under the light while I'm gone. I'll be back in twenty minutes after leaving this hall, or I'll be dead.»
«Men,» and the boasting command voice bombs through the hall again «this man is your acting commander. You follow his orders as if they were mine. Strike down anybody interfering with your duty, be back as soon as commanded.»
The King then looks around again, identifying his next trusted guard by the luminous square created by the midday sun through a skylight. He stands in front of him. «Where does your loyalty stand?» This man doesn't have the solidity of the previous one. His voice shakes as he claims «I serve none, but Your Majesty.» The King lifts a finger, ready to say something, then seems to change his mind mid-thought «That's … not what I asked.» The guard's expression turns to confusion. The King closes his eyes, exhales. «Never mind.»
«You will lock down the palace. Nobody enters, nobody leaves.» Damn, I should have thought of this sooner. «Nobody. No servant, no dignitary, no guard, until I give permission to. Anybody tries to forces their way in or out, you have permission to strike them down. You will gather as many men as necessary, confiscate all the keys to the main and secondary entrances, and bar every door so that any attempt at removal can be detected.» He turns to the hall again «Men, this man is now your acting commander. You know the story. Now go.»
«Gentlemen,» the King finally turns to the other guests, still sitting speechless at the table, still hoping to fuse with the furniture «I hope all of you have quarters here. Those of you who don't will be assigned one. You will all be escorted to your quarters, and quarantined there until further notice. Two guards will be stationed by each of the quarters, and you may use them to communicate with me, if needed. You will not abuse this opportunity. I will not tolerate futile complains. You will not leave your quarters, or the palace, unless I say so. Now begone.»
The King is now alone in the hall. He breathes deeply, slowly, in, out, inhale, exhale, to draw back the headache he knows forthcoming from using the voice projection technique to excess.
Now comes the hard part, he thinks. And so much has gone wrong already. Too much improvisation, too many slip ups, too many unknowns still. And the worst is still to come. And there's still so much to do …
Slip ups. Check on the safety of the Rector's daughter.
The guards stand at attention as soon as they see the King, he waves them at ease. He reaches the cell door.
The young woman sits on the bench of her cell, staring at the wall in front of her. She doesn't acknowledge the arrival of her jailer in any way.
«Depending on how the situation turns out, we may be able to move you to your quarters when my men come. You would be confined there under arrest, but you should be more comfortable.»
The woman lowers her head, as if ashamed of something, and murmurs: «It is my understanding that His Majesty treats men and women alike. I see no reason to favor my person with a different treatment than any other prisoner.»
The King inhales deeply, holding breath for a few seconds before answering: «I would rather be done with having prisoners as soon as I can. Imprisonment should be a short term provision to hold people before judgement is passed, which should be done as swiftly as fairness and correctness allow. And there is no need for it to cause undue stress to the subject, for it will be an unnecessary discomfort if they are deemed innocent, and an equally unnecessary exhibition of cruelty are they to be punished.»
The King steps back. Of the two guards, the young one seems crutched under the burden imposed by having been chosen as the first referent, while the other has a positively terrified look in his eyes.
«What are you afraid of?» the King asks to the elder guard.
The guard stands at attention again, as if the blank look it imposes would allow him to avoid an answer. He then crumbles. «Everything, Your Majesty. The rector's guard. You.»
The King nods. «You should. I do not know of your past actions yet. I will, though, as you will tell me about it yourself, and I will pass judgement based on it. But your duty now is to protect the rector's daughter with your life. And you will. Nothing else matters. The past is not the only thing that defines you.»
The King turns and leaves with a wave. He passes by the corridor that leads to the isolation cell, and stops to check the situation from what he can see from the entrance. Four men are there. He expects there to be at least as many resting, hidden, in the closest of the cells. He nods and walks away.
When he reaches the hall again, the two guards that acted as commanding officers are also back. They give a quick report, to which the King only lends one ear, until the guard responsible for the lock down mentions the Rector's quarter, inside of which the remaining Rector's servicemen have locked themselves in.
«I've had all of the doors barred and secured from the outside as well, Your Majesty, and stationed two men at each of them.» «Please stop calling me ‘Your Majesty’, I hate that, just call me Sir.» «Yes, Your Maje … I'm sorry, Sir. Sir.»
The King sighs. «How many men are inside?» «Four at least, possibly all eight of them.» «What about the windows?» «There are six of them. I can have archers stationed outside to …» «No, nothing of the sort. Outside would be onto the public square, it's not time for that yet. You will lock down all of the windows that may be reached by lowering oneself from the rector's quarters. You will station guards inside the room of any window that may otherwise be reached from those, such as by walking on the cornice. That's all. As for you,» he turns to the other guard «we will fetch the rector himself. It is time I addressed the people.»
«You will pay for this!» the Rector has now had time to regain some composure, so as he is walked through the halls, side-by-side with the King, surrounded by guards, he has now the energy and the conviction to speak out against his jailer. «You have no idea who you're toying with, but you will pay, oh you will. I know what expects me, but rest assured, you will not get rid of me that easily, oh no, I will haunt you for the rest of your days. You will not have a good night's sleep ever again, you will not be able to trust any more food or drink, prepared or plain, the very air you breathe will be poison for your lungs!»
The Rector speech makes some of the guards nervous. The commander himself seems tempted to put an end to it in some efficiently violent way, but he holds himself back, as the King imperturbably persists in seemingly ignoring his prisoner.
They finally walk out into the balcony that opens over the main gate, towards the largest part of the main square. People have been gathering, intrigued by the rumors of what's been happening at the palace. Information leaks, the King thinks, and who knows how many people, guards and not, have left before the lock-down. He gets to the parapet, as the guards stand behind, blocking the entrance, the Rector right in front of them, still shackled, the chain firmly held by the commander.
The main square is now filling up faster, as people notice the little crowd on the balcony and look up, packing up towards the center, from right below the palace to the outer rims of the square.
«People of the Southern Basin!» the King proclaims, and his command voice projects loudly across, echoing strongly enough to be heard all over.
In amazement, the King turns to the commander, remarking «That's some pretty outstanding acoustics.» The commander approaches, dragging the Rector with him, in order to be able to answer the King without speaking too loud. «That's intentional, Sir, the location and orientation of the palace was chosen on purpose, to the shape of the ground, and the rising hills right over there.»
Back to the crowd, some of which have still heard the brief exchange, and are now looking more perplexed than before, the King now doubts the words he was prepared to speak next (“I am your King”. No, none of that, it's the last thing they need, it's the last thing I need.)
«I have come to put right the pain and suffering you've had to endure by my own foolishness.»
«And who might you be, kind sir?» the feeble yet clearly audible voice comes from a toothless woman well beyond her prime, standing among the crowd closest to the palace, and sheltering her eyes from the sun with her hand, like many.
«He's your King, you birdbrain!» the commander shouts leaning over the parapet.
«There's hardly any need for that tone, soldier,» the King intervenes «the woman is in her own right to ask such a question, and she deserves a plain answer, no need for insults. Even if it had been obvious, which it isn't …» «You really should do something about that, Sir, by the way.» «Why would that be relevant at all.» «To be able to tell you're the king, Sir.» «We're telling them, all right? We're telling them, there's no need for fancy clothes or jewelry, all right?» «I'm just saying it would make things simpler. More obvious.»
«Are those two quarrelling over what a king should wear? Is that guard quarrelling with the king? Is that the king or not?» the comments running through the crowd make them suddenly realize they've been bickering in what should have been a private conversion between peers. The commander turns red with embarrassment for the way he has talked to the King, and goes back to his silent attention pose.
The King turns to the crowd again, waits for the murmurs to settle down, then continues his speech.
«Indeed, I am your King, and I'm not saying it with pride now, there is nothing to be proud of in how I've let myself be misled by the people I had entrusted your fortunes to. I've been made to believe you were being treated as human beings deserve to be treated, with dignity and respect. I was led into organized tours through fake towns and fake capitals to show me a province that wasn't the real one. Even my own informers were bought out, with the wealth you were being stolen, so that the lie about the real state of affairs would be complete.»
«I've never trusted this man,» and the King forces the Rector closer to the parapet «but I've never had a chance to uncover the extent of his lies. So I've come to you incognito. I've come from the south, alone. I've traveled without the custody of his or my men, and I've finally seen the truth.»
«I've seen how your land is being stripped of all health and wealth, with nothing left for you to live on.»
«I've seen how you're being treated by the men that obey this vermin,» he again pushes the Rector against the parapet «with no possible response, and no one to take your grievances to.»
«I've seen the poverty and the misery you're left to live in, as all the resources the kingdom has offered for the benefit of this province have been pocketed by a few, allowing them to build their own personal kingdom within the kingdom, stealing from both sides, hiding each from the other, hiding the real you from the rest, and the rest from the real you, so that you would not even know what you were being deprived of.»
«I have come to make amends. I cannot undo all the damage that has been done, but I will do what I can to …»
«You will do nothing!» the Rector explains «You will forget about them, go back to your luxury, leave this land in chaos!»
«I had almost forgotten about you. Free his hands.»
After a moment of hesitation, the commander obeys. As the Rector massages his wrist with theatrical moves, the King grabs him by his clothing, and lifts him over the parapet. The man desperately grabs to the King's wrists, looking behind and below him to the long drop to the ground with terror in his eyes. «Don't!» he shouts
«People of the Southern Basin! This man was supposed to protect you. He was supposed to serve you, bring forth your fortune and wealth, look over your health and prosperity. His words have been nothing but falsehoods, his actions nothing but poison and trickery. I find him guilty of treason, for he betrayed my people. I give it to you to do as you please.»
He shakes his arms violently, pushing away, freeing himself from the desperate grasp of the Rector and leaving him to his fall, to his last scream: «I'll have my reve(nge).»
The crowd below had moved away as soon as the King had grabbed the Rector. It now stands in a circle around the body, without daring to get closer even after its last twitch. There's fear in their reaction, fear that the man might still be alive —it's not untold of people surviving even higher falls— fear to get cursed by the living, or by the spirit of the dead. They stand no less than three, four meters from it, and yet seconds ago, when the King had finally let go, they couldn't hold their joyous, surprised «woo».
But they're not sure anymore now. They know the bad they had, they do not know what the new rule will mean, and they know the Rector had connections, power beyond what the King had granted him. They fear his legacy, and the aura of sorcery he had shrouded himself in. They look up at the King again, who is now silent, contemplating the disheveled body. The guards have stepped away from the doors, approaching the parapet to look down at the aftermath as well.
The long seconds of silence that follow are suddenly interrupted by a furious gallop. The horse quickly appears, coming through with complete disregard for the crowd that separates it from the gate, and that barely manages to open up to avoid being trampled on.
«Open the gates!» shouts the man riding it «I have pressing news for the rector!» He stops abruptly on top of the Rector's body when the gates remain closed. He looks up at the guards and the foreigner «What is happening here! Call for the rector! A caravan of the king's men is coming straight through to here, they will be here in less than two hours!»
«Good.» says the King, calmly.
«Don't you understand?» the rider dismounts, nonchalantly kicking away the legs of the body that he sees trampled under the horse «Call for the rector! And who are you!»
«I am the king, and I've taken control of this province again. You are under arrest.» the King turns to the guards «Two of you, go pick him up and deliver him to the rest. Do not approach the prisoners' guard, just deliver him to them.»
The newcomer has passed the first moment of shock. He looks around at the unfriendly, threatening faces of the civilians around him. His hand runs to the sword.
«You will do nothing so foolish!» commands the King; then, to the commander «Bring me a bow.» he turns back to the square «People of the Southern Basin: this man is under arrest, but he is also under my protection. He will drop his weapons, and I will personally strike down any of you who approaches him or hurts him. You will prevent his escape, and for that I will be grateful, but no harm will come to him.» He arms the bow, and awaits.
The first to arrive are the horsemen. They stop on the main road, and as four stay behind to hold the horses, the rest march through the crowd to the main gate, where the King is eagerly waiting for them. The captain reports on the upcoming group, a few hundred men and women, less than half of which soldiers, and among the rest, the entourage of the King himself.
That's not enough, the King thinks, there's too much to do, on the whole province. This won't even be enough to get started with the capital here. Yet how much more could we spare at home without weakening our position too much?
That's too many, he thinks too, even this palace isn't enough to hold all of them. They'll have to set up camp here, they'll be seen as an occupying force. And yet, isn't this exactly what they are, in a sense?
They're here to provisionally take over control of the resources of the land, of the people. It's an occupation, it is what it is, but that must not be what the people perceive it as.
We need supply lines of our own, that the resources we drain be not the resources of this land. That can be arranged, if it already hasn't been. But quarters for all of them? Can this palace even hold that many?
He inquires with the commander he has selected from the resident guard. He proposes to split the military and quarter them and the horses with the local garrison, while the others can be hosted in the palace itself, provided they regain control of the Rector's quarter, which should not be a problem now. It might also be possible to relocate the guests the Rector was housing at the palace.
«We'll start with the rector's quarters.» states the King «Have two of your men guide my men standing out there to the garrisons' stables, and have them arrange quarters for them and the ones that will come. Avoid overcrowding, use the stables themselves if necessary. Captain,» he turns to his own «I want six archers and six lances watching the east side of the palace. The rest will come with me.»
The King bangs heavily with his fist on the heavy doors defending the Rector's quarter from the palace takeover. No voice can be heard from the inside. The King signals the guards to remove the bar that's holding those doors shut.
«This is your king speaking. Your rector is dead. My soldiers are here. We can take over by force, but I would rather avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Drop your weapons and let us in, and we will resolve it peacefully.»
There is no answer, no sound coming through for long minutes. The King stands listening, waiting for a reaction. He then knocks again: «I repeat, the rector is dead. You have no more reason to fight or die for, and there is no reason to fight at all.»
Still no answer.
«Come out, or we break down the door!»
And finally, a reply, muffled by the heavy wooden doors «We wish to parley. I will now disbar the door. We will let you, and just you in.»
The captain puts a hand on the King's shoulder. She leans over so as not to be heard by anyone but him: «The rooms are all dark. They have at least two archers hidden in the shadows of the last room, their aim already set to your head behind the door.»
«Any chance of taking them out bloodless?» The captain turns to the double line of soldiers that is signalling with the ones outside, and conversely repeating the signals coming from below.
«We may have a clear shot on one of the bowstrings. For the other, we only have a shot at the man himself.»
«Snap the bowstring.»
The captain signals. Shortly after, they can hear the ruffle behind the doors. «The next shot will not be bloodless. There will be no parley, for you are not to be trusted. You will come out on your own, no arms, hands in sight, or my knights will storm the quarters and not one of you will survive the next ten minutes.»
There's a very short silence now, before the «We are coming out.» The King breathes out again.
Four men walk out, with the Rector's insignia. «Is that all of you? Where's the rest?» None of the men speak. «Of course. Oh well, strip them and bring them to the dungeons. You will hand them over to the guards at the segregation cells without making direct contact. Just ensure that these four get taken in charge. The rest of you, search the quarters, retrieve the weapons, secure the place.»
Things have gone too smoothly, quickly, painlessly. The King would enjoy it, if not for the sensation that too much has slipped out of his control in this takeover. At least four more Rector's men in active duty have disappeared from the palace, or are still inside waiting for the right moment to recover their comrades and attempt some counter-action.
It is not attacks on his person that he dreads, for he is safe, but actions directed at sabotaging the takeover and the recovery, rising friction between the local civilians and the occupation forces, reduced perception of security by the people, false flag operations in other settlements while the capital is being taken over.
So much to do, so little time, not enough men, too many errors. This will be a disaster. He climbs back to the terrace. Much of the crowd lingers idly and curious, but part of it has started to disperse.
«People of the Souther Basin!» he projects his voice again, loud, gathering their attention. «My men are coming. They will be here momentarily, soldiers and civilians. The rector is gone, but his legacy lingers, and we are here to cleanse this land of it. His men are still around, and they will obstruct our work. Do not make the same mistake I've made in the past, do not fall for their wiles. Protect yourself. Ask for help if needed. But do not turn this into a witch hunt. There will be no indiscriminate killing. There will be no petty revenges. From now on, we shall rebuild, not destroy.»
The sun has barely lifted above the horizon when the King leaves the palace the next day. He now has people that can take charge of the logistics locally, they will inventory the palace, organize the cleanup, prepare the recovery for the local people. One less thing to think of, ten thousand more things to get ready for.
The youngest of the local guards, relieved since yesterday of its duty to guard the Rector's daughter, stands at the palace gates, after their brief conversation:
«Allow me to escort Your Majesty.»
«I'd rather not, young man. And please stop calling me ‘Your Majesty’, a plain ‘Sir’ will be fine. You want to make yourself useful? Talk to Julien, he never has enough hands, and someone that knows the palace can only help better than the ones he has.»
There's people out and about already, despite the early hour, and a tension in the air, curiosity, but a wait as well, for what is to come, for what this famous King will do, what will change, and how. So they laze about, or pretend to have things to do that makes them cross the main square again and again.
As he walks through the square many look at him, some more boldly than others, some even seems to attempt an approach, soon changing their mind, despite the lack of an escort. Finally, a few men seem to gather enough courage. They approach him together, standing close to each other, as if to better give moral support to one another. They seem marginally more curated than most of the people the King has seen until now, cleaner, clothing less worn.
«Your Majesty, you shouldn't be out on your own. Not everyone here is friendly, there are still personal guards of the rector around, please allow us to accompany you.»
«There is no need. I provide my own security.»
«Well, you're doing a pretty sloppy job at that.» A whisper in his ear, as a knife is forcefully thrust behind his left kidney.
«Am I?» the King turns, grabbing the arm of the man on his left, then the neck, forcing him to kneel.
«How …» a scared look on the face of the assassin, as the other men disperse.
«You will never know, but you will know pain.» The King steps on the man's ankles, breaking them, forcefully twisting the feet to lay on the ground perpendicular to the shins, holding his head straight by pulling on the hair. The shriek of pain of the assassin covers the square, and begins to attract a crowd. There's some commotion in the back, then some eight men come forward, dragging with them two of those that had distracted the King as the assassin moved in.
«Your Majesty, all of these men, the one you have, as well as these two, are all of the former personal guard of the rector. We caught these two trying to run away. We thought Your Majesty might be interested in determining their destiny.»
«I would.»
And it's the same as for the assassin. The three men of the former guard are then left there, tied up and forced on their knees, leaning one against the other, facing each other in a macabre triangle.
«Will your families be safe?» «No less than they have been so far, Your Majesty.» «You fear no retaliation from the others?» «We look after our own.»
Silence falls between them, as they stare at each other. Then the representative of the small group takes leave: «If Your Majesty has no more needs for my services, I would go back to my business.»
«Wait.»
The man waits. The others start to get nervous. He turns to them: «You may leave.», then goes back to sustain the stare of the King. «What does Your Majesty desire?»
«I understand you. You do not want my men to get involved. You do not want an occupation replacing the thugs of the despot you've lived under until now. I understand that. But I also want the people here to understand that the kingdom is not an occupation, it's not a new set of thugs replacing the old ones. We are here to do what the rector should have done, let the province grow with the wealth it has, the whole province. The kingdom is here to provide assistance, aid, security. We are not here to take; if anything, we are here to give.»
The man shuffles on his feet.
«I know, you still want to tell me that patrols would not help improve security. I can live with that, I've seen by myself how different people behaved in presence or absence of a garrison. Now I want you to tell me why.»
«It breaks the people's trust, Your Majesty. I know my neighbors are good people, they know we are good people, there is trust. A stranger comes about, we know we are safe because if I have trouble my neighbors are there for me, and the other way around. If there are patrols on the street, I do not know if I can trust my neighbor anymore: if the soldiers are good men, I grow accustomed to looking at them for security, I cannot handle it myself anymore, and if they are not, then I do not trust anyone anymore. You want the people here to be free of the rector's legacy, you should leave us to our means.»
«You would rather have no garrison?»
«A garrison has its purpose, Your Majesty. It protects a settlement from the southern raiders, but it has no business policing it.»
As the man leaves, the King sets off again towards his objective, the hills to the west. The words of the man are nothing unexpected, although they didn't always make perfect sense. The whole conversation, and the events right before it, leave the King with the impression that things may go smoother than his own grim forecast of the day before: there may not be the strongest bonds of trust with the people here, but they are at least not completely unfriendly, and they are cooperative.
Shortly after leaving the main square, the King finds himself wandering alley after alley, away from the more sunlit places, towards darker, damper parts of the city. His short-lived optimism quickly reverts to the bleaker perspective, shadowed by the daunting proportions of the task he's set forth to do.
He stops at a crossing, his hand caressing the crumbling clay of the building in front of him.
«This is insane,» he murmurs «it will take forever.» He leans his back against the corner, slowly letting himself slip to sit down, a leg outstretched, the other folded, an arm leaning on it. He shakes his head. He grabs some of the muddy sands with the free hand, throws small droplets towards the wall in front.
«What do you care, you're going back to your palace soon.» the voice belongs to an older kid, squatting in the only place brightly lit by the sun. He has white skin, black curly hair, black eyes with a spark hidden behind.
The King lazily leans his head towards the kid. «What do you know about my palace.»
«I've heard stories.»
«What kind of stories? I'd like to hear them too.»
«That it's as large as the whole main square of this city, maybe even larger, a real castle with towers and walls and inner walls and inner towers, all white marble and brass and gold, lighting ablaze like the wildest of fires at sunrise and sunset. I've heard that it's full of servants, and wealths and riches.»
«Oh, that palace. I thought you were talking about the palace where I lived.»
«That's not where you live?»
«No, that's where I work. That's where I go to talk with the kings and ambassadors and dignitaries from the other kingdoms, and it's the way that it is because that is what other kings and their ambassadors and dignitaries expect. So I wake up early in the morning and go work in the palace, and I listen to the other kings and their ambassadors and dignitaries blabber on and on for hours about the stupidest of things, because that's what kings and ambassadors and dignitaries want to talk about, and then I get back home and I barely have the strength to go lay in my bed.»
«I hate that place,» continues the King «it's a huge infernal trap that sucks out your soul, and yet I'm cursed with having to visit it and the kings and ambassadors and dignitaries inside it, and sometimes I just wished all those brazier and their smelly incense let the tapestry catch fire, so that everyone and their stupid claims could just burn to silence and leave me in peace. I'm sick of that palace, kid, I'm sick of being king.»
«So why don't you leave it all and go do something else.»
The King smiles: «I would, believe me I would. But I won't, and I won't for the same reason I'm here now, because I have a commitment to my people, and I cannot trust anyone else to govern following my ideas of what would be right and what wouldn't. Just look at what happened here, when I was too tired, too blind, too stupid to realize what was going on. You may not realize it, but this province is a sore to the eye and to the soul, compared to the other provinces, and not because it's less rich, but because it has been sucked dry of its wealth instead of made to thrive on it. And it took me too long to discover, because that palace is a palace of lies and poison and trickery and deceit, and I wasn't able to look past all of them.»
He sighs, then continues «I knew the rector was lying, I knew there was always something off when I visited, but finding what lied behind the lies, what the real situation was, and what to do about it, that was more difficult than I expected. I had to either find someone to gather the information for me, someone that I could trust, or I had to come and see it for my self.»
«You could have just asked the princess.» the voice comes from a woman standing behind him, in the shadow of one of the alleys, where a smaller crowd has been gathering to listen to the lament of the King.
«Now you tell me.» the King raises his gaze to the roofs. He looks very tired now.
«Not … not that she's a real princess, of course,» the woman is suddenly embarrassed «Your Majesty, it's just the way we call her. The rector's daughter, she … she was always looking after us. She knew of our grievances, she heard our pleas, she did what she could without pissing off that father of hers. Not everyone at the palace was with the rector. You'll keep that in mind, won't you?»
«I will, thanks.»
«Is she safe?»
«She's under the protection of my soldiers.» The King omits the part about her being held in a cell.
«That's not safe, is it? Soldiers …»
«I trust my soldiers with my own entourage.»
«That's still men looking over a young woman. It's not proper.»
«I never said they're men.»
«You said it's your soldiers.»
«Half of my army is made up of women. The captain of the troops here is a woman.»
«You got a woman leading your men?»
«There are women leading my soldiers, both men and women, yes.»
«And they okay with that?»
«Why wouldn't they be? They gained their ranks by being better than their peers. They have their respect.»
The woman scoffs «An army is no place for a woman.»
The King shrugs. He doesn't feel any particular urge to discuss gender roles now with that woman. He stands. «You still have nothing to worry about your princess. I was going to give a look at the hills now. What should I expect?»
The crowd gets a little nervous. «The mines are there,» the woman says «a bad place, it is. Lots of good folks from here or the other towns end up there. Not a nice place.»
«I can take you there.» the kid with the bright eyes. «Not there, there to the mines, but I can show you when we are close.»
«Lead the way, kid.»
The boy takes off north, and the King starts after him. The alleys change, they get tighter and darker, but also better kept. Less people around, more suspicious looks.
«Wait,» the King grabs the boy by the arm «the hills are west of here, so we're taking a detour, and this part of town is different. What's here?»
«I was uhm I was taking you directly to the entrance of the mines.» states the boy, fidgeting nervously.
«No you weren't. So what is here? Is this thieves' guild territory? It looks like something like that. I changed my mind, take me to someone I can speak to.» and as the boy hesitates «Seriously, boy, don't spend too much time thinking what they will do to you, because you can rest assured I can do much worse to you. And to them. But I have no intention to do that now, I only want to have a quick talk with them, just get to know them.»
The boy nods, and starts off again, but this time the King follows without letting him run free. The boy stops a few turns later.
«This is the place?»
The boy nods. The King tries opening the door. It's bolted. He knocks harshly. No answer.
«I am the King, and I have no time nor intention to torture your boy here to know about the secret knock. Open up.» Still waiting for an answer, he turns to the boy: «You will wait for me here. And when I say wait for me, I mean wait. Here. When I come out again, I want to find you standing here waiting for me. Is that clear?»
«Yes!» the boy nods furiously.
«Good.» is the King's quick reply as he hears the bolt sliding out. He kicks the door open, and steps into the dark room, closing the door behind him.
«That is no way to enter people's homes.» a voice remarks in the dark. It comes from straight ahead, so it's not the man who was operating the lock.
«That is also no way to welcome your King. Tell your men to stand down.»
No words are spoken, but the seconds that pass allow the King to get better used to the little light filtering through the fissures in the window blinds. He takes a step forward.
«I am here to have a quick talk.» he know there's a lot of talking going on already around him, silent, invisible talk made of small gestures and looks and things unsaid.
«Your Majesty seems to have had an accident already this morning.» there's probably a smirk on the face that speaks.
«Yes, and those responsible for it have already been dealt with, and left on the public square as a memento for the others.»
«Is the knife on your back a memento too?»
«Yes, but not for me.» The King sits.
«Is it to show that you are harder to kill than a normal person?»
«I'm not harder to kill. I am a normal person.»
«You aren't. Nobody takes on the rector personal guards on their own and comes out of that alive.»
«Fear goes a long way.» there's a drop of silence, then the King reprises «But that's enough idle talk. I'm here to discuss your relationship with the people I've brought. They shall not be targeted by your thieves. They are here to take care of the people here, and they must be able to move freely and carry whatever they must, without risks to their person or their belongings. They may seem unduly wealthy to you. They aren't. They are servicemen and women of the kingdom, under the rule of more honest rectors. And they are here to strip the luxury the rectors and his thugs have accrued, and give it back to the people upon whose sweat and blood it has been built.»
There is no answer, so the King continues «I could deploy my own soldiers to guarantee the safety of the rest of the personnel, but I would rather hope that won't be necessary. I'd rather have the people here, and your people among them, understand that we are not an occupation force. We are not here to steal and plunder and pillage and take, we are here to give. We are here to give everyone their due, and compensation, as much as we can, for the pain and discomfort the people have had to endure so far. And that can best be done with cooperation. Have I made myself clear?»
«You have.»
«I know the guild here had dealings with the rector and with the rector's thugs. It wouldn't have survived otherwise. That will be discussed at a later time, when I'll have a better understanding of the whole business. And talking of business, in two days time at most, a supply line will be set up for the continued sustenance of my personnel. I have the means to protect it, but I also believe it shouldn't be necessary, as it's understood that its purpose is to allow my personnel to continue to operate without leeching the very resources they are here to distribute to the people. Yet I understand that we're passing over land which is controlled by others, and their men may be tempted into sampling the goods from abroad. But greed has a price, a price in blood, and I would rather there not be unnecessary blood shed.»
The man sitting in front of him, is listening intently, but does not speak. So the King continues: «In two days time, have four of your men at the last bend of the road before the valley. They will be paid toll, enough to satisfy the curiosity and needs of you and your men, but not too much, lest it tickles the greed you don't want to be tempted by. This will be a one time payment, to hold for the time of our business here.»
The King then stands. «I will now take my leave. I would rather avoid having to confront any of your men on the stupidity of attempting anything on my person.»
«The boy outside can take you anywhere you wish to be. He'll be your safe passage through here.»
«So he will.» The King nods, turns, and leaves.
The boy is slouching against the wall, waiting for him. He jumps on his feet «Your Majesty, I'm ready.»
The King grabs him by the shoulder and crouches in front of him. «You're not him.» «What? Yes I am.» «No, you're not.» The King stands, without letting the boy go, and storms into the room again.
«What now?»
«This boy isn't the one I came here with.»
«He is.»
«No, he's not. And my patience grows thin.»
The man turns to one of his henchmen «Go call Marco and tell him the King is tired of his antics.»
As they wait, the man tries to soothe the King «Your Majesty has a keen eye.» «I also have grown tired of people making a fool of me. The last one who tried now lies in shambles in front of the gates of his own palace, waiting for stray dogs to eat his flesh out and for the sun to cook his bones. By the way, I should probably be doing something about all that, it's unsanitary and the last thing I want now is for a plague to break out because of some vermin's death. I'll have to have the corpse removed, and have something else put in its place, a flowerbed or something, nice yet commemorative.»
The door opens, and a man comes in dragging a boy by its arm. He pushes him to the floor, and the boy crawls to the King's chair: «Please forgive me, please don't kill me, I'll be your most trusted servant from now on, I beg you, please!»
The King stands «Both of you, come with me, take me to the mines. We've wasted enough time here.»
Beyond the outskirts of the city, the boys and the King start the climb up the hills.
«How were you able to tell?» asks Marco, who has regain most of his composure and bravado, since the King hasn't showed any threatening signs.
«I have twins in my entourage. They sometimes like to play pranks on me by switching identity. I've learned to look for the small differences.»
«What's an entourage?»
«An entourage is … a group of people that are always around someone, typically someone important. It often refers to the closest counselors and advisors of such a person.»
«So they're, like, the ones that help you with those kings and ambassadors?»
«In a fashion.»
«And they're all women.»
«What makes you think so?»
«You said you trusted your soldiers with your entourage, so it was fine to trust them with the princess.»
«Smart boy.»
«So, do they come to the palace with you, and listen to those blabbering like you said you do, or do they wait for you at home, and you just get home to them when you're sick and tired of the shenanigans at the palace, or what?»
As the King doesn't answer, the boy continues «Oh wait, I know, you have two entourages. Like, in the palace you have your counselors or whatever, and then at home you have women waiting for you. And now you've left the kingdom in the hands of the ones in the palace, but you brought the women here.»
«I have women leading my army, why wouldn't I have women advising me on the affairs of the kingdom.»
The boy shrugs. «'Cause women are to look after the kids and the house.»
«You'd be surprised at how much armies are like unruly little kids and governing is like looking after a house. Larger scale, maybe, but pretty much the same thing.»
But the boys have stopped listening. They slow down, then stop.
«We don't go any further. The mines are up there.» Marco points straight ahead, where the path they've been following through the shrubbery joins with a larger road. «You can't miss it. Watch for the guards, they don't like visitors.»
The King nods. «I see, thanks.»
«We're going back now.»
«No you aren't.»
The boys stop, nervous.
«Are you afraid of something?»
«That place is cursed. We ain't getting any closer, and we'd rather not stay here.»
«Is that how it turns out that you'd be my most trusted servant?»
There's a bout of silence as Marco damns his own words, then the King continue: «I'll need messengers, quick on their feet and with their brain, to communicate with my people down at the palace. I want you two to stay here, hidden, until I've given a look around and I've seen what I need. Then I'll send you back to the palace. It's very important help, and it's things I couldn't do on my own, not fast enough. Will you stay for me, both of you?»
«We will stay.» the boy look away from the penetrating gaze of the King «We're no cowards.»
The King smiles «I know you aren't.»
The paths join into the main road less than a meter from the last bend the road takes before the last stretch that leads to the mines. Two guards are standing halfway through, and they command a halt as soon as the King comes into view. The King takes a few more step before stopping.
«Turn around, citizen, this is no tourist attraction.»
«I am no tourist.»
«Whoever you may be, you have no business here.»
«I do, instead.» rebuts the King, taking a few more steps.
«Halt! You shall not take one step further.»
«I bring important news from the capital.»
«And what news might them be?»
The King starts walking again, as he enumerates: «The rector is dead. The chain of command is broken. The king's men are here, and are taking over the capital. The king himself is here, and I am he.» In the slow reveal, he has the opportunity to study the reactions on the guards' faces, to gauge their expressions. There's at least one of these two he feels he can trust. He's now almost within arm's reach: he reveals the signet ring on his right hand, and stops.
«Your Majesty …» trembling voices, nervous stuttering, the guards bow. As they stand again, one remarks: «Your back …» «It's the result of a failed assassination attempt from this morning. Leave it be. Show me the mines.»
The guards look over at each other. «Your Majesty, we are not …»
«Show me the mines.»
«The captain …»
«You shall show me the mines, now.» and it's the command voice again.
With great reluctance, the guards lead the King up the road to the bars of a grating that blocks the entrance to a cave. As he slowly turns the key to the lock, the older guard's hand is obviously shaking. He pushes the gate inwards, and precedes the King and the other guard.
The first thing that hits the King's senses is the stench that fills the air, emanating from the large cells on both sides of the corridor that opens in front of him —four on each side— but most pressingly from the last one at the end, which is also the source of subdued sobs and moans, a persistent wailing that drives the King forward. The guards don't follow him, but neither do they bolt. There's a kind of resigned attitude in them, a sense of inevitability.
There's barely enough light, at the end of the corridor, but it's not dark enough that the King cannot understand the meaning of the last cell. The men locked in the others are far from being well fed or strong, but in their hungry appearance they still have the traces of health. Not so the ones beyond the gates he's standing in front of. This is the pit where the sick and the dying are thrown, and the mephitic vapours that exhale through the gates are the tracers of death.
The pit is littered with bodies, barely discernible in the darkness, and a single man is slouched against the bars, without even the strength to reach out. «Water.» his lips move, with barely any audible sound.
The King looks at those wide, spirited eyes, burning with fever, and a sense of impotence takes over. He crouches next to the man «I have none with me, but I'll be back, I'm here to take you out, to take all of you out.»
He springs to his feet, and furiously marches out, followed by the guards in short order.
He breathes deeply, in and out, in and out, fists and jaw clenched, trying to regain composure, trying not to lash out at the guards. He needs them now. But they'll pay, oh will they pay.
«How many?» he finally asks.
«About … five hundred, Your Majesty.» «About?» «I don't know the exact numbers, the captain …» «What about the sick?» «A hundred or so, Your Majesty.»
This is too much. This is too much, we can never make it. «Marco!» he calls, his command voice reaching louder than ever. Shortly after, the boys appear on the road, and they stop. The King marches down to them.
«What's your brother name?» «Mario.» «Of course, why make it any easier to tell you apart. Mario, how fast can you run to the palace?» «An hour or so, Your Majesty.» The King strikes him with the back of his hand. «Let's try it again, and take this seriously.» «Twenty minutes, Your Majesty.» the boy is on the verge of crying, and covers the burning cheek with his hand.
«Good.» the King nods «You'll take this ring,» he hands over a signet ring to the boy «and run to the palace. You'll talk to Julien, and none other than him, telling him that the king needs food and clothing for a thousand men. Can you repeat that?»
«Food and clothing. A thousand men. Julien.»
«Run now, and be back here in forty minutes.» The King turns now to Marco. He hands him another ring. «Go to the palace, but enter from the back doors. You will seek my apothecary, and tell him that we need treatment and cleansing for two hundred sick and injured. Repeat now.»
«Treatment and cleansing. Two hundred sick and injured. The apo…» «Apothecary.» «Apothecary.» «Run now.»
And may my trust in you not be misplaced. The King turns, slowly walking back up to the guards, who have not left their place.
«Take me back inside.» The guards abide. Again, they stop by the gate. «Give me the keys.» «Your Majesty …» «The keys.» Reluctantly, the guard hands them over. The King locks the gate, then walks to the third cell on the left. «Who do I want to talk to?» he asks in the general direction of the cell. A man nods towards the last cell on the right. The King moves over. «I'm coming in. I trust I can expect the men to be well behaved?»
A voice replies from the end of the cell, shrouded in darkness «You're not of the guards, you have nothing to fear.»
The King unlocks the cell, steps in, then locks it again through the bars, and recovers the keys. He walks slowly through the crowd, testing the ground for roughness and stray legs, until he reaches a clearer space, where he can finally sit down, crossing his legs.
«Who are you and why are you here?» the voice in the dark is deep and vibrating. «The guards have called you ‘Your Majesty’, and follow your orders.»
«I am the king.»
«The king? Why would the king come all the way over here, alone?»
«I have come to undo all that the rector has done. I am not alone, although I often act so.»
The voice in the dark is unfazed. «What of the rector?» «The rector is dead.»
«And what do you intend to do here?»
«Get everybody out. How many are here?»
«Six hundred thirty-four able men. I do not know about the pit. Maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred. They just throw people in there and forget about them. I do not know how many are dead.»
«Tell me about the guards.» «There are 24 in total, that I know of. The captain and another three are rector's men. They are … particularly vicious. There are at least two that have obviously ended up here by mistake. One of them is the young guard on the left. The other one, you can recognize by the scar left by a whip near his left eye. The captain knows about them, and he never lets them out together, for fear they may help us, as they often at least try to turn a blind eye to our actions. The rest I don't know. They might not be as bad as the captain or its men, but they seem to have no objections to following orders.»
«Why are you people in today, and not out to the mines.» «I do not know. Morning rations haven't arrived, so I would guess there has been troubles somewhere, troubles that have broken …» «I see.» Another unknown variable gone wild. How many others am I missing? How many people will suffer for this take over?
The King sighs. And now it's time for the bad news: «I will tell you something now, and I want you to let every single prisoner know. My men will be here, later today. All of you will be let out, the able bodied first, the sick and dying last. I will not just open the gates and let you flood outside though, it will be done in an orderly fashion. Each man will be given food and clothing, and then be left free to stay or to go as they please. This will take time, a long time, but the smoother it goes, the faster it goes. I would like your men to cooperate to the best of their possibilities, so that all may be freed, and be served, in the least time.»
«I'm sure the men will understand.»
«But that's not all. Your former guards will be there, and they'll be there as prisoners to my men, and as such they will be under my protection. The men here might get tempted into exacting revenge. I want none of it. Not a single one of the men will get near your former guards.»
«This … will be harder. You have no idea what these men have undergone …»
The King leans forward, dropping on all fours, then pushing forward more, until he's almost face to face with the source of the voice, forcing him to lean back. «Do. Not. Assume.» he goes back to his sitting position
«I know the pain. I know the poison it builds up in you, I know how the blood boil with the call for revenge, I know the inner push for its release. I know it will be hard, but I would rather be remembered as the one that saved a thousand people, than as the one that had to protect twenty plus torturers from a lynch mob. So remember, anyone approaches the former guards, I'll personally strike them down. And it will slow the process of freeing everybody. So don't.»
«Why do you care about these vermin so much?»
«For the same sense of justice that makes my skin crawl and my blood boil just thinking what you and the men here must have undergone.» the King stand «Revenge doesn't grant you release. It doesn't let you recover the past. It doesn't give you closure. It only poisons your mind, leaving you with the impression that everything could have gone differently, that it should have gone differently. I don't want anyone here to live with that in their future.»
He parts, locking again the cell behind his back, and reaches the guards nervously waiting for him at the outer gate. «Let's go find your mates.»
The guards lead him to a larger cabin built along the steeper side of the hill. As they approach, the senior guard knocks violently at the door «Open up. His Majesty the King is here.»
There's commotion behind the door, before it's finally unbolted and spread open. Stepping in, the King notices quickly the disparity in the numbers. «There's one missing.» he states. «Your Majesty …» one of the guards, possibly the captain, tries to intervene, but the King has already crossed the room in long strides, and peeking out the window he has spotted the fugitive, climbing the steep trail that clings to the hillside.
«Stop there, or I'll strike you down!» the King shouts at the man, with the only result of having the man hastening his step. The King throws a punch to the window frame, sending splinters all around. «Bow and arrow!» the command voice, directed inside, triggers one of the men to produce the requested tools. The King grabs them, turns again, takes careful aim, and shoots the fugitive. As the arrow jabs his leg, the man stumbles, misses his footing, falling over the path edge down the steep hillside.
«Idiot.» the King murmurs. He turns again to the room full of guards, all standing to attention «Anyone else?»
«No, Your Majesty. We are all devout servants of …»
«You're the most horrible, despicable beings on the face of Earth!» the King shouts back to the face of the captain. «No respect, completely no respect for your fellows and peers. Those prisoners are human beings, just like you, and just for that they deserve to be treated with a dignity that you obviously do not consider them worth of. Can you even still call yourself a human being after that?»
The King takes a breather, which the guard doesn't take advantage of, knowing that any form of reply now would only be counter-productive. «Devout servants. Devout servants of what? Certainly not of the kingdom, as the principles it has been founded on have been trashed and tarnished a thousand times here.» He points at the dagger hilt still sticking out from his back, and lowers his voice, talking directly to the captain «You know what this is? This is a couple of your colleagues from the capital trying to exact revenge from the death of your unscrupulous, greedy, viscid boss. They are now standing in the main square, unable to walk or move, facing their own idiocy for whatever remains of their miserable lives.» He taps on the symbol engraved on the captain's shoulder pads «Don't delude yourself, I am very well aware of what that means. I am very well aware of who you were a devout servant of. And don't even think of trying to fool me ever again. I'm tired of people trying to do that, and your honesty is the only thing that may keep me from leaving you and your comrades in the hands of the slaves we'll be freeing momentarily.»
The King steps back, and his voice is now almost calm «Because I believe everyone should be treated with dignity and respect, even those that have forfeit that right by mistreating their fellow human beings.»
Silence fills the cabin, as the King leaves the men time to digest his words. He then asks:
«What's the status of your provisions?»
«We have … supplies for a week for the garrison. The prisoners were fed daily from … from the capital.»
Two meals for one week for twenty plus guards. Too little. Halving portions, maybe, but there's still not enough for the men in the pit. The King clenches his fists. «What about the water.»
«We have two barrels of beer and a barrel of fresh water, refilled every other day.»
«Only one barrel of water?»
«Yes, Your Majesty.»
«Cups?»
«Cups, Your Majesty?»
«Cups, yes, cups, for drinking.»
Perplexed, the captain replies «I'm … I'm not sure, Your Majesty. Maybe fifty.»
The King closes his eyes for a moment, pondering. «Show me the pantry.»
The captain lifts a trapdoor, uncovering a ladder that leads to the lower floor of the cabin.
«Make way.» the captain and three men disappear through the trapdoor. As the King starts on the ladder, he turns to the men that are remaining above «Don't move.» before quickly descending. He carefully examines the available provisions, assessing their nature, quantity, status. «This'll have to make do.» he mutters.
He's the first to climb out of the trapdoor. The guards above have not changed in number and position. «You'll gather everything that is down there and bring it to the clearing in front of the cells. Gather everything:» he stresses «all of the food, all of the barrels. Bring a large board, a cutting knife, all of the cups. You'll give each prisoner a cup of water and half a ration. You'll use one of the tin cups, always the same, to fill the cups for the prisoner. Be fair, and be fast.»
Mario gets to the front gates of the palace with barely enough breath to shout «I have to talk to Julien, orders of the king!» as he pounds the large wooden doors with his tiny fist. He barely notices Marco running through to the back as the doors finally open to let him slip inside.
The guard that opened the door takes him to a man standing in the middle of the atrium, light shining on him through the tall windows. The boy fumbles in his pockets, pulls out the signet and wheezes: «Food. Clothing. Thousand. Men.» He puffs, as Julien looks at him, a little perplexed.
«A thousand men? Food and clothing for a thousand men?»
Mario lifts a hand, asking for a second to catch his breath, before managing to reply «Yes, my lord, the prisoners of the mines. The king sent me to ask you to provide that.»
The man covers his eyes for a second.
«Quickly, my lord, he wants me back in twenty minutes, what should I tell him?»
Julien shakes his head, smiling «You, my boy, are not going anywhere. I need you to guide me to where the king is, after I've gathered all he needs.»
«But the king will have my head if I'm not back by …»
«The king will have your head if he sees you without the things he asked for. You'll stay here and wait for me to gather everything, then we'll move. We'll be as fast as we can, but it'll take time. Get to the kitchen and ask for some soup in the mean time.»
«But I …»
«Go now!» and as the boy starts for the kitchen, he mutters, shaking his head «While I find a way to pull that stuff out of thin air.» and starts off looking for the men to gather everything. He comes across the apothecary «Oh, Victor, I'm afraid I'll be needing your help.» «Good, because I'm going to need yours too.» «The king?»
The apothecary sighs «A boy with a message from him. Two hundred sick, and I don't even know what to expect. I'll need to bring over my whole pharmacy.»
«It's the prisoners at the mines,» clarifies Julien «if that'll be any help to you. Considering the things we've had to deal with, I wouldn't be surprised to find a pit of death, in which they have thrown anybody not able to work the mines anymore. We'll be lucky to find that many still alive. Or not. I'll have to requisition everything from this palace, and much of what we brought over, just for the able ones. Good thing we have more coming in the next days.»
Victor shakes his head «And this is just here at the capital.» he sigh again «This is going to get much worse, isn't it?»
Julien shrugs. «We'll face it when the time comes. Let's get moving, we don't have much time. And let's hope the boys don't run away.»
Mario finds Marco already in the kitchen, a dish of soup in front of him, eyes lost in the void, repeating «He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me.» He sits next to his brother. «He'll have our head.» he confirms «And it won't even be our fault.»
Marco turns to look at him «Should we make a run for it?» «And where would you go?» «To the king, tell him they're coming.» «We can't do that. They need us to guide them, and we don't know if they'll come together or at separate times.» «But the king wanted us back!» «I think he'd rather have his men get there in time, and we can't be back with his men as fast as he wants us to be. He'll understand.» he pauses, takes a spoonful of soup, and he concludes «I hope. Because otherwise we're dead.»
And now, we wait. The King stands on the clearing outside of the cells, feeling the veil of anguish that has tormented him so far lifting his weight from his shoulders, freeing his vision. He sighs. Things have gone exceptionally smoothly. Both the guards and the prisoners have been silent and cooperative. He himself has managed to identify the guards that seem to have ended up there by mistake. He has poured water on top of the feverish man, before offering him a cup a water to drink, and then a cup of beer, and in the hopes that the man can find some rest in the next hours.
There is still a sense of impotence that strangles him whenever his thoughts lead to that pit of despair. You can't save everyone, he tells himself, go for the ones you can.
And now he stands in the sun, as the guards he trusts bring the utensils back to the cabin, and the others stand there outside with him, trying to hide their nervous shifting of the weight, the quick glances they throw each other, and he feels momentarily at peace.
Julien and Victor will have been informed by now, and they'll be busy gathering all that's needed, cursing his name and this mission they've been thrown at without enough preparation. I know boys, it would have been better in the upcoming days, when the caravans had started bringing in more from home, but even today is one day too late here. And you'll be late already as is, since you won't be able to run here with the provisions as fast as the boys have run to you.
I should have thought this out better, he thinks, how many more cases such as this are there around the province? How many unstable situations have degenerated when the chain of command was broken? But there was no time to gather more information. Even this way, we got through barely.
I shouldn't have to invade a province of my own kingdom, and yet now I'm thinking that maybe that's exactly what I should have done. But that would have taken too much time, too many resources, and this is not the time to weaken the kingdom with a full-out civil war.
As the guards come back from the cabin, taking their place with the others, they find him pacing around the clearing, having lost that brief moment of inner peace.
Time. It's always about the time. Never enough, never too soon, never too fast. There's never enough time, and yet your day is filled with these empty hours, as you wait for things to come together.
His eyes follow the road down to the first curve, the slopes of the hill and the natural terraces. At least it should be possible to set up the sorting structures here. Is there enough room? Will we have to send the people down to the capital? Are they even from here? The wait is killing me. We'll have to send them back to their towns of origin. Damn it, I'd better not start thinking of the conditions the rest of the province is in.
The restless pacing, the tense, brief stops as the King weaves his steps all about the clearing, front to back, left to right, and then through and again, unnerve the guards, whose uncertain future hangs over their necks more threatening than ever, and whose presence the King barely takes notice of, simply walking around them as if they were columns scattered across the clearing.
Yet when one of the guards brings a hand to the forehand to cover the eyes from the direct light of the sun, focused on what can be seen of the capital, the King is quick to reach by his side and follow his gaze. Things are moving down there.
«Good, good.» the King reprises his pacing, yet there's a more relaxed spring in his step «Good.» he repeats. «Good, good.» An hour, he thinks, an hour and a half, and they'll get here. Then time to set everything up, and we can start. We'll make it in time. We'll make it.
The King's excitement reaches its peak even before the first of the carriages shows up around the last bend, as his spirit is lifted just by the noise of the wheels grinding the dusty surface of the road. They're finally here. They're finally here.
And then the boys come running up the road, throwing themselves at the King's feet, begging for his forgiveness. «They held us at the palace, they wanted …»
«You've done good.» the King interrupts their plea. The boys straighten, still kneeling. The King caresses their heads «You've done good.» he repeats, slightly pulling them by their shoulders to make them stand. He then extends the hand «May I have my signets back?»
The boys fumble around their pockets, then again. They start feeling all around, the obvious gesture of someone that has lost something, or pretends to have. The panic they had just eased out of flushes back to their faces.
«They had left them on the kitchen table.» Julien's voice covers for them, as the man walks up to them, returning the rings to the King's hand. «I consider myself responsible for this, given the sudden haste I pushed them for after having them wait while preparations were done.»
The King sighs. «It's good to see you, Julien. Speak to me.»
As the first carriage appears at the bend, Julien explains «We've brought what we could, but we don't have enough for the thousand men you requested for. Six, seven hundred at most.» «That'll do. I didn't have an exact number when I called for you, I'm glad there's enough.»
Julien nods, looking around. He starts directing his men to assemble the tents, the screens, the tables. Carriages are brought over to the far ends of the terraces, as men and structures swarm over the hill, from the clearing down to the bend of the road and over.
«What of Victor?» asks the King.
«He'll be here momentarily. He was in less of a hurry, as we'll have to sort out the able bodied first, and it'll take time, and he wanted to ensure he had everything he might need, or at least that he can get.»
Julien turns to the clearing, and the guards who have moved further back, closer to the main gates to the prison. He lifts his chin to point it at them «What of the guards?»
«We'll see after everyone is out and safe.»
«Shall they help?»
«No, I have other things in mind for them. Ah, I'll need a couple of your men to look over the hillside over there.» he points in the direction of the cabin «One of the guards attempted a getaway. He should now be lying among the bushes under the high road, an arrow in the leg. He might be alive, or not.»
Julien nods. The King leaves him to take care of business, and walks to the gates. The guards stand to attention.
«The people you've kept prisoners and mistreated so far will be released momentarily. You'll watch over their march to freedom. I want you on both sides of the route from here down to the road, where my men will guide them.»
The guards are quick to gain their respective position.
«On your knees!» the command voice again. The guards obey. «Bow your heads!» The King walks through to the other end of the line «I'll be watching over your safety, even though you deserve none. Rest assured, you'll pay for what you've done. But not now, and not by the hands of those who you've left to suffer.»
Julien reaches the King «My men are ready.» «Do you have any to spare?» «A couple.» «Have them come to me, I'll need them to guide the men out of the cells.» The man nods and walks away, as the King marches back to the prison.
«Men!» and it's the command voice again «We'll be releasing you now, in turns. When your cell door is opened, walk out in single file, at an arm's length from the man in front of you. You'll walk. No haste, no undue delay. A steady march to the outside, where my men are waiting. Follow their directions, cooperate, and we'll be done as quickly as possible.» He turns to the other side «Some of you will be out later than others. I'm sorry it has to be this way. I ask you to have patience, you'll all get your turn. And remember, the smoother things go, the faster things go.»
He stalls for a second, before touching the worse part «As you walk out of here, you'll find your old guards. You will not touch them. You will not look at them. This is not a time for revenge. I do not ask you to forgive, I do not ask you to forget. But you will not take action against any of the men outside. Any of you attempts anything, or even looks like they might, I'll strike them down.» He bends the bow string «I do not wish to be dragged into doing something like that, so please consider your freedom first and foremost.»
He looks all around at the faces that stare at him through the cell gratings. There's no joy in those tired faces full of resentment and resignation. They'll do it, they'll follow orders, they'll cooperate, they'll hold on to their thoughts of revenge, to their burning desire to scream at the guards, to kick them, to beat them to death. They'll entertain the thought, they'll picture the scene in their mind, and they'll hopefully be sated enough with that that he won't need to nock an arrow to my bow.
Confusion follows the first cell door being opened, as the former prisoners find their place and pace, before finally streaming out steadily, at an arm's distance from each other, waiting patiently their turn to exit the cell, aware of the looks of their companions still locked behind bars.
The sunlight is harsh on their eyes as they reach the front gate, and yet they have no time to stop, they stumble on, directed by the King's man at the gate. They march through the double line of their former guards, breathing in deeply to resist the temptation to kick those men now kneeling, bowing to their steps.
And then the road begins, gently sloping down, and soon after another man of the King directs them to their right, towards the first of the terraces. Here, they're asked to sit at a long table, that can hold five at once, and give their name, age, the town of origin, how long they have been held. They are then made to stand and leave the seat for the next one, and directed to screens behind which they are asked to undress and wash, before being given new clothes.
Steps lead down to the next terrace, where they are served soup and bread, and made to sit on long benches where they can finally rest and finish their meal. Most of them, once done, lay down on the sparse grass, or walk around enjoying the pleasure of having the opportunity to stretch their legs.
They chat, incredulous of the sudden change in their status, wondering about their immediate future, the locals with the restless desire to run back to their homes and families, the ones that have been deported there perplexed on how they'll be able to go back to theirs.
They eye the man draped in purple and black, with simple yet elegant clothing that set him apart from all the other men of the King: he moves from the tables to the kitchens to the screens to the benches, restless, watching over everything, the long face strained by worries for the present and for the future.
The former prisoners can easily tell that he's the overseer, yet they fail to find the courage to distract him from his job, to seek for answers to their questions. So they chat among themselves, maybe in the hopes that the overseer would overhear them and clarify their doubts by his own initiative. But if he does indeed hear their questions, he shows no sign of it.
They watch as the last large tents of a camp are set up on the opposite side of the road, and the doubt that they'll still be held there, out of the cells but not truly free, starts worming its way in their minds. Yet the camp seems too small to hold all of them, and too large to be just for the King's men.
The slopes of the hill are now filled with noise, the slow march of the former prisoners as they pour out of the cell, the directives monotonously repeated by the men of the King, the questions and answers at the table, the clatter of the dishes being served, returned, cleaned up, the chatter of the men as they idly wait to know more of their future.
Some of them are glad to be out in the open air, with no worry for their immediate future, content with the opportunity to laze about, rest, sated. Others show distinct signs of restlessness, especially among the ones who have family at the capital, enticed by the idea of being now so close to seeing them again.
And then the King himself comes out of the cave, still wary of the stream stepping through the double line of the former guards, searching for the overseer, calling for him with a wave of the arm to attract his attention, walking to meet him halfway through.
«How is it going?»
«As smooth as could be hoped. But this is only the beginning, and it will take time, lots of time to get through the whole prison. And in the mean time our men will get tired, the prisoners will start to lose patience, and things will start to get messed up. Even now those that have gone through are now waiting, some more restless than others, to know about their immediate future.»
«One can hardly blame them. They got out of the cell, but is it just to get stuck here in the open? I would ask myself that. What of Victor?»
«He got on the move some time ago, he should be getting here soon enough. I sent two horsemen to lead the way.»
«That's good. When he's set up, ask him to check up anyone who wants to go home now, and let them go if he has no objections.»
«Of course. What of the others?»
«I don't suppose we have an idea yet about how many there are from each town of the province.»
«Too soon yet.»
The King nods. «We need that. And we need carts to ship them home in groups. Send someone down to the capital, find locals with appropriate means of transportations, any cart or carriage will do. See how many men can fit in the available carriages. We'll also need soldiers to escort them, at least two per cart. We'll start from the closest towns, send people away as soon as possible.»
«Do we have enough men?»
«The current captain of the guards at the palace can be trusted to pick local guards that can assist us. If we can send out small caravans to the towns, we can have a mix of local and our soldiers protecting them.»
«Do we need guards for the caravans?»
«I want to ensure the safety of the men, both the transporters and the transported. They'll also act as my emissaries, spread the news that things have changed, the former rector is dead and we have taken over. If possible, they should gather all possible information about situations such as this» the King sweeps the air with his arm to encompass all that's around them «and report back. They are not to engage unless strictly necessary.»
«I don't have a good feeling about this.»
«Neither do I. But the news will spread regardless, and having a presence, however small, should convey the idea that we are actually here. As frail as the situation may be, it's just for today. We'll have reinforcements in the coming days, and we'll start to move out and clean up the place. I want to avoid conflict, but I'm willing to bring in the army if it's necessary. But I don't see why the local garrisons might want to move against us at all. It's more likely they'll run off, or defect to us, or at least pretend to. There might be pockets of resistance from the rector's men, but other than that?»
The King's words do little to expunge the perplexity from Julien's expression, but any objection is stalled by the arrival of Victor's small caravan, who deploys right outside of the sorting area, setting up a large tent for the apothecary himself and his two assistants.
The King and the overseer reach them, and Victor is quick to ask on the progress. He shakes his head when he learns that it's jut the beginning.
«Do you want to see the pit?» asks the King.
Victor shakes his head again. «There isn't anything I can do until all the others are out. I'll wait. Do you want me to check the ones that have been freed? I assume this is what you were waiting for before letting them go, just in case they may carry the seeds of a plague, unaware.»
«I would appreciate that, but I do not want you to tire out.»
Again, the head shake «No worry. Please send them in, one by one.»
When the King returns to the cells, the queue outside of the apothecary's tent is considerably less ordered than the neverending stream of prisoners as they leave their cells behind them. The presence of two of the largest and most armed soldiers the King has available still manages to serve as deterrent, avoiding that the excessive enthusiasm and hurry degenerate into conflict.
Inside the cave, the unlocking of the second cell start showing their effect on the rest of the prisoners, whose patience grows thinner as more and more of their companions march towards their freedom and they are left to wait.
I wish we could go faster, the King thinks, I wish we could just open all your cells and let you run to your freshly regained freedom. But that would be total chaos, something which I simply cannot afford now. We'll get to all of you, I promise. I myself will not leave this place until every single one of you is out, and as light as my wait may seem compared to yours, believe me, it's no less tiresome.
And the steady pace itself of those that stream out starts getting ever so slightly more hurried with each person, and the King can quite clearly hear the slight but constant increase in tempo, and it's not hard for him to see how this has the potential to clog down the sorting process; and yet he cannot find the will to slow them down again.
The second cell is nearly empty when the patience of one the prisoners —someone who hasn't been there for long, and hasn't yet been hardened by the experience— finally cracks. He starts pleading for his release, as he has wife and kids waiting for him at home. Even when the King turns over to him, his pleas don't stop. If anything, the voice gets whinier, as if in a desperate attempt to call for a compassionate response.
There's a distinct muttering from the other prisoners as the King stands there in front of the cell gate with the begging man and his extended arms, a muttering that finally turns into a roar when the King commands one of the guards to let the man out.
The prisoner stumbles forward towards the King with tears in his eyes, «Oh thank you, thank you, thank …»
His voice cuts off as the King lifts him completely off the ground before slamming him violently against the stone floor. The command voice of the King fills the cells in the dead silence that swallowed the prisoners' roars of protest.
«You think you're the only one? You will wait for your turn, like everybody else. You. Will. Wait. In absolute silence.» he lifts the man again «Go back to your cell now. You've earned the privilege of being the last man out of this prison.» He throws him towards the opening gate, which the man has to lean against to regain his balance. The King then turns to the others «You now have the misfortune of being the last cell to be open. But you will not exact revenge on this man, or you will not depart from here alive. Have I made myself clear?»
There is no answer, but the prisoners bow their head, moving away from the whimpering man, leaving him alone in an empty circle of hate and disdain.
There is complete silence in the prison, as the flux of marching prisoners has stopped, taken by surprise in the sudden, violent reaction of the King.
«Resume.» the King orders, without command voice «And remember, slow and steady. The smoother things go, the faster we'll be out of here.»
The next cell opens, the march reprises, and the steps are careful again, in a solidly desperate attempt at avoiding disturbing the inner peace of their liberator.
Slow and steady, the process continues, cell after cell, hour after hour. The terraces start to get crowded, even as the locals are let free to go back to their families in the capital. Too many prisoners, not enough men; will we even be done by the end of the day, wonders the King.
It isn't until late in the afternoon that Julien finally gets news of the availability of carriages and carts to transport people out to the other towns. Trusting that the rest of the sorting process is proceeding as smoothly as can be hoped, he starts collating the lists of names and provenance of the former prisoners with two of his assistants, organizing the first caravans based on number of people and distance to the towns.
Five men are spared to find the former prisoners among the crowds sprawled over the terraces, guide them to Victor's tent, giving them priority for the medical examination, and then round them up again to walk them down to the capital, where the carriages and their military escort are waiting for them. The presence of the soldier does very little to ease the perplexities of the prisoner, although the explanation provided —guaranteeing their safety in case of encounters with the rector's men— sounds reasonable.
As the first caravan departs, the King follows their dust trail for as long as it remains visible from his vantageous observation point. This is it, he thinks. This is the real turning point, where the news of the takeover starts spreading to the rest of the province, and not by word of mouth among the guards, but brought by the actual people to their relatives and friends —assuming they still can find any.
Anything may have happened: their families displaced, their houses burned down or let to strangers. I wish we could have had more time, more room, more men, anything to organize this better. And yet I must admit I've lucked out in finding about the mines this morning. I can only hope that this was the only penitentiary, or at the very least that somewhere in the rector's office there will be documents, anything to keep track of what was really going on through the province. Or someone who knows, someone who can be trusted to be fully cooperative.
The “princess”. He smirks and puffs out a half laugh at the thought. How much would she really know of his father's dealings? It didn't seem as if the father took her much into account, which might or might not be a good thing. He probably didn't tell her much, if anything at all, but he also seemed to ignore her in the most inappropriate of moments, so she might have been able to sneak around or otherwise gather information.
The “princess”. At least now he knows she's well-seen by people here in the capital. He wonder if she has the same kind of fame in the rest of the province. He pictures the young woman in her father's place, rector of the province she's been trying to help. Would she be capable?
The King puffs a half-laugh again, trying to picture her reaction, that of the people. It's nothing, it's the brain wandering, looking for a wait out of this tiresome, stressful wait, the slow dripping of prisoners out of their cells, one by one, cell after cell, hour after hour. It's just a safety valve, vapour whistling off.
The light grows dim as the evening progresses. The men directing and assisting the former prisoners have left their posts, relieved by rested replacements. But the irreplaceable overseer, Julien, is still there, looking over the pages and pages of names and dates and locations, organizing the caravans, dispatching his men. The King walks over to him, takes advantage of the small pause Julien takes after giving his orders before getting to work on the next batch.
«You should get some rest, you've been working all day long.»
«It's not over yet.»
«Exactly. We don't want do mess up something when we're so far in, do we? I'm sure your aides are doing their best to look over the papers with you, make sure nothing slips through, but you should seriously take some rest. We still have a few hours of work in front of us, take off a few minutes. Close your eyes. Rest. It's nearly dinner time. Promise me you will eat something, and stop thinking about this all for the time necessary for you to recover.»
Julien sighs. «I will. I know, the worst part is coming. I should be ready for it.» and in the small pause that follows, they both know that it's the pit they're thinking about. «You should check out on Victor.»
The King nods, leaving the overseer to his next batch of prisoners, and proceeds to the tent of the apothecary. He skips to the front of the long queue outside, waving briefly to silence the words of gratitude mumbled by the released, and peeks inside the tent. Victor is resting. Eyes closed, legs crossed, he sits in the farthest corner of the tent, unaware of his surroundings, yet not completely asleep. The two aides that have worked with him so far are nowhere to be seen, replaced by some older assistants, who have taken over the medical examinations.
It's late in the night when the last cell finally opens. Yet there's no rush from the prisoners, whose wait has gone from hope to patience to restlessness to resignation, condensing into hope lost for it to ever actually happen. And when it finally does, it almost comes as a surprise, and the steps of the former prisoners that finally march out to their freedom are weighted with caution.
It's the King, rather, that breaths a sigh of relief. The longest, yet easiest, part, is nearly over. We managed, he thinks, there's still too many people outside, too many people to be dispatched home, but they're finally out.
A few torches have been lit in the corridor when the light of the sun had gone, soon met by more torches and a few larger fires outside, where the former prisoners waiting to be dispatched out and some of the King's men, off duty, have started familiarizing, playing dices or cards.
The King sighs again, well aware of the pit behind him, still filled with bodies, who knows how many still alive, who knows how many plagued, who knows what with. An assistant of Victor has come a few times, without entering the cell, for an initial assessment at first, to bring water to the sick he could reach, as the more fortunate among those in the pit have found the strength and the will to get as close as they can to the gates.
And finally the last of the prisoners comes out of his cell, sniffing, crawling, wailing, begging forgiveness.
«Stand,» the King says «it's not to me you should beg, but rather your former companions. And I doubt they even care at this point. You're all out, you're all free. You'll soon see your families again. That's the only thing that should matter, so stand, and go.»
As the man stumbles away, the King slowly walks out into the open as well, followed by the two men who have managed the prisoners' flow. In the clearing in front of the entrance, the former guards are still kneeling in the double line that has sided the prisoners' march, their shoulders slouching from the weariness of the position kept for so long, without food and with barely any water.
The King calls over a few more of his soldiers. «Bring these men to the palace cells, quietly. The captain and these three go to the secure cells with the rest of the rector's guard.» As the soldiers make the former guards stand, he takes the commander aside «Place the youngest one and the one with the scar aside from the rest; they get two rations per day.» He then calls out «Marco!» and his command voice rolls over the terraces.
The young boy comes running up the slope, followed by his twin.
«These men have to get to the palace, and the less people they meet, the better. Can you do that?»
«I know a way.»
«Good. When they're safe, you're free to go. You have my thanks for the services rendered today. They won't go unrewarded.»
«Your Majesty …»
«Go. Move out now.»
As the boys guide the soldiers and their charge out of the main road into the shrubbery, Julien reaches the King's side.
«You trust them.»
«I trusted them with my message for you. They may have delivered out of fear more than anything, but they delivered. I don't see why they wouldn't do the same now.»
«Oh, they were afraid all right, but I don't think it was just that. You can still see the pride they have in serving you.»
The King puffs his half-laugh again «Well, that'd be quite practical. The more allies we have, the faster the recovery will be.»
A few seconds of silence follow, before Julien brings the discussion back to the matter of the moment «All of the prisoners are accounted for. Six hundred thirty-four. It'll take time to finish sorting them out and dispatching them, but they're all out and safe. We can't send any more caravans out, and I suggest even the ones that would go to the capital be escorted in groups now.»
The King nods. «What about the rest.»
«We've set up camp. I think we can host them. Might not be the most comfortable of the lodgings, but I doubt they'll complain.»
The King nods again. Silence falls again between them, as both are reluctant to discuss the next subject, but as Victor emerges from the tent and starts on the road to get to the clearing, it becomes obvious that the time has come. They both sigh, and yet neither speaks yet.
Even the apothecary avoids approaching the subject, when he finally reaches the clearing. He starts with a brief summary of the examination of the men that have been freed so far, lice, minor ailments, nothing worrisome, nothing one wouldn't come across on daily visit to the townsfolk, except possibly for the malnutrition, or the common, obvious signs of physical abuse.
The King nods at the report, sighs again. «What about the rest.»
«Me and my men will start on them as soon as we're done with the last batch of people to be taken to the capital. That won't take long, a quarter at most.» Victor breathes in deeply, exhales slowly «We're in for a long night.»
The prisoners will have to be taken out of the pit one by one, carefully, they'll need to be checked thoroughly, purged and purified as appropriate, medicated, classified to determined which of them can be kept together, which ones need to be separated. There'll be dead ones, and ones close to be. Some of them might be salvable, some might not.
The King knows that, the overseer knows that, the apothecary knows that, but none of them speaks, because the prolonged silence is sufficient to let each other know they are all thinking the same things.
And then the environment itself needs to be purged and purified, cleansed, disinfected, burned out and washed clean, and the King has plans for that, plans that involve the former guards. But that will be later, tomorrow, or the day after, because now is the time of the living, or of those who might not be, or might soon cease to be.
And suddenly Julien pulls the King away from his thoughts. «You should go rest.»
The King looks at the overseer, then he shakes his head, but doesn't reply. Julien insists «Have you rested since this morning?»
The King bows his head «I haven't had much time to worry about that. I will rest when we're done.»
Now it's Julien's turn to shake his head. «That's not good for you, it's not good for your sanity, it's not good for your health. Nobody benefits from your …»
«I promised I would stay here until each and every one of them is out.»
«They are. The ones you could do something about are all out, they're free, many of them are even home already, or getting there. The rest will be there tomorrow, the day after at worst. There is nothing more for you to do here. There is nothing you can do to help. You should go, you should rest, get ready for tomorrow. We have long days ahead of us, and your health and safety is more important than a commitment you cannot maintain.»
The King doesn't reply. There's nothing to reply, he knows the overseer's words are undeniably indisputable. And finally Victor asks:
«Do you not trust us?»
«I do.» the King is quick to answer now «I wouldn't have called you here if I didn't trust you blindly.»
«So let us do our job, and take your deserved rest. You cannot carry the weight of everything on your shoulders.»
Julien insists: «The last batch is going to leave for the capital soon. You should go with them.»
The King lifts his hands in a sign of surrender, but also a fit of pique «I'll go. I'll go, but I'll go now, and I'll go alone.» He takes a few steps down the road, he stops, he turns «Please keep me informed.»
Julien rolls his eyes, a gesture of desperation «We will.»
The King turns again, and starts off the road, leaving it at the first bend to follow the path through the shrubbery that the boys had taken him through in the morning.
In the middle of nowhere, the King suddenly stops. He closes his eyes, clearly discerning the brief moment before the careful sounds behind him stop as well. He doesn't turn.
«What do you want?»
A few moments of silence, then a female voice responds «I've been sent by the overseer to watch over your return, Sir.»
The King sighs. Of course. He could send her back, easily, overruling Julien's order. He doesn't.
«Well, walk with me then, not behind me.»
There is no reply but for the sound of the steps approaching. As soon as the soldier has reached him, the King starts off again down the path. They walk in silence, side by side when possible, the soldier following the King closely when the shrubbery force them in single file.
«How long does it take to change the people's mind?»
«Sir?»
«I said: how long would you gather it takes for the people to change their mind?»
There's a brief silence before the soldier responds «I wouldn't know, Sir.»
«You tell them that things can be different, you show them that they can be different. And yet, they're stuck in their own idea of how things ought to be. Is it because it's what they are used to think? Is it because they are more … attuned to one way of seeing things?»
The soldier has no answer, again, but she feels the King might have something specific in mind. She inquires, but gets no direct answer, just a shrug of the King's shoulders.
The next stretch of path is covered in silence, before the soldier intervenes again: «Sir, I would dare say your step is not as steady as you'd like it to seem.»
The King sighs, and he stops.
«Oh, who am I fooling.»
«You may rest if you wish, Sir. I'll stand guard.»
«I'll admit I'm a bit overdue on that rest thing.» the King sits down.
«You may wish to remove that dagger from your side, Sir. Might make for a more comfortable …»
The King lifts a hand, shutting her up.
«What's your name, soldier?»
«Jade, Sir.»
The King nods. «Northern?»
«North-West, Sir.»
«How old are you?»
«Going for thirty-two, Sir.»
«And how did you end up in the military?»
There's a brief silence before the solider replies «My brother, Sir. We … he used to love swords, even as a kid, and he dragged me in his games, he was older than me, couple of years, so I just followed through. But we used to, well, I could say ‘spar’, if that's what we want to call it, even before he was old enough to start receiving formal training at the local garrison. And then I followed as well.»
«Your brother, he a soldier too?»
«Last I heard, he was making a decent living as a fisherman.»
«He quit the military?»
There's silence again, before Jade responds «He never was, Sir.»
The King lifts his eyes, but the soldier's gaze is distant, lost in some other time and place. And then she continues: «He found out he couldn't strike someone else for real, not even to protect himself.» A long pause follows, then again «There was a pirate raid. A lightning strike, as they used to call it, just enough to make it profitable, but short enough to barely give time for the garrison to intervene. One of them reached our house. My parents were out to sea, as we were old enough to be left alone, and my brother, he was thirteen, he felt he had to defend our home, which he did, with the sword they had just given him for his three years of training. And he stood his ground as best as he could, he would parry, defend, but he never found the … the will to strike, even when he obviously could, as the man was careless, fighting such a young boy. But he just … couldn't. He never even tried, not even a timid attempt.»
Silence falls between them again.
«That's when you killed your first man.»
The soldier bows her head. Seconds roll by silently before her «Yes, Sir.»
The King closes his eyes. «Nobody should have to go through that. Especially not at that age.» And then: «I'm sorry I had you revive it.»
Jade shakes her head. «That's part of who I am, Sir.»
«Don't let it define who you are.»
The silence of the night falls between them again, until Jade finds the courage to ask: «May I ask you something, Sir?»
Rather than giving permission, the King gives answer the two most obvious possible questions. «I'm older than I look, and I've killed my share of people. By blade or by arrow, and a number of other means.» He pauses, rummaging his mind for memories and words «The first ones were … I can't even blame a fit of rage, because it was carefully planned vengeance. I hunted them down, one by one, and tortured and killed them with my bare hands.» The King lies down on one side, arm folded under the head «Sometimes, this seems to be the only thing I can remember clearly from my own past, as everything else dissolves into haze over time.» He closes his eyes «I'll be having a little of that rest now.»
«Do you need a wake up call, Sir.»
The King slowly shakes his head «That won't be necessary, thanks.» and he's out already, leaving the soldier alone with the considerations he has instilled in her.
The King wakes up as abruptly as he has fallen asleep. He turns slightly, to see Jade standing guard behind him, a courtesy to prevent him from rolling over and ending up resting on the dagger still planted in his side.
He gets up, and with a simple gesture of the head he invites the soldier to follow him, as he gets started again on the path. There are no more words between them, as they march on at a much faster pace than before, and it's not long before they're finally at the outskirts of the capital, whose empty streets are quick to traverse.
{BTS}A guard on watch spots them before they even reach the main square, and she leaves her post to go rouse a woman. «The King will be here shortly.» The woman thanks her, gets up, and has a warm bath prepared as she goes to meet her master at the door.{/BTS}
When they finally knock at the palace doors, it's still a few hours before dawn. The doors open promptly, and the King steps inside.
«Maila!» he calls surprised to the woman standing in front of him «Please tell me you haven't been waiting for me here the whole time.»
«It's a good thing this palace has watchtowers, and soldiers in them.» the woman smiles.
«Eh.» the King smiles back. He then remembers the soldier who has accompanied him, he turns to Jade, who has remained outside, waiting. «Dismissed. Go get some rest.»
«Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.» she salutes, and turns.
She hasn't taken more than two steps, before the King's voice reaches her again: «And Jade … don't give too much weight to my night musings. Darkness rarely brings the brightest of thoughts.»
The soldier stops, but doesn't turn. She nods. «Of course, Sir. I understand.» and she departs as the door closes.
The King follows Maila down the halls, lost again in the contemplation of the luxury of the palace.
«Maila, Maila, Maila, whatever should I be doing with this palace? Keeping it up is an affront to the misery of the people of this province, but tearing it down is an affront to the work and suffering of those that have dug the stone, carved it, placed it.» And as there is no reply from the woman, the King continues «I've seen them, you know? The people forced to work at the mines.» He shakes his head, sighs, his words die out. He stops, randomly, his hand rises to caress a wall «The sweat and blood they poured for these …» he steps away from the wall, reaches up to Maila again «And yet I doubt they'd like to be reminded of it.»
The smile has died on the woman's lips. She starts to understand that it's not just fatigue drooping the King's shoulder, that too much darkness has been nesting into his soul as well; it's not just the body, but the spirit as well that will need rest, and cleansing.
«Where are you taking me, Maila?»
«Your bath is waiting for you. We've also set up our quarters, and yours, next to it, so that you may go straight to rest when you're done.»
The King responds with a tired smile, to which the woman replies with her own, brighter one. She opens a door, and the King steps into the same antechamber he was brought to the day before.
«I know this place.»
«This is the guests' baths, we thought you might be more comfortable here.»
«That's nice of you.»
«Let me help you.» she approaches the King from behind after closing the door. She notices the dagger. «Shall I take this out?»
«Yes please.»
The woman pulls the dagger from the vest, examines it closely: «Doesn't seem to be poisoned. Or the poison has been captured as well.» she puts the weapon down on a small table, on the farthest corner, then walks back to the King, and carefully helps him take off the vest.
«Well,» the King says «I guess this was a very successful field test.» They both observe the vest, the place where the knife had pierced the outer layer before being enveloped and stopped, the resulting lump on the inner side. «I should deploy this to the whole army, they're much safer than the standard uniform, and much more comfortable than standard armor.»
Maila lays the vest on the table, and helps the King as he finishes undressing. There's a small bruise on his back, corresponding to the lump in the vest, but no other sign of harm. She guides him over to the bath chamber, lets him sit on a low stool in a corner, and carefully washes his body with a large soft sponge, taking particular care about the bruise.
«Does it hurt?» she asks. The King shakes his head. She tries pressing a little harder «And now?»
The King shrugs. «It's too shallow. I'm guessing it looks worse than it feels.»
«You've walked around with this the whole day. It mustn't have been very pleasant.»
«Not my best day.»
«I'm sorry.» Maila voice has grown softer, lower, as she embraces the King's lean, sculpted body from behind.
«It's not your fault. I'm paying for my mistakes, and there's too many people who have paid much higher prices than I ever will. And I still count myself lucky, for things have gone much smoother than they could have, considering how little we had to work with.»
«Don't strain yourself as a form of personal punishment. Things will be hard enough for what they'll be. Don't punish yourself for others' crimes.»
«I am the king, I am responsible for all that happens to my people. Doubly so when what happens is due to my lack of foresight or proper oversight.»
«You still shouldn't seek out punishment this way. That's not what'll remedy the mistakes.»
The King sighs. «Believe me, I'm not seeking out gratuitous punishment. But today … today I found myself facing the worst consequences of my negligence.»
«Was it necessary for you to stay until the end? Couldn't you have left everything in the hands of Julien and Victor?»
The King sighs and bows his head.
«I like to think that my presence has been meaningful, that it has helped keep the men in line. I've had … unpleasant moments, angry reactions I'm not proud of, I've made threats I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to get through with.» He pauses. «I didn't stay until the very end. I would have. I think I should have. I didn't. And I can't shake the feeling that I took the easy way out, skipping the worst, undeservedly.»
«Stop beating yourself over it. You didn't shirk your duty, as much as your conscience may be trying to tell you otherwise. Your duty is towards your people, all of them, collectively, not towards each and every one of them, individually. Your duty is to organize, administer, control the big picture, not every minute detail. You're already doing more than you should. You don't need to overdo it. In fact, you need to not overdo it, or we'll end up losing our beloved King, when the stress and the strain end up breaking you physically, mentally, spiritually.»
The King smiles, caressing the hands with which Maila is still holding tight against him, and he knows she's smiling too.
The King wakes abruptly as always from the light sleep the bath has lulled him into —again— to whispering voices reverberating over the pool of warm water where he sits, lying against the marble parapet.
Maila still sits next to him in the water, but more young women have joined them, some sitting with them in the pool, some still outside, washing themselves up.
«I guess I'm as home as can be for the time being.» he says, mostly to himself, with a smile.
«Oh, he's awake!» the women storm him.
«Hello, ladies, it's a pleasure to see you.» he embraces as many as he can, as they pile on and around him «Where's the rest?»
«Still asleep. The early bird caches the worm!» shouts the youngest, straddling him.
«Well, if you want to put it like this, Maila was here first.»
«Yeh, but she didn't think about it!» the young woman turns to stick her tongue out at Maila, but is dropped in the water by the King as he stands, stretching his arms out and yawning.
He steps out of the pool, and walks into the antechamber, followed by the women. Linen to dry oneself with, and soft, light tunics are waiting for them. The dagger and the vest he has come in with are nowhere to be found.
«Heavy day?» one of the women enquires.
«Quite.»
«You'll forget about it for now, yes?» asks another, grabbing his arm.
«I would hope so.»
The women lead him out into the corridor, and then a few steps down through a door guarded by two soldier into another antechamber, where two other soldiers stand guard, and finally through another door into the room proper, whose floor has been half covered by a pile of large cushions, sprawled over which lies the rest of his entourage, asleep.
«Nice nest you girls set up here.»
«Of course we did. Where else would we be able to take care of you?» the youngest one grabs him, dragging him to the pile of cushion, pushes him over, jumps on top of him.
«We'll have to drain all of that horrible, dark poison that has seeped into your soul yesterday.» She's smiling, but her words are not entirely said in jest. «And I know just the cure for that.» she pulls the tunic over her head, throwing it away, proceeding then to lift the King's tunic, forcing him to sit to take it completely off him as well.
«I might want a second opinion on that diagnosis.»
Maila lies down next to them, propping herself up on one elbow. «The sadness in your eyes.» she whispers, caressing the King's face «The weariness in your smile.» she traces his lips «The invisible burden weighing your shoulders down.» her lips lightly brush those same shoulders. «Need I go on?»
The King sighs. «I'd rather be distracted from that for the next few hours.»
«I'll take care of that!» the young one exclaims, sitting up while still straddling the King, stretching her arms up, the victory sign in each hand.
«As if you'd be able to do that on your own.» Maila smiles, to which the young one responds sticking her tongue out again, with a dissing expression on her face, to which Maila gives no notice, concluding: «You'll get tired way before he does.»
«Nah, look,» the young one replies, talking with Maila while her hands glide over the King's chest «look at how thin he's gotten. He obviously hasn't eaten properly for days, he's exhausted. I'll consider myself lucky if he doesn't fall asleep halfway through.»
«Would you please stop talking about me as if I'm not here?» the King objects.
«Shush,» the young one presses her index finger over his lips; she lies down, her head on his chest, her arms dropping down the side in an incomplete embrace; «I prefer it when you're softer,» she whispers «warmer, healthier, happier.»
The King rests on his side, with Maila in his embrace. The weariness has left him, and he absent-mindedly plays with the soft curls of her hair.
«One of these days Lila will learn that with you it's the other way around, the more is weighing down your soul, the more you need this, and the more it takes for you to be able to finally rest, free.» Maila smiles, moving a lock from the forehead of the young woman who is sleeping in front of them.
«Or she'll stop pretending she doesn't get it.»
«You think she does it on purpose?»
«Why not? She gets to go first, and until she's out. Which is not little.»
Maila turns so she can face the King. «I don't want to sound contrary, but this time you've managed to exhaust all of us. Even those that had just woken up.»
«Not true.»
«All right, most of us, except Alina who went to the kitchen to get us breakfast, and me. Now stop playing dumb.» she turns again, and the King resumes playing with her curls. «Yesterday must have been the worst for you. It's the first time I've seen you like this.»
«I've been missing you ladies for days,» the King responds «days in which I've traveled through a constant reminder of my negligence, and how it has destroyed an entire generation of the people of this province. Yesterday was the worst, yes, but it was such, because it was the final, heaviest blow of an entire week of torture.»
Maila turns suddenly. «No more, please.» she stops the King's lips with her own for a second, then she reprises «Tell me something bright about yesterday, for a change.»
«Something ‘bright‘?»
«Something beautiful, something positive that has struck you and remained with you.»
The King rolls to rest on his back, as he goes over the day before.
«The boys.» he finally says.
«Tell me about them.»
«One of them in particular. Quick, smart. A brilliant, inquisitive mind. He tried to play a trick on me, but I don't actually mind. And they both were most helpful.»
«Oh, I know who you're talking about,» Alina has come back from the kitchen with two assistants, bringing breakfast for all of them. The assistants are quick to retire, embarrassed. The woman shakes her head, spell out «The prudes!» without emitting any sound, then goes back to her initial thought «it's the boys you sent here as couriers for Julien and Victor. I met them in the kitchen, they were so desperate, worried you'd kill them, because they wouldn't let them go back to you as quickly as you had ordered.» Alina laughs.
«I might have appeared more threatening than intended.»
(Alina) «I'd say.»
«But they were, well, Marco especially was, very quick with their mind.»
(Maila) «What did he manage, to impress you this much?»
«Oh, in general, but he was quick to guess a lot of things about the lot of you.»
(Maila) «About us?»
«Well, about my entourage. Which would be you. He guessed you were all women, and that I might, how was it that he said that, come back home to you ladies to relax from the shenanigans of the court. Or something like that.»
Alina gets closer, with a threatening attitude «Ah, so that's what we are here for now? Your relief when you need to distract yourself from the heaviness of the world?»
Maila intervenes «Well, you can't really deny we do do that. I mean, it's exactly what we've done since he got back last night.»
«But I dare say it's a little … reductive.»
«One thing I can say» intervenes the King «is that they are rather … archaic in their perception of gender roles. And not just the boys. But then again, I consider this as well to be my fault.»
Almost everyone is awake now, and they're sitting up, stretching out, exchanging salutations, getting breakfast. Lila crawls over the cushions to lie behind the King, who's now sitting with a cup of tea in his hands, and growls «Everything is your fault. It's your fault I fell asleep again, after dawn no less.» She yawns.
«Actually,» the King turns «that's entirely your fault. Know your limits.» he then turns back to Maila and Alina «For example, I'm pretty sure those boys are brighter than she is.» and he points with his thumb behind his shoulder. Lila gets up abruptly and starts gnawing at his shoulder «Or than she pretends to be.»
«That's better.» the young woman stops, sits more comfortable stretching her legs on either side of the King, and lying against his back «Tell us more about these guys.»
«Oh, I'm very happy about what they did yesterday. It would have been much worse without them. They have my deepest gratitude. But I don't want it to be just words.»
(Lila) «Do you want me to …?»
«I was actually thinking of something more … material.»
«How old are they?»
«Too young even for you.»
«Meh, they didn't seem that young, I'm sure they already have the mind firmly in the gutter.» «That would explain how they guessed some of the things.» «I wouldn't mind breaking them in, assuming they haven't already taken care of that by their own initiative.»
«Were you thinking of getting them into your service?» intervenes Maila.
«I have thought about that. Well, Marco even claimed he would be my most trusted servant, but I suspect that was more out of fear I would lop his head off than anything else.»
«I assume that was after after he played that trick on you?»
The King shrugs and smiles.
(Alina) «All right, seriously, how did he guess your entourage was entirely female?»
«I mentioned that I trusted my soldiers to guard you when one of the townsladies was worried it might be ‘inappropriate’ to have soldiers guarding their ‘princess’.»
«Quick thinking, but told like that doesn't sound like that big of a guess, does it? Or was your answer more vague and less in context?» to which the King shrugs again, without reply «Wait, who's the princess? Waaaait a second …»
«Oh, I know this, I know this!» Lila starts jumping up and down, an arm outstretched to call for attention. «Aletheia!» she shouts, stressing the second ‘e’.
(The King) «Who?»
«Oh, seriously? All this» Maila circles the air with a finger «is because of the letters you've been exchanging with her and you didn't even bother to check her signature to know what she was called?»
«That's her actual name? I thought it was some sort of nickname she … and how do you even know she's the rector's daughter?»
«Oh, come on! Really?» the woman rolls her eyes stands, puffs, walks to one of the trunks lying in a corner of the room, rummages through it, then walks back to the mountain of cushions flipping through a ream of letters «Why aren't this in chronological order? I'm going to kill the one who packed them.» she flops back on the cushions, still flipping, while Lila points to her with both index fingers «Shut up, Lila. Oh, here we are. When she talks about the guards you can trust: “I'll be made to sit next to you. My most trusted guard will be standing right behind my seat as soon as anything happens”, because they'll obviously seat a random servant next to the guest of honor.»
«All right, all right, I know she was, is the one. I still didn't expect that to be her actual name.»
«Of course it is, why wouldn't it be? Sure, it's not exactly a common name, but it's still just a name. You seem pretty upset about it.»
«I never heard of anyone else called Aletheia, really.» intervenes Lila.
«First of all,» the King puffs «it's Alétheia, not Alethéia. The stress goes on the first ‘e’, not the second. And secondly, I'm not upset about it, I just find it … peculiar.»
(Maila) «You really are upset about it.»
(Lila) «And how do you even know how it's pronounced?»
«Because it …» the King sighs, exasperated «because it's a word, it means truth, unveiling, reveal. Used to be a word. Whatever. And it would be such an absurd coincidence that she would get named just that.»
«Well, I can see why you think it was a pseudonym,» comments Alina «when she just happened to be doing that in the letters, revealing the truth.»
«And that's the thing, why would she even pick that as a pseudonym? Why would she even know what the word means? It's no less absurd than her father picking that name.»
«Well, I didn't even know it was a word,» comments Lila «and I honestly think the rector had very little to do with the naming of his daughter. I'm sure her mother did. It's a motherly name.»
It's as if something clicks in the King's brain. There's a brief moment when his face brightens in an expression of clarity, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. The women know that he has just taken a mental note of something that'll need to be better analyzed later, but his words reveal nothing of that. He turn to Lila: «You are not exactly the best reference point for word knowledge.»
«Hey, my lexicon is considerably vaster than many.»
«But you're still not a scholar.»
«Oh, it's from some dead language, isn't it?»
«Dead and buried.»
«What does that even mean?»
«It means it's so ancient, it was dead even before the Cut.»
«The what?»
Before the King has time to respond, there's a light knock on the door.
«I'll get it.» one of the women goes to the door, opening it just enough to talk with the guard outside. She then comes back to the King, and starts quoting: «“Lady Aletheia wishes to confer with His Majesty the King”,» digressing then «if you would be so gracious to et cœtera, there was so much formality in the request that I honestly got bored halfway through, but that was the gist of it.»
«Ah, we'll definitely have to do something about that formality. There is nothing that creeps me more than those roundabout expressions with little substance and way too many words. I get enough of that from everybody, the last thing I need is to have to hear it from my collaborators as well.»
«You should invite her over.» Maila suggests, absent-mindedly.
«Well, nothing kills formality like standing in front of a dozen or so of naked people laying about a mountain of cushions.»
Maila turns to him with a judgemental look, and recovers «Because putting our tunics back on would be such a bother, right?» she then goes back to her normal expression «But I'm actually quite serious.»
«I'd really like to hear your reasoning behind it.»
«There's two things, actually. One, I'm ready to bet that she's going to ask, directly or indirectly, to join your entourage. Seriously, I've been going through her letters again, and there's almost a tone of desperation in some of them. It could be just that she wanted to get free of the stranglehold that her father's governance must have been, but there's also such a passion in declaring her loyalty to you …»
Before the King has time to intervene, she lifts a finger to stop him, and continues «Plus, consider her position here now: out of the shadow of her father's dominion, she's probably scared of the responsibility that might befall her if someone would decide to put her in charge, purely on the basis of how much the people seem to love her, regardless of her actual attitude or capability to lead and administer.»
The King opens his mouth again, but Maila continues «And I'm not saying that's what you would do, even though I'm sure you have given it thought, I'm saying that's what she most likely fears might happen. So, in her position, the best outcome is joining your entourage, out of loyalty to you and her people, without the responsibility that would come with the other option.»
The woman pauses, giving time to the King to ask his question «All right, I get it. Anything else?»
«Actually, there would be, but I don't think I should discuss it yet, as it's more of a guess than a certainty, and it might influence your judgement of the whole thing.»
«So all in all your point is that the reason why she wants to talk to me is to inquire on the possibility of joining my entourage …» «It might not …» «and that regardless of whether she actually asks or wants to ask now about it, meeting her here would be a way to … open her mind to the fact that it might imply more than just being a close advisor, and that there might be some truth to some of the rumors that she might have heard, assuming she did hear of any?»
«That's kind of my point, yes.»
«And this has nothing to do with seeing the reaction on her face.»
Maila grins «That's just a bonus freebie.»
«I'm going to call a vote on this decision. All in favour say ‘aye’.» and when the ‘aye’s are obviously unanimous «All right, now I want to know how many of you want to do it just for the entertainment value.»
When the Rector's daughter is introduced in the room, her expression of surprise —as she expected to be led to the former Rector's council room rather than the guest's quarters— turns rapidly into one of embarrassment and discomfort, in front of the King, clothed in a simple tunic, sitting on a mountain of cushions and surrounded by scantly clad women.
She remains still for a moment, right past the door, as she collects the courage, trying to fight a lost battle against her own blushing and the consequent even higher embarrassment, to march to the middle of the room and curtsy, «Your Majesty …»
«Lady Aletheia …» is the prompt reply from the King.
«I beg forgiveness for seeming so demanding in …»
The King raises his hand to stop her. «I should be the one begging pardon, for the discomfort I had to force you through, as I was not able to devise a better way to provide you with the necessary protection during the takeover. It was ungrateful of me to treat my most important ally in such a dismissive manner.»
«Your Majesty shouldn't …»
Again, the King stops her. «There is one thing that I ask of all my collaborators, and it is to avoid being unnecessarily formal. So please no more ‘Your Majesty’.»
The Rector's daughter makes an attempt to reply something, but the words die in her throat, so she ends up just bowing her head in gratitude, and maybe to hide the blushing that continues to flush her cheeks.
The King leans over to one of the women. «Can me make our guest most comfortable?» he whispers.
The woman replies with a smirk, grabs a cushion and takes it over to the Rector's daughter, who takes it with some perplexity, before laying it to the floor, kneeling on it and sitting on her heels.
«Thank you, Y…» Aletheia stops before completing the sentence, blushing again to the inevitable smiles of all others.
«It'll come to you.» comments the King «I understand it takes time to break free of the paths one has been trained to follow since the earliest age.» the Rector's daughter bows her head again, and the King finally asks «What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?»
Aletheia speaks slowly now, aware of her own words in a way she hadn't felt since she had learned to speak.
«I just wished to offer my services, for anything Your …» she clenches her teeth «for anything I may assist with in the recovery of the province, or anything else Y… you may wish of me.»
Blushing, flustered, fidgeting with her hands, she keeps her gaze low, to avoid even seeing the reaction her clumsiness and discomfort may arouse in the King or his entourage. This is how she misses the reaction the women have to the King's question:
«What if I asked you to take your father's place, as rector of the province?»
The answer doesn't come quickly, as the Rector's daughter ponders it first, and then hesitates again, looking for the most appropriate way to express it.
«If this is what Your …» again, she stops halfway «If this is your wish, I will assume the role and fulfill it to the best of my capabilities.»
«You do not believe you'd be fit for that role.»
«I have little experience, if any at all, in the administration of the province. All I'm aware of, is what I've learned from observing, secretly more often than not, the machinations of my late father, as he himself has tried his best to keep me away from anything even remotely concerning the political and administrative aspect of his role.»
The woman lifts her head, her gaze wanders the room, and the suspicion in it does not escape the King.
«You may speak freely. This is my entourage, they are aware of all of the aspects of the kingdom's governance I am aware of, even the most secret ones. Anything you feel you should or could share with me, you should and can share with them.»
Aletheia breathes in deeply, sighs, and finally reprises:
«All we have been, my mother first, then I, is pawns in his raise to power. He married my mother to gain prominence, and access to social circles that he would have been excluded from otherwise. My mother only started realizing his true nature and intentions when it was too late, and I am not entirely sure he was completely extraneous to the accident that ultimately determined her demise.»
A frown breaks the smoothness of her forehead, as she continues:
«As for me, I was a token to be played to forge alliances. I believe I have informed you already of the contacts he was having with unsatisfied aides of other provinces, as well as nobility from neighboring realms. As you can easily imagine, not all of the discussed agreements were based merely on wealth and political control. He was probably aware that he would have had to force me into submitting to his decisions, as I made no mystery of not having intentions to play the part that he wanted me to play, but he ascribed my stubbornness to the lingering influence of my mother's education, and the contrariety of a spoiled child.»
She sighs, and concludes:
«He was most likely right about my mother's influence, and of this I am actually proud of, although I have only been the vessel, and it should rather be her to be praised for being able to give me so much. As for my contrariety, it has never been for being spoiled, nor a child. My father has done little to gain my trust or confidence, or to win me over, having never considered me as anything more than a potential tool, and trusting on his power and authority. As a result, I have never been able to see him in a light different than the one my mother's teachings would shine on him and his doing.»
Her voice has grown bolder, stronger during the whole exposition, and with it her attitude and posture, more relaxed and showing more clearly her inner dignity and pride. She has overcome the initial discomfort, the embarrassment of the unusual context for the conference she has been allowed by the King, and is now presenting a more open, a truer form.
«You do not consider yourself your father's daughter.»
Aletheia holds the King's inquisitive gaze for a few seconds before replying:
«I do not. I consider him merely accidental to my birth. The legacy I intend to carry is my mother's.»
«Was it your mother who chose your name?»
The question clearly makes the young woman uncomfortable. «It was.»
«Are you aware of its origins? Do you know its meaning?»
Again, an embarrassed pause. «I do.» Another pause, and then an explanation: «My mother had me in a period where she was starting to have doubts about my father. She gave me this name as a good omen, and as a possible …» she pauses, bows her head again «I'm sorry, I do not believe it appropriate to share this yet.»
The King ponders her reaction, uncertain on the implications. Would she be willing to talk, were the others not present? Should he press on regardless, or ask the others to leave? He has a distinct feeling that he could easily guess what the young woman was going to say —a sign, a hidden mark that could only be recognized by specific groups of people— and he wonders.
«I understand.» he states, finally «You said you intend to carry your mother's legacy. Is this something you would share with us?»
The young woman is again careful with her words:
«My mother's lineage is what my father was after, but merely for the social relevance it carried, rather than for the values it represented. Those are the ones I wish to uphold.»
«And they would be?»
«To protect, and serve.»
Pensive, the King drums the fingers of one hand against the ones of the other, in front of his face. The references start being too pregnant to be just a string of coincidences.
«Who does your mother's lineage pledge their allegiance to?»
«I am here to pledge mine to you.»
«But there is more to that than simply my being the king, or the way I treat my people.»
«Not inasmuch these things flow from the others.»
Again, silence falls between them. The women of the King's entourage are now quite aware that the verbal skirmish between him and Aletheia hides a second, deeper conversation, in which the two are trying to give each other hints about things they may know about the other, as if to identify each other and ensure that whatever lies behind it all may be freely shared. And yet, it is something they are all excluded from.
«Why was your mother's lineage so relevant socially?»
Aletheia starts fidgeting with her hands again, avoiding eye contact with the King or his women «Because we can date our bloodline back to the Cut.»
«All right,» Lila finally loses her patience «will someone please tell me what this stupid Cut is and why it is so important?»
«Cuts» is Aletheia's explanations «are the moments in history in which the most advanced civilizations crumble and disappear, bringing with them most of the human knowledge that brought to their rise in the first place.»
«What, like, people suddenly forgetting masonry or metal working, or, I don't know, how to read and write? So you're telling me that in some distant past there was this … civilization that had, I don't know, flying machines, and it just crumbled on itself for no reason and without leaving trace?»
«What leads to a civilization crumbling? It might be anything. Some extensive natural disaster, floods and fires, incurable plagues, or even something internal, domestic wars, who knows. And they may still leave trace of their presence, but most of the knowledge they held gets lost, reduced to dust or otherwise obliterated by time. Some of it may get preserved, often corrupted, by families such as mine. Some may be recovered by the work of scholars that dedicate their life to reconstructing what might have been from the little that can be found.»
«Why would knowledge disappear? I suppose that all their writings just puff disappear into dust?»
«They may be buried who knows where, waiting to be recovered, or they may not even exist anymore. Do you think that the letters I've written to the King would survive the test of time as much as stone carvings would?»
Lila remains speechless. The idea that the more sophisticated techniques could produce less resilient artifacts strikes her as paradoxical, yet she has been presented with the perfect example.
«And even if we did find them,» insists Aletheia «we might not even recognize them as such. Have you seen the writing forms of foreign populations? Some of them are barely discernible from mere ornaments.»
«I get it,» Lila shakes her head «I get it. So, people like you are direct descendants from … from people that lived through the Cut?»
When Aletheia replies, she does so looking straight at the King: «We all are. All humans alive today are descendants from humans that lived before the Cut.» she then turns back to Lila «Most are simply not aware of that, like most are not even aware that there was even a Cut in the first place. And why would they? It means nothing to their life. And even among the more cultured ones, many consider it more of a myth than some historical occurrence. Some do so merely due to the unbelievable nature of such an event,» and Lila feels like this is directed at her «some more as the historicity of such an event brings little benefit to their life, while denial of it might gain them something at the expense of others.» and it's clear that Aletheia is referring to her personal life again.
«I feel like I was the only one in this room to not know anything about this.» Lila curls her lips in an expression of disappointment.
«Maybe» suggests Alina, winking «you should peruse the library back home more, or better.»
«And I still fail to see what this has to do with you.» insists Lila, turning to the King.
Aletheia panics: «I never intended to …» she hurries to say, only to be interrupted by the King's calm response, addressed directly to Lila: «Well, I obviously know more about the Cut than you,» he turns around «and most if not all of the others here.» he smiles.
«Can you also trace your ancestors back to the Cut?» Lila asks, crossing her arms.
«I wouldn't say so, no.»
«So how do you know so much?»
The King's smile grows wider, and wider, soon turning into a mocking grin. «Maybe» he suggests «I peruse the library back home more, or better.»
«Gaaaah!» Lila screams, piqued «I hate you guys! If this whole conversation turns out to be just some … some huge practical joke at my expenses, I swear …»
«Shush,» the King grabs her, drags her over, cuddles her in an embrace «I'm sorry, I just couldn't let such a perfect opportunity go to waste.»
«I hate you.» claims Lila, without conviction, leaning against the King's arms and legs.
«I know, I know.» he caresses her hair, her cheeks.
«And stop treating me like a child.» again, there's a total lack of conviction in her voice. Suddenly, her fake rage face turns into a smirk «Especially since you most definitely weren't earlier today.» She accepts the quick slap the King gives her «Oh, drop it, she knows exactly what she's asking for when she offers to serve you.»
Aletheia is visibly flustered by Lila's comment, but it only shows through the blushing of her cheeks. «I stand by my words.» she comments, even as her voice has lost much of the power it manifested earlier «There is nothing I would find more fulfilling of my life than serving His Majesty in anything he would desire of me.»
The whole entourage turns to look at the King, who has closed his eyes, pressing the thumb and finger of his right hand against them. «No, no, no.» he whispers.
He opens his eyes, again, and recalls: «When I started receiving your letters, I was … amazed to find there was someone with the will and the determination to find a way to contact me, undetected by the rector or his men, and I was overjoyed to find I had an ally on the other side, someone who could help me unveil the rector's wrongdoings, someone who could even help me, within the limits imposed by their survival, to take back control of the province. But now I need a sincere answer to this question: why did you do it? Why did you reach out to me?»
Aletheia swallows, clearly fearful of what the consequences of her words might be. «I had … I was desperate for help. I couldn't even … I couldn't even stand to look out the window anymore without feeling … guilty for what my father was doing, and I felt helpless, as the best I could do was send out my personal doctor, or whatever little food I could, when I got news of anyone beyond despair.» there are tears in her eyes, but she continues «I hardly knew anything about you, having barely met you but a few times during the tours he would guide you through in those parts of the province he kept as theater to pretend things weren't what they were. And I grabbed desperately to the only hint I had, that he even had to keep up that pretense, to hope there was something you could, would do if you knew the truth. That's all I had, and I was so happy when I got your first reply that I …» her voice breaks down as she tries to hold back the tears, she fights to regain control «I was so happy, and the more you would write back the more I could barely even think of anything but “please come save us, please come save them” and then you were finally here and I was burning inside, I would do anything for you, anything, because I felt so grateful and the only thing I could give you in exchange for just being there was to give myself to you, for I have nothing else to give.»
There's relief and compassion and pity in the King's eye as he watches the young woman finally collapse under the stress of the confession. She hides her face in her hands, sobbing, barely managing to string out «I'm sorry, I'm sorry.» repeatedly.
Maila is the first to come to the aid of the crying woman, kneeling next to her and offering a handkerchief to wipe the tears away.
«I'm sorry,» Aletheia repeats «I'm not … I don't usually … I've never been so …»
«Shush, it's all right, we all need to let it all out some times.»
Still sniffing, Aletheia finally finds enough composure to turn to the King again, only to find him kneeling right in front of her.
«You owe me nothing, child.» his voice is softer, more soothing «I owe you, your people owe you, we all do, for without you we might have never found the opportunity to intervene. And this, this is exactly what I seek in my collaborators, a conscience, and the determination to act on it. And you should never be afraid of your emotions, of your desires. Never become their slave, but never ignore them either. Always be aware of them, find the way to express them, and yourself through it. They are part of you, and a beautiful, powerful part of you. Listen to them.»
The young woman attempts a smile. «I … I'll try.»
«And I» continues the King «am glad to accept all the aid you are willing to give us to help this province recover, for this will be a long and hard and painful process, and we have barely even started yet. And there is really nothing you should be thanking us for, when it should rather be the reverse, as I am the one in need for your help. I should be the one offering you anything you may wish, out of gratitude for your assistance so far.»
A shiver runs down Aletheia's spine. Would this be a request? An offer? She swallows, her hands clench on the folds her dress forms down her legs, yet her voice is barely audible even to the King when it finally emerges «My only wish would be to be allowed to stand by your side.»
The King sighs, shakes is head. The young woman closes her eyes, bows her head. «I understand.» she whispers, her voice choked.
«It is not because I judge you … inadequate, or for your stated lack of experience in the dealings of politics or government or administration —believe me, I wouldn't have people like Lila in my entourage otherwise. {BTS}«Hey!»{/BTS}But there is one thing I require for the people that I keep closest to me, and it is that they maintain their own independence. None of the women here» and the King spreads his arms slightly, in a minimal gesture that would encompass the whole room «is my servant, my slave. They are each their own person, they each have their own thoughts, ideas, initiatives. They follow me only as far as they agree with me, and they are as quick to defend me or my ideas as they are to question, refuse, deny, contradict, oppose me.»
He breaths in, almost taking a digression «In the appropriate context, such as this, of course.» he shakes his head, to return to his main point «But this, I feel you would not have the … strength, not now. I felt your utmost sincerity when you stated you would do anything I ask of you, and I believe you would. I could ask you to undress and walk the palace halls, and as taken aback by the order as you could be, you would still follow through.» The young woman swallows, embarrassed, and the King doesn't miss her quick, short nod. «But I do not need or want a puppet where I could have a close collaborator.» he concludes.
There is a knock on the door. Again, one of the women goes to take the message, and delivers it to the King: «Julien is back.»
«I'll be out momentarily.» the King turns to Aletheia one last time «Please stay. Your people need you, we need you, your passion, your sincerity. But remember, you can only offer others what you can take for yourself.»
The young woman nods briefly again as the King stands. He gestures Maila and Alina to follow him, whispers something to the woman who delivered the message, and steps out.
Eyes still closed, bowed head, kneeling in the middle of the room with no direct interlocutor, Aletheia now feels the full weight of her solitude. She can easily imagine the gazes of the other women pointed at her, judging her for her emotional outburst, for the arrogance of her demands, for the predictable rejection.
She has made a complete fool of herself, and the only sensible thing to do now would be to discreetly retire to her quarters, yet she feels so drained by the whole experience, so demolished, that the only energies she has left are barely sufficient to hold back the tears.
«My Lady …» the voice that calls her is soft and sweet, but Aletheia feels mocked. Why would someone who enjoys the King's deepest trust, that he consider his peer, address her this way? She is no lady, she is just a pretentious fool that believed for a short moment she could be worth a King's attention. She breathes in deeply, in order to regain composure, lifts her head and opens her eyes.
The woman that is sitting in front of her looks more mature than the others, and at least some twenty years older than the youngest one, the one that was asking about the Cut. The woman's face is so warm, so welcoming, that the façade Aletheia is barely holding up quickly crumbles, and she throws herself in the woman's arms, bursting into tears again.
The woman holds her softly, whispering: «Let them flow, let them all out, you sweet thing, you've had to keep it all bottled up for so long, with no one to turn to, let it all out, let it all out.»
«I feel so … empty,» Aletheia manages to say between the tears «so useless, so stupid, so … so presumptuous, so arrogant …»
«Sweetheart, there is no reason for you feel this way. You have no idea how … enamoured, even, the King is with you, your willpower, your determination, your passion, your sincerity, the way you opened up to us here …»
«Why, then, why did he just … reject me?»
The woman shakes her head. «That was not a rejection, my dear. But there is such a thing as being too passionate, and such a thing as the right moment for everything. And our master feels you might not be ready yet to join us —which is what you would have hoped, isn't it?»
Aletheia nods briefly. Calmer, she detaches herself from the woman, who stands and asks «Would you come with me?». The Rector's daughter stands, grabs the hand that the woman is offering her, and follows her to the next room over, shrouded in darkness.
As the woman closes the door behind them, and she starts to get used to the dark, Aletheia finds the only light source in the room, a single small candle, towards which the woman guides her slowly.
The woman stops not far from the candle, and sits down, inviting her to do the same. «My name» she states, as they make themselves comfortable «is Anaïs. As you have probably guessed,» she smiles «I'm the oldest. I was also the first to join his entourage; not by much, but long enough for me to cultivate the brief delusion that I was something unique and special for him —which I am, but not in the way I was hoping for at the time, and most definitely not to the end I was hoping for. I am by no means the king's favourite —if he even has one— nor do I have any form of control on the others, but I am the one that has been with him the longest, so sometimes they come to me seeking counsel.»
«Is this why you have taken me here?»
Anaïs shakes her head. «I know how important it can be to have a listening ear some times, and if you do wish to talk to me about something, or if there is anything that you wish to ask, please feel free to do so. But no, this is not why I've taken you here. I just wanted to make sure you could feel more comfortable. I'm sure staying there, in the presence of all the others, was taking its toll on you —even though I can assure you that no one would even dream of dissing you, or judge you negatively. And there are things that are better discussed face to face, and in low light.» she smiles.
Aletheia sighs, leaning slightly forward. «Thank you, really. I feel better already. But I'm still so confused, even if I had anything to ask, I wouldn't know what. The only thing I wish is that I could … understand.»
«Understand what? Our role?»
The Rector's daughter shakes her head «I know about that. Or at least I think I do. I know all about it.» and in so saying she diverts her gaze from Anaïs peering eyes «No, it's … simpler things, maybe. When His … the King left, he did so with what sounded like a message, that I cannot give what I cannot take for myself. And it's so … one moment, I think I understand it, but the moment after, I sense that there is something else behind it, something he was telling me, without actually telling me directly, and it escapes me. I understand the general sense of it, as you cannot teach if you don't learn, you cannot make people happy, unless you are happy yourself. But it cannot be just that.»
Anaïs smiles, and she continues Aletheia's examples «You cannot explain what you do not understand. You cannot help others, unless you know how to seek for help yourself. We are here because of that: you sought our help, and in so doing you are giving help to your people; and we can only give them our assistance because we received your help. It is such a simple rule, and yet it explains so much. You cannot give pleasure to another, if you do not know how to take pleasure yourself. You cannot give yourself to another, unless you own yourself.»
«Is this what he was trying to tell me? That I should … own myself?»
Anaïs' smile grows larger. «Nobody really owns themselves,» she remarks «not even the king himself, as he is owned by his people no less than the reverse. And he knows that, and that is one of the reason why his reaction to your offer was so … tepid. It's the reason why he insists so much on our independence: we could not be what he needs us to be, if he owned us.» there's a slow nod of understanding from Aletheia, as the woman concludes «But still, this is just one, small part of the messages. It's the message as a whole that is important.»
In the silence that follows, Anaïs finds from the fixity of her companion's gaze that there is still some part of what has been said that is meeting resistance in her mind. It is not hard for her to guess what the young woman is having issues with, but she opts for leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Not even halfway through Julien's dry, succinct report, the energy that could be seen in the King's eyes earlier that morning has already left, and the darker spirit manifests in his hard gaze and the single furrow that crosses his forehead. A tired nod meets the overseer's concluding words, and the King dismisses Julien with a gesture of the hand: «Please take some sleep,» he recommends «I'm going to need you smart and awake soon.»
Just as he's leaving the room, the overseer comes across Lila, and pats her on the head with a tired smile. As she enters the council room, the young woman is stopped by the gloomy mood; her quick, cheerful step dies into a slumped dragging of feet. She wanders the room, idly browsing the spines of the books and folders that clutter the shelves, weaving a contorted path from wall to wall to avoid too hastily an approach to the desk at which the King sits, eyes closed, in deep thought, sided by Maila and Alina.
«It doesn't make any sense.» the King's sudden outburst makes Lila stop in the middle of a step «Either I'm missing something, or the rector was the most outstanding moron, and me doubly so for letting him make a fool of myself. There are things that just don't fit together. Why would he choose to live here, in the most degraded part of the province? No running water, except for here at the palace. No comforts at all, not even, I don't know, a pleasant view, just dust rolling in from the plains, and the hills with their meager shrubs. Essentially away from civilization, except for the misery he surrounded himself with. I cannot fathom what went through his brain. I can understand the mock capital and better-kept part of the province, I can understand not living there because he couldn't risk the luxury he thought he could afford here, but what's even the point of such luxury when you're surrounded by nothingness? Even just stocking on the foods and goods would have been incredibly more cheaper by settling up anywhere more served. What kind of solipsistic attitude could …» he stops, gaze lost into the void.
«Priority for the recovery, running water everywhere.» he starts again «We need updated maps of the province. They are bound to be here somewhere, assuming he even cared about keeping track of these things. And I want to compare them with what we have. We need another survey too, because I do not actually trust whatever we could find on the maps he has.»
He starts counting with the index finger of his right hand against the fingers of the left, starting from the pinkie «Water. Survey. Hospitals. These are going to be hard to man, we'll have to start with a single one, probably here, and start training people. Hospitals. Actually, I think having doctors and apothecaries would be more important, at least until proper service could be guaranteed. All right, scratch that. Food. Again, we need to know how much the province produces, where, how it's distributed, options for improvements. The survey will have to take care of that too.»
He takes a deep breath, ready to continue the list, but all the air comes out in a single sudden shouted «Don't!» directed at Lila, that stops again, this time with her hand pushed out towards the handle of one of the glass panels protecting the shelves. Calmer, the King continues: «Don't touch anything in this room, or in the rector's quarters, without protection. I'd rather be considered paranoid than have anyone run unnecessary risks. Please go dress up properly.»
Lila nods and turns. As she's reaching the door, the King adds «And please bring our maps of the province.» Again a nod, and Lila is gone. The King sighs, and reprises «And the interviews. I'm particularly interested in knowing who the rector's guests are, and how they happen to be here. And we're going to need our princess for these, too, although obviously not officially present. I'm sure she can help us arrange everything in this sense.» He smiles, puffs out a half-laugh.
«Probably has some experience with that, too.» Alina rolls her eyes. She quickly turns serious «We've started the interviews with the servants. The good news is, most of them couldn't care less about the rector, or even couldn't be happier that he's gone.»
«Most?» the King asks. Alina shrugs: «We aren't done yet, and there's the ones that more closely worked for him. Good thing we're preparing our own food.» she smiles.
«There is something you want to ask.» states Anaïs. Just a little prod in the right direction at the right time.
«It's …» Aletheia's gaze wanders the darkness surrounding them «embarrassing.»
«It's about the pleasure.»
«Yes.» the young woman lowers the gaze to the pattern of the carpets under them. As there is no apparent reaction from her interlocutor, she continues «I was taught … differently.» Still silence. She folds her hands under her knees, forcing the words out «That the woman's body was for … for the man's pleasure, and to give him progeny.»
«And that our bodies should not be soiled, lest the man refuse to lie with us.» completes Anaïs, to which Aletheia responds only with a small, quiet nod.
The woman sighs. It's nothing unexpected, nothing new. «Our bodies» she states, calmly, softly «are as capable of receiving pleasure as they are to give it. Pleasure we can feel without lying with anybody, much less so a man.» She creeps closer to the Rector's daughter, her voice growing lower «Have you ever …» she hints, but Aletheia's quizzical look forces her to continue «… touched yourself?»
«What?» the young woman's question is barely a whisper. Anaïs caresses Aletheia's cheeks with the back of two fingers. «Your body» she states, as her fingers glide to her partner's chin, then lightly to her lips «is yours to do as you please.» She retracts her hand, as the young woman's fluster becomes obvious. «Does that soil it?» she continues, mostly to herself «For those who would judge a woman's worth by her … inexperience, and call it ‘purity’, it probably does. Or ‘innocence’, as to imply some form of guilt in the opposite.» she turns to Aletheia again «As you were taught.» The Rector's daughter lowers her gaze again.
«Aletheia.» Anaïs creeps even closer «You are such a sweet, beautiful young woman,» the Rector's daughter smiles, embarrassed by the compliment «but I can see you are afraid right now, afraid of the choice you feel you have to make. You don't have to. You don't have to make a choice, and you don't have to be afraid, for there is no right or wrong choice.»
«That is not what I'm afraid of.»
«Is it because it's something you feel you cannot come back from?»
Again the small, quiet nod. Anaïs sighs. «It's still not a choice you have to make, not now, not ever.»
«I … already have made my choice. I just … I'm just afraid to … I don't even know what …»
Anaïs barely brushes her lips against Aletheia's, dropping an almost imperceptible kiss. «I am here,» she suggests «if you wish.»
The young woman, startled by the gesture, looks away, then back at her partner, away again, confused by the look in Anaïs' eyes, which she cannot decipher, confused by her own feelings, embarrassed by her own inexperience, by her inability to even understand what her desire would be right now. She closes her eyes, as the epiphany strikes her, how she would just run away scared if this were to happen with the King, even though it would be exactly as she wished, even in the secure knowledge that he would have the patience to guide her. And this would be her wish, that it was the King rather than Anaïs there with her, even though she would be too afraid, too embarrassed to bear the situation.
She feels Anaïs' lips against hers again, Anaïs' soft, wet lips. She instinctively parts her own, responding to the kiss, retracting her head right after, again confused, afraid.
The woman's soft, warm voice surrounds her again. «At any time you wish to stop, or change your mind, just say so, or move away.» Aletheia's nod is now much slower, as if carefully trying to avoid to break a delicate balance. «Are you afraid to even look?» Anaïs breaths at her ear.
«I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of myself, of doing something wrong …»
«The only thing you can do wrong is to accept to do something you don't want to do, or to insist on doing something your partner doesn't want you to do.»
«How would I even …» «They will tell you. And you should tell them. And now I want you to tell me to continue, if you so wish, or to stop, if you don't.»
Aletheia's response is to clumsy press her lips against Anaïs', trying to emulate her mentor's kiss, excited more by the woman's welcoming reaction than by the pleasure of the gesture itself. Lost in the enduring experience, she realizes shortly after that her partner has started to loosen up the bows and straps holding up her dress. She feels the blood rushing to her cheeks, and embarrassed more by her own flushing than by the slow undressing at Anaïs' hands, she pulls her head back again.
«I'm sorry,» the woman whispers, retracting her hands «I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.»
«It's … I'm not … I'm not used to … to being … naked in front of … other people.»
«Would you be more comfortable if I was too?»
«M…maybe?»
In the silence that follows, Aletheia realizes that her partner is waiting for her to take action. A simple knot on the simple belt seems to be the only thing holding Anaïs' vest closed, and it comes undone easily even at her shivering hands, revealing a prosperous breast, a soft belly, a thick bush.
Anaïs slowly shakes her shoulder, easing her vest open, letting it slide to the floor. She then turns to her partner, untying the last of the straps. As the young woman stands, emerging from her dress, she runs her hands on Aletheia's skin. «So beautiful …» she whispers, leaning over to kiss the left thigh, then running her lips over to the stomach, and down the other leg.
«Please …» Aletheia takes a step back.
«I'm sorry, I didn't mean to …»
«No, it's not … it's all right.» the young woman kneels down «It's just … too new, everything, I'm not … I'm not used to …»
«I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.»
«I'm not, it's just … it's as if my whole skin was … when you touch me, it give me shivers, but I …» her voice drops even lower «I like it.»
When Lila walks back into the room, properly dressed and with gloves on, a grin cuts her face from ear to ear.
«What's so funny?» asks Maila.
«The princess is in the dark room with Anaïs.»
«Let her be, she needs the time to unwind.» the King's comment is dismissive, but all present understand the implication. Alina smirks, reading a double entendre in the King's words.
With her characteristic light, jumpy step, Lila leads over to the desk at which the King is still sitting, drops the roll of maps she's holding, and then walks back to the shelves. Her step slowly dies down into perplexity and confusion, as she tries to find again the panel she had been prevented from opening.
«I lost it.» she stops, turning her head left and right, as if trying to detect a hint, a call, a sign, a reminiscence. She walks over to her left, the gaze desperately browsing up and down the shelves, then back to the right, overtaking her previous position. «I cannot feel it anymore, I lost it.»
Maila has walked over to her. She guides her over to the right place: «This is the one you were going for.»
Lila looks at the handle, the panel, the contents of the shelves behind it. «Maybe.» she grimaces «I can't tell. It looks like the right one, but it doesn't …» she fidgets with her hands «it doesn't feel the same. There was … something earlier, something that attracted my attention.» She pulls the handle, holding her breath. Nothing noticeable seems to happen. On the now exposed shelves, there's mostly books whose collection appears to have no rhyme or reason, and some rolled parchment here and there, seemingly as placeholders for some missing volumes more than with a relevance of their own.
«I think it was one of these.» She starts pulling out the rolled parchments, from the highest one she can reach, and handing them over to Maila. As she turns back and forth, she suddenly stops. A glimpse out of the corner of her eye that disappears as soon as she focuses on it. She leans closer, eyeing suspiciously the empty space, finally spotting the sparse web of extremely thin thread, only visible by the bluish and reddish reflections they give off when the light hits them from odd angles.
«This one.» She slides out one of the books to which the web seems attached, freeing up the access to the parchment. «Can you take it, please?» she asks Maila, as her hands are now holding the book.
The arm that reaches for the scroll, however, is the King's. «Put everything else back in place.» he recommends, pulling out the protected treasure. «Nice trick, I wonder what's that.» he mentions, talking about the web that becomes quite visible as Lila replaces the volume she's holding.
«Poisoned cutting thread, I'd guess.» suggests Alina «Can't understand what it's made off.»
«Leave it.» the King distracts her, guessing that her next words would be a request to take it out and examine it. They have other priorities now. He walks back to the desk, unrolling the parchment over it, giving place for all of them to study it.
«It's a face.» claims Lila, after they've stared at the lines and glyphs scattered across the parchment for a while.
«It's a map.» responds Maila.
«It still looks a little bit like a face. Come here. See? Eyes, mouth. Nose.» «Isn't that a bit too high if those are the eyes? And what would this be?» «All right, it's a bit of a monstrous face.»
«It's a map.» reiterates Maila.
«For being one, it's distinctively missing a lot of the information you'd expect in it.»
«It's not really what you'd call a map for general use.»
The King nods, pensively. He picks the parchment up, turns it around to check if there's anything on the other side, lifts it against the windows to let the sunlight bleed through it, revealing marks in the texture that might be intentional, or just irregularities in the treatment of the skin. He flips the parchment, letting the sun through from the other side, then puts it down again on the desk, written side up.
Elusive, the mystery of the parchment mocks the King, who keeps contemplating it in silence, as if to try and grasp a hint hidden somewhere, maybe on the symbols scattered across the parchment, maybe somewhere at the bottom of his own mind.
«Nothing.» he finally states «I got nothing.» he turns to Alina «Anything you want to share?» and as the woman shakes her head{BTS}“I don't think it's the case to mention it's probably human skin”{/BTS} he rolls up the parchment again, hands it over to Maila «Archive it.»
There's a moment of pause while the woman takes care of the parchment, and the King's gaze gets lost in the void, as nagging thoughts try to emerge and gain consciousness. He unrolls the maps of the province brought by Lila, trying to catch a general view, an impression, a sense of familiarity.
«Is this the most recent we have?» he asks, his mind barely present to the affirmative reply. «Do we have anything from before the Rector?»
Maila shrugs. «Not here. We probably do have something in the archive.»
«Have a copy brought over.»
«It'll take some ten days, probably.»
The King nods, his eyes still scanning the maps on the desk, his fingers mindlessly tracing paths across them. «It's not urgent, but I'd like to have it without undue delays.»
The women know the look in the King's eyes, the look he started having on receipt of the first letters from Aletheia, the look of the hunt, a hunt for something unknown in nature and place, something that might not even exist in the first place. Maila starts to worry that the hunt might distract the King from the more imminent tasks, and the absent-minded expression with which the King mentions «We have more pressing things to take care of now.» does little to reassure her.
«The interviews.» she mentions.
Still absent-minded, the King replies: «Right.» and pauses again, his eyes and fingers still tracing the map. He then suddenly lifts his head, fully present. «All right, I'm going to need three things. One, send for that copy of the old maps. Alina?» and as the woman nods «Also get another team of prospectors on the move; have them start at the border and do the buffer zone first. The one coming with tomorrow's reinforcements will start from here.»
He takes a breather. «Two, writing and copying implements. Lila?»
The young woman snorts «How comes it's always me for those things?» and shrugs.
«Three, time to get started with the interviews. Maila?» and as the woman nods «But I need to talk to Aletheia first.»
Lila snorts again, this time to choke a guffaw. At the looks of reproach from the others, she shakes her head «I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't, but …»
«The supplies, Lila.» the King prods her, sternly.
As she walks out the room, still repeating «I'm sorry, I'm sorry», still obviously holding in the laughter, the King sits with a sigh, takes off the gloves, and hides his face in his palms, to muffle his own giggles. It's a mirror laugh, without humor, almost hysterical, temporarily breaking the grave tone of the atmosphere, giving the King a brief pause, recovery time.
Regaining his composure, the King finds himself alone. He dons his gloves again, moves the chair closer to the desk, and focuses again on the maps, trying to reconstruct what he can remember of the journey that has brought him there though the southern border.
When she walks back into the meeting room, followed closely by another woman that is carrying part of the supplies, Lila finds the King still bent over the desk, his fingers crossed and twisted in odd ways.
«Are you still angry at me?» she asks meekly when he finally lifts his head.
«I never was.» he smiles.
«I even brought Bibi over.»
«I noticed.» he smiles, this time at the other woman, who replies with a similar smile, as she puts down her share of supplies on a corner of the desks.
Bibi then proceeds to take a sheet of tissue paper, a pencil, and quickly notes down the position of the King's finger.
«Thanks.» the King smiles again, finally taking his hands off the map. He grabs the sheet that Bibi is handing him, matching it against the map with the locations he was keeping track of.
«What is this?» enquires Lila.
«These are the … towns I came across on my way here, as much as I can remember.»
«Why that funny thing with the hands then?» she crooks her hands, crossing their fingers.
«These» the King points to some of the locations «had no garrison. These on the other hand did. And the odd thing is that there seemed to be no relationship between the size of the settlement and the presence of a garrison. For example, this was much bigger than this, yet there was no garrison here, nor anywhere near. This» and he points again to the second location he mentioned «had a garrison and barely anything else, nor seemingly anything close that would deem that kind of attention, or protection.»
The King stops a second, and then reprises: «I can understand, in some perverted sense, not keeping a garrison in the settlements closer to the borders, if you have some sadistic pleasure in seeing your people suffer from the raids, or a variety of reasons for provoking the raids in the first place, but what's even the point of having a garrison dispatched to the middle of nowhere?»
A brief silence follows, which the King spends lost in thought, still pondering on the sense of it all. Lila finally breaks his concentration again: «Will you go to investigate?»
The King shakes his head «No, not now. Not until the prospectors are done, at least.»
Lila picks up the thin sheet with Bibi's marking, and tries looking at it from all directions, front and back and upside down and on the side and on the other and all combinations thereof.
«Were you hoping to find a clue about the Rector's map?» she asks, expressing in her question the objective of her own observations.
The King shrugs. «Maybe. Not really. It was just one more of the odd things I noticed on my way here.» He sighs «I'm tired. Too many things don't make sense. Too many things don't fit together. Too many unknowns. Time to clear up.»
Lila starts taking care of the maps on the desk, rolling the marked sheet together with the rest.
«Bibi.» the King turns to the other woman «I'm afraid I'll need you for some more boring secretarial work.»
The woman nods, her smile unaltered. «I told her already.» interjects Lila, her tone implying an unsaid “obviously”, as Bibi presents the note-taking board she carries around when assigned similar duties.
«I'm sorry.» insists the King. Bibi shrugs, still smiling. They've gone over this already, time and again: when you're good at something, you'll find yourself having to do it for the rest of your life. Yet she doesn't mind, and the King is alone in his sense of guilt. He dismisses the two women, and is left alone in his remembrance of old songs and poems lost to the mist of times{BTS}And if the people find you can fiddle, / Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.{/BTS} as he waits for the Rector's daughter.
Aletheia rouses suddenly from the torpor she has dozed off into, finding herself in contemplation of the blackness surmounting her, impenetrable to the light of the sparse candles scattered across the room floor.
She sits abruptly, as the memories of the … how much time has passed? Yet the loss of the sense of time is the least of her worries. What have I done, she asks herself. She blushes, ashamed of her own actions and thoughts and feelings, the violent strength of the passion she has given into, the emotions and sensations that have sustained her the whole time. I have lost myself, she scolds herself. And instantly, the guilty feeling that everyone, everywhere will know of it, and scorn her, and look at her with contempt.
She looks around for her vest, and her eyes inevitably cross the gaze of her companion, lying next to her, still relaxed, smiling with satisfaction. Aletheia's agitated search comes to a sudden halt as Anaïs calmly pushes herself up to a sitting position.
«You seem worried.» the older woman remarks. The Rector's daughter averts her eyes, ashamed now of her own sense of shame. «I'm sorry I've put you in such an uncomfortable predicament.» insists Anaïs.
Aletheia shakes her head. «No, it's … I just feel … oh my,» she covers her face «now I feel so silly for thinking it, and guilty, ingrate, because it was so … beautifully intense, but I also feel guilty for doing it, I feel that the moment I step out of here everyone will know what has happened, and they'll look at me, and I can already feel their contempt, their reproach, their derisive sneers.»
«Who would do that?»
«Everyone, everywhere,» her gaze gets lost in the darkness behind the reach of the candles «I feel as if they would know just by looking at me, that I would not be able to walk even the halls of this same palace again without feeling ashamed of it, judged by the scornful looks of those I would come across.» she breathes in, closing her eyes. «I know it's all in my mind now, I understand that it's all me, it's all with me, in me, by me, for me; and yet I cannot wish it away, this shame I feel for what I've done.»
Her gaze falls to the floor, where it finally comes across her vest. She picks it up slowly, dragging a hem over her legs, where her arms suddenly seem to lose strength. Her voice lowers to a barely discernible mumble «And why should I even feel guilty?» she asks.
«Because that is what you've been taught all your life.»
Aletheia takes her time to reply. «When I sent my first letter to His Majesty, I lived in terror for days, until I finally got news that the courier had delivered the message and was waiting for a reply. After that, every time I would send out a message, I would live again those same days of anguish, afraid of anything that could happen to my couriers, and anything that would befall me were the content of my messages to reach my father's eyes. Yet, at any other time I would feel no shame about my actions, no fear of retribution for my defiance to my father's authority. If anything, it would rather be arrogance for having had the boldness to do so.»
Anaïs is now standing up, towering over her, finishing to dress up. Aletheia stands too, letting the older woman help her in donning her clothes again.
«Why would it be so different now?»
«You acted on your conscience telling you that your father actions were wrong, that he had to be stopped, that the situation was untenable. You had a counter-balance to your father's authority. You do not have external reference points for what concerns your body, and your freedom to use it as you please, privately.» Anaïs ends her explanation while tying the last of the knots on Aletheia's vest. «Do you feel like walking out now?»
The young woman breathes in deeply, mustering courage. «Let us go.»
The outer room is deserted, except for Maila sitting in the middle, legs crossed, eyes closed, meditating. The lack of people helps Aletheia calm down. She tries to glide silently past the woman, but as she passes her behind her back, Maila startles her:
«The King wishes to talk to you, alone. You'll find him in the council room.»
The Rector's daughter is quick to regain her composure. «I will go to him now.» She walks away swiftly, and is glad to be finally out in the antechamber, and then into the corridors. She breathes deeply, feeling the pressure lift from her mind, as lighter thoughts take over. Nothing happened. Nobody knows. I'm free. I'm free. She smiles, repeating that word in her mind. Free. She feels almost euphoric, her steps become brisk, as if on the verge of turning into skips or running.
It all dies in front of the door to the council room, superseded by questions about the King and his convocation. She opens the door, and stands there, staring straight at the man sitting behind the desk across the room.
Long seconds drip between them, as neither speaks or moves, until she finally takes one step. «Your Majesty has called for me.»
The King closes his eyes briefly. «Please don't call me that.»
«I would not know how to call you otherwise.» And as the King replies “A simple ‘you’ would have sufficed.” she finds herself stating «I do not even know your name …» before stopping. Silence drops between them again, as it often happens when people unintentionally cover each other's words, and neither knows when to start speaking again, to avoid repeating the event.
It's finally the King the breaks the silence. «My name.» he simply repeats.
«I'm sorry, I didn't mean to …»
«It's fine.» the King interrupts her, smiling. Aletheia lowers her head. «Is it important for you to know my name?» the King asks.
There is another pause before the young woman finally lifts her head to look straight at the King again.
«I do not know.» she finally states, and then pauses again, at a loss of words. At the simplest, learning the King's name would just lighten the unease she feels when talking with him; but more than that, she feels that knowing the King's name would be important, to her, symbolically, to cross the chasm hidden behind the appearance of informality the King himself tries to maintain with everyone, and especially with his most close collaborators. She feels that the King sharing his name with her would bring her closer to the King himself. Yet she feels it would be arrogant to share such petty, egocentric motivations, and in practice there would be little need, if any at all, for her to actually know the name.
At the same time, the King's reticence in sharing his name makes her uncomfortable. «My father» she finally recounts «maintained that names hold power. Giving your name to someone would mean giving them power over you, over your life and deeds. He would avoid sharing his name with anyone, if at all possible, and despised being forced to in the most formal of settings, where it would have been even more important to hide it.»
The attentive look with which the King looks at her during her exposition confuses the young woman. She stops, embarrassed, then continues:
«My father believed he could harness the power of the elements, bend them to his will. He believed all of nature to be imbued with a form of energy just sitting there, waiting for the strong and knowledgeable to tap it, and he believed himself to be one of them.»
«Magic.»
«He called it differently, but I'm afraid I do not remember the name.»
The King doesn't seem to care. His mind has finally started to make sense of everything that had escaped him so far. He nods repeatedly, slowly, in silence, as things fall into place. Not everything is clear, but he now has a key to their interpretation. «The name is not important. But thank you for telling me all this.»
Aletheia bows her head in acknowledgment of the King's gratitude, and waits for him to tell her the reason for having summoned her. Yet the King seems to be in no hurry for it:
«You are worried that I might not be that much different from your father, aren't you?»
Her gaze still low, the young woman weights her words «It's not … it's not that simple. There are things I wish I could … understand better, that leave me confused.»
«Ask.»
Aletheia looks behind her, out in the corridor, then closes the door behind her as she walks back into the room. She moves around the room with a steady, slow pace, but her nonchalant sliding of fingers over the curtains, her wandering gaze that briefly peeks in more obscure places mask a wary inspection.
When she stops in front of the King, who has looked over her actions with serene attention, he smiles and nods. She finally speaks, avoiding his gaze:
«Your entourage … there are things even they do not know.»
The King's question doesn't come swiftly: «About what.»
«About … you.» her voice dies, the last word barely a puff.
In the silence that follows, the young woman feels the full weight of the King's scrutinizing gaze on her. She feels the need to justify her words:
«When you gave me audience earlier, there were … signs in your questions, hints that I would read in your words, as if you were trying to ask or tell me something above and beyond what your entourage could hear.»
There's silence again, until Aletheia tries to excuse herself «Or I may have read more than was there, because I was … because my hopes had me expecting that … that you would be …» her voice dies again.
«Would it make a difference if I wasn't?» the King asks, standing, walking around the desk, and despite the soft tone of the question, his towering presence right next to the young woman only serves to fuel the turmoil that is already eating her from the inside, the burning sensation at her stomach, the constriction of her heart. And in the end it's the King himself that gives answer to the question:
«It would, wouldn't it? You would help me regardless, out of gratitude for having freed your people from your father's abuse, but the moment you even suspected I could be who I am, what I am, it's been a completely different matter. It's not about your people anymore, it's about you. It's about recovering a part of your past you've been estranged from, that you thought lost forever. It's about finding a meaning to your own life.»
Aletheia breaks down, falls to her knees, hiding her face in the palm of her hands, sobbing.
The King crouches in front to her, softly caresses her head. «Silly child.» he smiles «There's no need for this, these tears, these emotions, this pain and joy, it's all meaningless, ephemeral. It's what you are to yourself, to the others, the only thing that defines yourself. You do not have a mission, a destiny you must fulfill. There is no higher purpose, no structure. We call it cosmos because we like to pretend it has an order, that everything has a place, that there is a reason to things. It's all for us, because we would be too afraid to live if we had to acknowledge that our lives are controlled by nothing but chaos and chance.»
He sighs, sitting on the floor, leaning with his back against the desk. «You must have realized now that whatever shape your mother gave the myths she told you, they were nothing but fables. Guardians. Protectors. Survivors. Or who knows what else. We're not angels, nor demons. There is nothing supernatural about us.» he pauses, and then recites «“Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer … If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?”»
The change in the King's tone has a soothing effect on the young woman. She uncovers her face, her eyes reddened by her weeping. Her voice still unsteady, she remarks «That … was a quote.»
«It was.» the King simply responds.
With a deep breath, Aletheia recovers enough control to continue «I beg pardon, again, for my impropriety.»
«I am sorry for the distress I seem to cause you every time we meet.» is the King's response.
A new bout of silence fills the room, as neither seems to be too keen on bringing up the topic again, until the King finally asks: «What happened to your family's … guardian?»
Frowning, the young woman replies «I … do not know. She … she disappeared long before I, or even my mother was born.»
The King acknowledges the answer with a small nod, then his gaze wanders up to the ceiling, as his minds gets lost in thought. «She.» he whispers. And then, after a while «It would make sense, wouldn't it? It would be her.» he smiles.
«Do you … know her?»
«Maybe.» pause «Probably.» pause «There weren't many of us, and we largely knew each other.» pause «Do we still?» The King shrugs. «I don't know.»
Calmer, Aletheia finds herself fighting against her own curiosity, as questions pile up in her mind, the hows, the whens, the whys, the whos. But she dares not disturb the King, who seems still lost in thought or remembrance, so she remains still, silent, hiding the growing excitement, unabashed by the dismissive, almost scolding lecture the King has imparted her when she had felt overrun by the reveal. This is my calling, she thinks, this is my destiny. I am here to protect him, his secret. I am here to serve him.
The burning gaze she keeps on him in her quiet stillness does not escape the King. «You seem to be feeling better.» he smiles.
«I do.» she feels an uncontrollable smile widen her face, a large, childish smile, barely short of joyful laughter. She does feel better, filled with enthusiasm.
The King stands, offering a hand to help her pull herself up «Come now, we have a province to save.»
The King paces the floor of the council room slowly, torn between boredom, annoyance, exhaustion, anxiety. One by one, each of the guests of the late Rector, each of their relatives still held within the palace, are questioned. Always the same questions, name, occupation, deals with the Rector; and the same replies, so similar in their variety; and the same tones, the same desperate voices, the same pleas, the same excuses.
After each of the guest, the King walks over to the alcove where the Rector's daughter hides, listening. She briefly confirms what has been said, or adds her own comments, when she can recall additional details. Then the next guest is called in, for the process to start anew.
The King stops in front of a window, overlooking the impoverished landscape it opens on, pondering on Aletheia's position. He cannot get rid of the thought that putting her in charge might be, after all, not that bad a choice, giving her the necessary support and counsel until she manages to acquire the needed expertise for the province to be left in her hands. And yet, he reads the enthusiasm with which she seems to have overcome the crisis as a warning sign that she might not have found her balance yet, her independence.
It must have not been easy for her, the King imagines, growing up squashed between the mystic dreams of her mother and the ruthless ambition of the father. And all in all, the King feels he can count his blessings in how she turned out: a reliable, if unstable, ally, passionate, dedicated, if for all the wrong reasons.
The King sighs, and the cracking, faltering voice of the man sitting at the desk a few windows down remind him of the boring, annoying, exhausting task they're undergoing, just to allow this handful of families who had found their fortune in the late Rector's shadow to go back to their lives. He ponders the opportunity to extend their quarantine, out of spite for their profiteering, well realizing that such a course of action would be childish, unwise, bringing no benefit to the improvement of the situation, and potentially furthering the distress of the province, with the interruption of the services, sometimes essential, these people have in their hands.
He would like to ask them how could they stand their own presence, knowing how the rest of the people lived, but he knows the answer to this already: it's easy to oversee the quality of the life of the others, when you don't consider them your peers. And again the King has to resist the temptation to grab the head of this individual and smash the stupid, scared face of the man currently being questioned against the edge of the desk top. He turns, walks back away furiously, unable to bear the sight of the cold sweat rippling down that face.
This is not who I am, he repeats to himself. This is not why I'm here. I'm not here to destroy, I'm not here to exact revenge on those who have no blame but to have grasped the opportunity to improve their life. I am here to rebuild, not to add senseless pain to senseless pain. I should be here to rebuild —his inner voice turns to an inner scream— not to waste my time with the viscid excuses of these leeches.
And again, as too often since the beginning of the takeover, the feeling of time running out, wasted on useless waits; imagery of buildings crumbling down far away, carelessly abandoned, starts filling his mind, an obvious metaphor for the rest of the province, left in chaos as news spread out faster than control, and the possibility of uprisings against the old guard looms, threatening chaos and bloodshed he'd rather avoid. And behind all that, the menace of the spectating neighbors, waiting for a sign, an opportunity.
The King sighs again, in resignation. He cannot control anything, and there's an order in which things must be done, when they cannot be delegated.
«You know, maybe you should become this threatening more often.» jokes Maila with a smile, as they take a break from the interviews «This last one seemed much more eager to go into details after he thought you were going to bash his head in.»
The King lets the joke slide with barely a smirk. He's not happy with his inner outburst, he's not happy with the apparent meaninglessness of the whole process, and while on one hand he feels that his presence may help guide the questioned into more honest answers, he's still overcome with the feeling that other, more pressing matters should be more deserving of his attention.
And yet he's fully aware that the essentials are in the very capable hands of Julien, and that the questioning he's assisting are the only options they have to uncover the extension of the late Rector's affairs and of their impact on the province, even though very little has emerged thus far.
«Maybe you should take a break?» the woman proposes «I'm sure we can carry on without you for a while. Plus, we have a few women to question now, and they always seem more willing. And if we get any uncooperative guest, we can still send for you.»
To the pensive, unconvinced expression of the King, she insists: «You are getting stressed out for nothing here. We can handle it. You, on the other hand, need to find something else to occupy yourself with. There are other things you should be taking care of, if not else to focus your mind on something other than the lack of time and resources» she knows him so well «and this is as good a moment as you'll get. Go!»
The King turns around, as if to ask for the opinion of the others. Bibi just shrugs with a smile. Alina gestures towards the door, inviting him to leave. Aletheia looks away when the King's gaze reaches her:
«I'll still be here, for what it's worth.» her voice is low and soft «I can still validate the words of the guests, if anything were to escape your women.»
The King notices how she sets herself apart, and he guesses the sense of frustration hidden behind her words, torn between a feeling of inadequacy on one hand, and the feeling she might not be doing enough on the other. He ponders the opportunity to find new tasks for her, but no, this is still the most important one. He sighs in resignation.
«I'll go.»
He turns to leave, and Maila walks him to the door. Her voice is low, barely audible: «You need to unwind.» she reminds him. The King nods. «I know.» and he also knows that this is no time to unwind how he would like to, too many things to do. But among these, there are some that might give him some form of relief, if things go for the worst. He puffs: an odd way to consider the perspective, almost hoping for the situation to degenerate, so that he may find a way to release the stress he's been accruing.
The woman watches over him as he walks down the corridor, her face a mix of worry and relief. When she sees him disappear behind a corner, she turns to one of the guards. «Send the next guest in.» Let's hope my call was not the wrong one, she prays to herself.
The King pauses a few seconds before entering the narrow corridor that leads to the holding cells, trying to dominate the anger, the hatred he feels brewing inside of him. This is not the moment, this is not the context, he repeats to himself, this is not you.
He covers in a few long strides the space that separates him from the warden, replying to their salute with a gesture of dismissal. His momentum takes him almost to the cell hosting the former Rector's guards before his mind finds a way out, an intermediary, the two former mine guards that had been recommended by the slaves.
It's with a lifting sensation of relief that he realizes he doesn't know where they are being held, an unimportant detail he didn't have to worry about, a step in the right direction, the abstraction to the bigger picture. This is the way it should be, he thinks, as he follows one of the guards to the right place; yet at the same time, he is conscious of the lingering fear that any escaping detail may lead to further aggravation of the already precarious conditions of the Province.
The King finds himself falling back to the anger and hatred that had driven him out of the Rector's room. He stares at the two prisoners behind the bar almost without seeing them, the strain for self-control manifesting on his face as he finally orders the guard to take custody of the elder prisoner and leave him alone with the other.
As the King steps into the cell, the young man drops to his knees, and without even waiting for a question, pours out his soul. The King sits down on the bench in front, listening attentively to the torrent of words that would be a confession, yet come from someone who had the least to confess, if not the burden they had to live with while trying to reconcile their ethics with the position of power they had found themselves in.
When the stream finally dries up, the King ponders if he should reassure the prisoner about his status, maybe inform him of the recommendation the men in his charge had about him. He is tempted to ask to the young man if he realizes why he's being held separately from the other former mine guards. But ultimately, the words that come out of the King's mouth, while not threatening, and spoken in the softest of the tones, are not of reassurance, but —rather— inquisitive:
«Why did you become a guard?»
The King is genuinely curious, doubly so now that he is faced with the inner fragility of the person in front of him. And the answer doesn't surprise him: naivety, desperation, safety, lack of alternatives, lack of hope. And the tale of the young man draws a picture that is just a reflection of the conditions of the whole province.
For a moment, the King is distracted from his hatred, the future of this young man in his hands. He calls for the guard, and out of earshot of the prisoner instructs them to take the young man to Julien, let the overseer give him an opportunity to make himself useful, and redeem himself in his own mind.
As the guard departs, taking the unaware and worrying young man with him, the King turns to the other prisoner, whose exposition, while more sober and somber, is no less detailed and enraging.
«I am sorry I was not able to do more to avoid the worst. I will take my punishment gladly.»
«Report to my men at the barracks, they will have something for you to do.»
The man is bewildered by the response, but by the time he makes sense of it, the King has already left.
As he walks back to the holding cell for the Rector's guard, the King breaths in deeply, feeling refreshed, lighter. Even with the additional information about the mines that the two people he just released gave him, his anger is soothed by the sensation that a crack has opened in the oppressive environment he's been moving through since the operation began. He is wary of calling it hope, but the lifting sensation of the good that is hidden in the land finally reaches up to him.
He intentionally ignores the perplexity painted on the face of the warden that is following him, until the man finally speaks his mind:
«Sir, we're letting them go?»
«Indeed we are. There's no reason to keep them locked in, no guilt they cannot atone for in better ways than sitting in a cell, no threat they pose. We have too many people locked up, between prisoners and quarantines, it's time to start pruning.» And the next branch will probably be the most displeasing. But oh will the pruning give satisfaction!
Yet the King doesn't voice those last thoughts, fighting against the sadistic enjoyment he foresees experiencing if things take the turn he would rather not have them do.
As they reach the holding cell, the King leans over, until his forehead rests against the bars. Their approach has obviously interrupted something, a discussion, which the King isn't surprised of, as the guards had mentioned similar frequent occurrences. His gaze wanders quickly around the cell, before stopping to rest on the empty floor right past the entrance.
When he finally speaks, it's with a sad, displeased tone.
«Tell me why I shouldn't just throw the lot of you in the pit, and leave you there to rot.»
There is no answer, no reaction at first. The King lifts his head, inquisitive, still waiting. It's almost as if the prisoners didn't even hear his words, they seem to be waiting something themselves, yet they don't exchange glances, they don't move at all, they don't even seem to be looking directly at him, maybe ignoring him, transfixed by the void.
Finally, one of the men rises, walking steadily and surely to reach the bars, slamming violently his hands against them, grabbing them firmly. The warden intervenes, just to be stopped by the King.
«Leave him be.»
The guard steps back, but the King gestures him to move further away. After a moment hesitation, the guard salutes and retreats, as the King turns again to the prisoner.
The Rector's man is tall, large and obviously angered, possibly even by the grin the King fails to hold back.
«It's easy to show arrogance with a whole army to back you up.»
The King is a little taken aback by the words. Is this really what it's going to be about?
«I took over the palace before my men arrived,» he feels compelled to reply «and the mines were no different; in fact, I waited for my men there before releasing the prisoners to avoid an insane bloodbath. Not that I expect gratitude for having avoided you miserable creeps the suffering of ending up lynched by the same people you had tortured until a few hours earlier. But that's not what you're talking about, is it? You're not hinting that I should have been so foolish as to try and take over the province on my own. No, this is not about me, this is about your frustration with having lost whatever you had under the rector's patronage, but even more so this is about your future, because you know as well as I do that with all your blustering you wouldn't last long in the pit, would you? And now you're looking for a way out, and you hope to provoke me into it.»
The man's grip on the bar tightens, he clenches his mandible, but doesn't reply. The King smirks, and with a derisive tone he has trouble hiding, continues: «You know, I think I might just give you what you want, the challenge, the chance to … prove your “worth”, how you'd probably pretend to see it, but mostly the chance to find a less painful way out of here, than rotting forgotten in the pits.» The King strokes his chin between thumb and index and middle finger «Yes, I believe so, I believe I could give you this … opportunity.»
«Freedom, for me and my men, if I win.»
«And if you lose?»
The man hesitates. «You will do with us as you see fit.»
«I can already to that!» the King's anger blasts through his voice, reverberating down the corridor, across the hall. In a softer tone, he then continues «No, you'll have to give me something in exchange. A sacrifice. You and your men will willingly surrender any information you have about the Rector's dealings, and information you might have about the whereabouts of your mates still on the loose.»
«I don't snitch.» the man growls back.
«Then you'd better win.» the King quips back, derisive again. He then turns undeniably serious. «Three days from now. Bare handed, anything goes. To the last man standing.»
The man hesitates again. He turns to his cellmates briefly, then back to the King:
«Fine. Our freedom for our mates'.»
«And the Rector's dealings.»
The man breaths deeply in, then deeply out. The King insists:
«It's not really like I wouldn't get that information out of you anyway, if you don't take up the challenge. But this would make it … less bloody. And considerably less painful, for some of you at least.»
As Lila appears at the end of the corridor, the warden stopping her and her angered reaction attract the King away from the prisoners. Done with the taunting, he quickly gives some additional instructions to the guards, and finally leaves, pulling Lila away as she turns to mock the men.
«Have some respect.»
She shrugs. «Who was the gorilla you were taunting?»
The King sighs. «Never mind that. Why are you here?»
«There's a man up in the office that refuses to talk to anyone but you, and claims that he should be given audience as soon as possible. Won't give any details.»
Right, the King thinks, snorting, because the self-important leech was just the thing that was missing from this day. His step quickens, and he ends up storming into the office with Lila barely keeping up with him.
The violent entrance, the anger perspiring from the King's expression leave the man waiting for him completely unfazed. To the growling questions by the King, he responds calmly, yet firmly, even with an arrogant undertone.
He explains that he has important business to attend to, that cannot be delayed any further. The sense of self-importance transpiring through his words does very little to placate the King, yet it's a refreshing change from the cowering, trembling, sweating parasites of earlier.
«What makes you think you have any more right that anybody else to get out of here?»
There's a hint of contempt in the sneering look with which the man meets the King's gaze.
«I manage many services which are nothing short of essential. The people here wouldn't even have anything to eat if it wasn't for me. Do you think the land here can provide anything but scraps? Do you think it would manage to sustain a population like this?»
The King nearly bursts out in a sour laugh. «For someone commissioned with lifting the living standard of the people here, I can't say I'm too impressed with the results of your job.»
The man frowns. «I provide. What gets done with what I provide is not my responsibility. But the longer I stay here, the less and later I can provide.»
The King ponders the man's words and intentions. This looks like an opportunity, even if it means going back on his initial intentions of cutting off all the profiteers of the former Rector's governance, to start afresh, with more oversight and hopefully less corruption.
Would listening to this man, letting him go back to his own business, be such a betrayal? How deep is he in the Rector's dealings, and why? Could he redeem himself? Does he even have anything to redeem himself from?
Lost in his own questions, the King paces slowly behind the desk, from wall to wall, and it is almost by chance that his distracted gaze meets Aletheia's. He stops, she nods. A sign that could mean anything, and that the King takes to mean that the man can be trusted.
«All right. But we'll need information first. Your dealings with the late Rector, the details of your business throughout the whole Province. And all you have on the thieves' guild.»
«What is it that you're brewing?»
It's late in the evening. Most of the entourage is asleep, except for Alina, who is giving him a massage, and Maila, who is lying next to him, an arm outstretched to drown her fingers in his curls, and a questioning mouth.
«You've given Julien directions to prepare a … stage? in the main square,» she insists «You were down taunting? the Rector's guard. Would you share your intentions with us? Is that … is that a fight you're laying the grounds for?»
The King sighs deeply, before replying. «I need a let-out.»
«And it has to be this way? Wouldn't you rather have us?»
«It's not …» the King stops, weights his words «It's not what I need now. It's not enough. A soothing distraction, a temporary relief … no, I need to vent, I need it to be sharp, and drastic, and thorough. Violent. Brutal, if it needs be.»
The sadness in Maila's gaze grows darker, her eyes cloud with tears. «Why?» she whispers.
«Because it's eating me from the inside, and if I don't do something about it, it's going to get worse later.»
«But why this way?»
The King wiggles free of Alina's hands, sits up.
«Because I'm feeling a growing urge to just lay waste of this land. And if I don't get to do something violent and destructive now, that's exactly what I'll end up doing.» He stops, reprises:
«You don't like this part of me. I appreciate that. And I'm glad you, all of you are here to remind me … to help me stay … human, more humane. You have no idea how grateful I am for that, and how much I would rather not have you witness my less … generous moments.»
«You are angry at yourself.»
«I am. I'm angry at myself for having let me be fooled the way I have been, at the expenses of two, three generations of the people here, that deserved nothing like this. And I am doubly angry at myself because I ultimately have no one else to blame, to take it out on. And I can't even take it out on myself, because of all the other people I am still responsible for, and because it would ultimately lead to nothing. And this is frustrating beyond belief, and I need to let this anger out, and it must be in a liberating way. And I need to do it before it gets to the point where nothing else matters. You are scared and saddened now, pray you never see me get to my worst, because I know I won't like it.»
«Yes,» the King continues after taking a breath «I will do things you won't like. I will do things you'd prefer I wouldn't, I will do things I'd rather not do. But I know I have to, and it has to be this way, it has to be a way that is both productive and lets me lash out without worrying about the damage or the pain I could inflict.»
Maila has been listening to the King's words with her eyes closed for a while now. She nods in acceptance, but her face expresses no less sadness or fear. Her breaths are deep, slow, as she tries to maintain composure.
Alina approaches the King again, putting her expert hands at work on his shoulders. «Will you be all right?» she asks. And as the King fails to reply, «Physically, I mean.» she clarifies, and the only response she gets is still just a deep sigh. «This is not going to be an easy one, is it?» she insists «You're going to get hurt. Is this why you're doing it?»
«It's going to be all right.»
«Is it? How long has it been since the last time you fought seriously? What happens if you lose?»
«I'm not going to lose. And I've fought more recently than you think.»
«What, you had to prove your worth to the desert people?»
«In fact, that's exactly what happened.»
«What are the terms for this challenge?» Maila suddenly asks in monotone.
«Their freedom against that of their comrades still on the loose.»
«That's not what I'm asking.»
The King hesitates. «Last man standing.»
«Have you gone completely insane?» Maila shouts out as her suspicions get confirmed «Are you seriously pitting your life against his? What of the kingdom? What of the people you claim to be responsible for?»
Rage has taken the place of sorrow in Maila's eyes and voice. The King just waits patiently for the storm to pass, and when she finally quiets down, he responds calmly:
«I am not pitting my life against anybody's. Last man standing in a bare handed fight is not mortal. I chose this specifically because it would give me the opportunity to hurt someone without risking their life —or mine.»
«That's bollocks and you know it.»
The King puffs in exasperation «Just because I can kill someone with my bare hands, it doesn't mean that I will.»
«Nor does it mean that he can't.»
The King puffs again, his patience completely run out. «I. Will not. Die.»
«But what if …» «I don't care.»
The shout freezes the air. Maila stops mid-sentence, appalled. Alina moves a step away.
«I don't care.» the King repeats, calmly this time «I don't care anymore. It's not important. I'm tired. I really don't care. It's not worth it.»
«But you … the kingdom … the people …»
«I've had enough of that too. I can't stand it anymore. And they don't need me.»
«What?! But who is going to …»
«You. Her. All of you. That's what you're here for.»
«But I don't … we can't …»
«Sh.» the King hushes her, pushing a finger against her lips. «Yes, you can. But it doesn't matter anyway, because it's not going to happen.»
She leaves her there, speechless, barely turns to Alina, no less dumbstruck by his revelation, and leaves.
Stepping into the darkness of the night brings a momentary relief to the King's spirits. He breaths in deeply, then quickly moves away, heading south, away from the palace, away from the mines, away from everything. He marches quickly, barely aware of his surroundings, almost running away, retracing the steps that brought him there in the first place, past the city limits, until the city itself disappears, engulfed in the darkness.
When he finally stops and turns around, the star-spotted sky and crescent moon poorly illuminate the bare, empty road, hardly discernible from the terrain around, and the sparse shrubbery, dark spots sprinkled around the white dust, and a lonely tree a few steps back, a few steps from the road, contorted by the wind, gaunt by the drought, yet still alive.
The King closes his eyes, listening to the silence that finally surrounds him, waiting for a gust of wind to ruffle the leaves of the trees or blow dust through the shrubbery. He opens the eyes again, staring into the distance, trying to tell apart the palace towers from the dark of the night.
He steps off road, weighting his steps towards the tree. Finally standing under its scrawny branches, he looks up, spotting what may be the remains of an old nest cradled into one of the bifurcations. He caresses the bark of the tree, then proves it by pushing harder. Despite the suffering appearance, the tree seems solid and strong.
This is no time for metaphors, the King thinks, throwing a violent punch against the trunk. He breathes in, steps away, and starts the slow motions that he always finds refuge in when in need of meditation, a succession of figures, an art of discipline for the body and for the mind crystallized in a ritual dance long before he had come to apprehend it, and now forgotten by all but a scarce few.
Yet this time the power of that ritual escapes him, his focus fails to gather, and the now empty steps suddenly stop, having achieved the opposite effect to what he was seeking. In a fit of rage, the King punches the tree again in the same spot.
If it has to be this way, the King thinks, then be it. And the plant becomes his unwilling sparring partner, as his mind finds new focus in a more concrete —and violent— outlet to his inner torment.
The swings, the hits, the punches, the kicks, each movement is precise, essential, yet powerful enough to scrap the bark of the tree, and focused enough that the cortex is soon exposed where the repeated hits chip off the outer layers of bark.
The King stops suddenly as his swinging kick shakes the tree into a clearly audible moan. Regaining his breath, he approaches the plant again. His hand rests on a bend of the trunk, as if to seek an impossible pulse. The King then leans against the tree, forehead to bark.
«I'm sorry you had to endure that.» he whispers.
A glimpse out the corner of his eye catches the King's attention. He turns just enough to identify it: a child, possibly a young girl, standing still, not ten meters away. Pale, thin, barely clad by a tattered, torn tunic, the ghostly presence remains transfixed, until she realizes the King has taken notice of her. Startled, she turns and runs.
The King slowly detaches from the tree, his curiosity piqued. He follows without haste, nearly missing her when she disappears in a depression of the terrain. As he approaches, he is surprised to find a building there, a low house of birch and clay that blends into the ground, the roof covered in dust and shrubbery, making it invisible even to the attentive observer that would happen to seek it from the road.
No light shines through the cracks, no voice replies to his knock on the door. He pushes it open, and steps inside.
Nobody jumps him, and as his eyes adjust to the scarce light that barely filters through, he notices the figures standing on the other corner of the room, an adult protectively wrapping their arms on the shoulders of their offspring: the young girl that led him here, and a younger sibling.
Long silent seconds roll by as the residents remain still, as if trying to disappear in the darkness, and the King fights the needle of pain his heart feels at the scene. An empty room, with barely a table and a bed, a family in hiding, or what remains of it, and his abrupt invasion.
«I come in peace.» he would like to say, but words fail him. It is the host themselves instead that finally step aside, cautiously reviving a meager fire.
The single room the house consists of now manifests in all its painful misery. The fear and distrust in the eyes of the woman and the children brings no solace to the King. Yet he knows that still he would be offered something, if there would have been anything to offer; and he finds himself wondering how long have these three gone without sustenance, the emaciated face of the woman speaking louder than any word would.
Not bearing to be in their presence anymore, the King turns and leaves, retracing his steps to the tree, to the road, then straight to the city, his mind blank, his feet pushing him with a sense of urgency, yet without breaking into the desperate run he would gladly seek.
He rushes through the streets, and comes to a sudden stop at the palace gates, where he finally makes his mind, just to change it right before knocking. He pushes forward, reaching the barracks, where he is quickly and reverently let in.
The need for verbal communication, the perplexed yet unquestioning obedience of his soldiers give the King a gritting sense of displeasure. Ruffled by the unusual hour, the quartermaster still gives him the requested access to the supplies, assisting him in the selection of the rations of preserved food, the flasks of water, some medicine and bandages, cloth, a rucksack to carry it all.
The King refuses any further assistance as he leaves again, heading back to the house, focused on nothing but trying to reach it as quickly as possible, even aware as he is of the inanity of the gesture, and that tonight or tomorrow morning would make no difference
The house is silent as before. The door slightly ajar gives no light outside, as the smoldering ashes in the fireplace are scarcely sufficient to drive away the darkness within the room itself. The children have been put to sleep, but the woman is awake and vigilant. As the King steps inside again, she raises from the bed, approaching the fireplace again, her hand ready to grab the poker —a branch with the tip charred by its prolonged use.
But the King gives her no notice as he unloads his rucksack, piling the boxes in an orderly fashion on a nearby window sill. The last box, he opens, spreading the contents on the table, adding then a water flask and three tin cups. He exchanges a brief glance with the woman, meeting her surprised look with his own distressed look, then he turns and quickly steps outside again.
He doesn't run away this time, feeling bogged down by an immense sense of futility, isolation, alienation, extraneousness. He leans against the wall, letting himself slide down to the ground, and waits, the eyes driven to the deep night sky.
The woman inside the house waits for a long time before finally moving. She cautiously approaches the table, her feet barely making any noise on the earthen floor. She peeks through the door left open by the King, without even taking the courage to lean out, thus failing to notice him. And then, with a final rush, she reaches for the food on the table.
When she's done eating and drinking, she finally stands, and slowly walks to the door again, leaning barely against the frame, looking out towards the ledge that hides the house from the road. She steps outside, looking around, then slowly approaching the ridge, peeking above it, searching.
It's only when she turns back that she finally notices the King slumped against the wall. She stops, spooked, then slowly approaches him, her eyes wide with gratitude and fear. Standing next to him, she slowly and deliberately lifts the rim of her tunic, exposing herself, a timid, fearful smile on her lips.
The King slowly shakes his head, a sour smile tracking his face. It's not gratitude he seeks, but forgiveness, and most importantly oblivion. But how could he even manifest that?
In the unbroken silence, the woman finally lets her tunic down, her expression turning to sadness. She nods, knowingly, and slowly turns back into the house, dragging her feet in reluctance. It takes the King a few moments to realize how the woman might have misinterpreted his refusal, his gesture. He springs to his feet, rushes through the door, and quickly catches up with her right as she's leaning over the bed, her hand stretched out, ready to rouse her girl.
He grabs her arm to stop her, retreating from the contact just as quickly. Hands extended out, palms down, he gestures her to calm down, forget everything, that nothing is due, and even though the confused look on her face makes him doubt that she might be understanding what he means, he feels reluctant to break the silence that has surrounded them so far.
Finally, the woman bows her head, joining her hands in front of her, as a simpler gesture of gratitude. She sits on the bed, smoothing it out with large motions, to indicate that it's prepared for him, as best as it can.
With a sigh, the King removes his boots, and lays down. The padding is surprising comfortable for the context, and almost without realizing, he sinks in a deep, dreamless sleep.
When he awakens, the King is alone. He sits up slowly, confused, looking around, ears alert in the surrounding silence. He gathers the boots, examining them closely; he wears them with slow, deliberate motions, and finally stands up.
The boxes are still on the window sill, except for one that is missing. The water flask on the table is empty, barely a few drops of its past content remaining in one of the cups.
The King has second thoughts on some of his choices, especially the first aid kit, wondering about its usefulness in unprepared hands, considering the potential dangers, but ultimately decides to leave everything and move on. He steps out of the door, not entirely surprised to find nobody out there, nobody in his walk back to the tree. He turns back to the hidden house one more time, still seeing nothing but the stillness of the desert, unbroken, and finally reaches the road to find his way back to the city.
He wanders the streets aimlessly, unfocused, barely aware of his surroundings, preferring the shadowy alleys further from the palace to the sunlit square, yet still unable to retrieve the deep, painful hatred that had guided him just the day before, and unsure whether to feel gratitude for that, or desperation.
A young boy dashing hastily out of a door and nearly tripping him over distracts the King from his self-commiserating mood. A sense of familiarity, the rush with which the boy keeps running without consideration for the man he nearly tripped over intrigue the King. He peeks through the door. The sadly not unusual scene of misery this time acts as backdrop for more pain and suffering. Another young boy, which the man now recognizes as one of the twins, is bent over an elderly figure lying down on a simple plank.
The smells, the low-tone moans, the rasping breaths are the vexingly familiar ones of physical corruption, enduring illness, approaching death. There are whispers of encouragement and desperation, empathy and pain, and an epiphany suddenly strikes the King, this brief moment in the life of the twins revealing patterns and weaves that cover the entire city, if not the whole province.
The King's hands grip violently the door frame as he forces himself to maintain control. Then he abruptly retreats, quickly finding his way to the main square, moved by renewed rage. Coming across the work in progress in front of the palace gates to prepare the stage for the upcoming duel does very little to improve his mood, and he again shuns the palace, diverting his steps to the barracks.
The gritting sensation from the night before is amplified by the crowd of soldiers and attendants now awake. His visit inevitably turns into an inspection, as he walks around accompanied by the captain that takes the opportunity to update him on the current status of the dispatched men, the troops out to check the conditions in the nearby towns, the relationship with the residents and the local garrison. Yet no part of the report captures the King's full attention, as he nods his way out of it, and nothing in the inspection distracts him for the true reason for his visit.
«I'll need a sparring partner.» he drops almost casually when they come to face a small stage that could easily double as a ring.
«Sir?»
«In a couple of days I'm going to face a brute whose sole aim will be to rip my head off in single —unarmed— combat. I see no reason to not take the opportunity to be fully prepared. A refresher would do me good.»
«Of … of course, Sir.» the captain's perplexity does not escape the King, who has no problem imagining her actual thoughts about the lack of wisdom of the choice to not name a champion instead. He doesn't expect her to appreciate how important the upcoming encounter will be, for him even more so than for the future of the province, if not of the whole kingdom. «I believe … I believe we have just the man for that.»
The King cannot but appreciate the captain's choice. While not in his prime anymore, the selected sparring partner is impressively built —easily matching the constitution of the captain of the Rector's guard— and still solid and quick enough to pose a serious threat to the unwary.
«It's an honor having the opportunity to spar with your majesty.»
«Is it now.»
«Of course, Sir. Doubly so for a trainer like me, I would say, as your prowess in combat is legendary —yet few seem to have had the opportunity to experience it first-hand.»
«And tell the tale.» the King finishes for him.
The interjection seems to confuse the trainer a little, despite its obvious meaning. His bright face grows dark for a moment, and the King insists:
«The opponent I'm going to face two days from now will have no reason to hold back. I expect to be ready for that by then. Am I making myself clear?»
The trainer nods, knowingly «Well understood, Sir. Do allow me to propose some softer warm-up before we make things interesting, though.»
The King acknowledges the wisdom of the choice, despite his growing need for a destructive outlet, the recent experience with the desert raiders a memento of the dangers of underestimating the decadence of formerly well-honed skill with lack of practice.
Evade, dodge, dodge. The King and the trainer take their time, studying the opponent. But even as the latter starts putting pressure on him, the King keeps a more passive stance, evasion still his foremost action, deflection at times to give him some attack opportunity. Yet his partner seems not to tire, balancing carefully the attacks with the opportunities to recover.
A small crowd of off duty soldiers and attendants starts gathering around, intrigued and fascinated by the opportunity to watch their King in action. As the encounters progresses, and it becomes obvious that both opponents have started to let go of the initial caution in favour of a more aggressive resolve, they start cheering the contestants.
If initially the King had lent no care to the growing crowd, their sudden eruption into enthusiasm like the lowest of the audiences exhausts his patience in no time. This is no show, his mind shouts, this is a serious matter. And it will be doubly so for the real thing.
His anger finally emerges, his strikes growing powerful, precise, the trainer finally finding himself on the defensive, suddenly lacking opportunities to counteract the inhibited violence of his opponent. And it's only the captain's intervention, a clearly audible «Stop!» followed by a whistle that manages to silence the crowd, that saves the King's opponent.
«Sir, I believe you do not wish to inflict any serious injury to your sparring partner.»
The King takes time to recover from the raging high that had driven his fists in those last moments. He breathes heavily, even though not significantly out of breath.
«I don't.» he finally admits.
«Then I believe it would be better to stop now, Sir.»
«I concur.» the King confirms, Still maintaining his stance for a moment.
Finally dropping his guard, he steps forward to shake his opponents hand. «It's been a good warm-up.» he states.
Still catching his breath, the man smiles sourly. «I feel like I have failed your majesty's expectations.»
The King wonders, conscious of his own need to let out his burning rage on one hand, but also of the foolishness in expecting a sparring partner to lash out at him with equal ferocity, especially under the assumption that he'd still have to be in full health in a couple of days.
«It would seem that you're wiser than your king then.»
«I made the mistake of underestimating your skills and prowess.»
«I've made the opposite in the past. I've had luck on my side.»
«Captain whistled a time-out?» the trainer laughs, immediately interrupted by a neck-slap from the woman.
The opportunity to have a chance for a friendly fist-fight with the King himself appeals to many of the soldiers, for honor and brag points and stories to tell around the fire. The King submits to the request, as far as it might be from his current desires, to uphold their morale and give them an opportunity to vent in a controlled environment.
One after the other, they tire him out, yet end up stepping down from the ring defeated. In the breaks between them, as he recovers and drinks, the King is left wondering how much of it is just a theatrical farce, and how much he can actually thanks his own skills in such friendly encounters.
It's during one of these breaks that he spots a familiar face standing against a wall.
«Jade.»
«Sir.»
«You're next.»
«I'm on duty, Sir.» Crowd control, as apparent from the uniform and the batons.
«Get on the ring.» and as the woman hesitates, the King insists «That's an order.»
Jade finally steps forward, handing over her weapons to the captain.
«Keep them.» «Sir, I thought …» «Keep them.»
Her lack of conviction reflects in her approach to the encounter, yet the King is certain that even with more determination, her swings would still manifest the restrain he has seen so far in all the challengers. And he's had enough of that.
The King starts with the softest of taunts, “is this the best you can do?”, slowly building up to more challenging ones, “I've seen flies swatted with more energy than your baton swings”. The soldier's expression transitions from perplexity to confusion to understanding, but she doesn't get moved to anger. The King presses on:
«Should you even be here, Jade? Do you deserve to be in my army?»
Her mandible clenches. The first reaction, even if just a barely audible growl: «I am where I am by my own merit.»
The King moves in between a swing and the next, pushing Jade to the ground, pinning her down.
«Are you?» he asks, and as the woman tries to break free of the hold, trying to push back, or wiggle out, or kick herself free, he insists «Is this what you want? A soldier life? Is this your dream? Not a peaceful life on the coast, with your partner, maybe some kids?» the soldier's struggle get more intense, harder to control «Or was there something else that happened, that time? A boy unable to defend his sister from a raider …»
Jade finally manages to push the King away with a knee, rolling out from under him. She grabs one of the fallen batons, blindly swinging behind her, hitting the King's arm in his effort to deflect.
This is it, he thinks as he stands up, trying to rush her, to push her down again, swerving at the last minute to dodge another swing that still manages to pass a few millimeters from his face. The woman keeps pressing, having regained both her weapons, and even though the King can sense no cold intent to kill or even just harm him, it is obvious that the restrain holding her back has been released.
The captain, who has failed to stop the match at the first pin-down, surprised by the King's actions and words, now seems to have realized his intent and wish, and drops the whistle she was holding flabbergasted. Even the rest of the spectating crowd has fallen silent, tensing up in suspense for the evolution of the fight.
And yet what remains of the encounter is short, as in her enraged fury Jade loses her balance, allowing the King to move in again, grab her leather vest and use her own inertia to lift her and slam her onto the floor, winding her. Still holding her to the ground, the King smashes his fist down not an inch from her terrified face, chipping the floor planks. Then he stands. «We're done.»
The King offers Jade an extended arm, but it takes her a few moments to find the wind and willpower to grab it and pull herself up. Yet the King seems to offer her no further notice as he steps off the ring, cleaving the crowd to find a stool to sit upon. She leaves for the sick bay to have her own injuries looked at, even though the medic is there, ready to look after the King.
With patience, the medic pulls out the splinters the King's hand has just gained from the floor planks. «Can you move your fingers?» the King demonstrates «No pain?» the King shakes his head once «I'm guessing we won't need anything other than this disinfection then.» the King's face turns sour as the medic rubs alcohol on his knuckles. «Kindly remove your vest.»
The King sighs, tries the medic's patience for a moment, and finally complies with the request. Minor bruises ornate his chest and arms, but the only one that draws the medic's attention is the large one left by Jade's baton. «Does this hurt?» the medic asks, manipulating around it. He finds the Kings grimace a sufficient answer. He pulls out a small jar and massages the whereabouts of the bruise with the ointment contained within, then proceeds to bandage the arm.
«Isn't that too much?» the King asks, but his question falls on deaf ears.
«You'll come to me again this afternoon, I want to check on it again later.» insists the doctor instead.
He then leaves abruptly, ready for his next patient. The King remains seated for a few moments, conscious of the perplexed crowd still behind him. The captain approaches him quietly, but he has nothing to tell her. Shaking his head, he stands, grabbing his vest again, and walks off, just as she turns to the crowd shooing them away: «Move on, people, show is over.» The soldiers disperse in a low-tone chatter.
The King calmly finds his way through the barracks and its murmuring, donning his vest again with slow motions, as the pain and fatigue from the challenge emerge. He steps into the sick bay, finding there Jade, her back to the door, which is removing the bindings from her chest with the assistance of a nurse. He find a chair and sits down, as quietly as possible.
Yet his entrance doesn't escape the nurse nor the soldier. Jade stands to attention, only half turning to the King, and still earning a reprimand from the doctor: «Sit. Down.» he shouts from the nearby room, promptly obeyed.
«Everything all right?» the King asks, casually. The scratches on her face from the splinters chipped off by his last fist are clearly visible even from where he is sitting. And so is the look of sadness, maybe even disappointed, she managed to throw him during the brief, interrupted salute.
«I'll know after I've finished checking everything.» interjects the doctor, entering the main room again and approaching his patient, now freed of the binding.
There is absolute silence in the room, and Jade barely flinches to the testing pressure the doctor exerts on her back and sides, even with the more obvious bruises.
“Unquestioning loyalty”. And yet, disillusion. Would you follow me through Hell, soldier? The King ponders. Yes, you would. Why? Because I ordered it. And you would kill people for me, soldier? Of course you would, you would fight and die and kill for me, it is your duty. But would you kill people? Would you kill and torture people just because I asked?
Would you?
«Hm.» The doctor finally grumbles «Could have been worse. Nothing broken, it seems.» He directs the nurse to retrieve the jar with the ointment he has already used on the King, and walks away again «I'll see you both this afternoon.»
As the nurse starts applying the ointment on Jade's back, the King stands. «Soldier, you're off duty until this afternoon.» I have things to discuss with your captain. But that would sound unnecessarily threatening, so he omits it.
When Jade walks back into the sick bay, he finds the King already there, getting the bandage on his arm renewed after a new application of the ointment. She stands and salutes, even though the King is turning his back to her.
«Sir.»
«At ease, soldier.» the King doesn't even turn to look at her. There's a moment of silence, after the nurse is finished with the bandage, where nothing and nobody moves. Then, discretely, the nurse walks out of the room.
«Would you follow me through Hell?» the King asks, still without looking at her. There is no hesitation in Jade's reply:
«Yes, Sir.»
«Why?»
«I'm loyal to my king, your majesty.» barely the time to catch her breath.
The King nods slowly. «Unquestioning loyalty.» Jade is uncertain whether this is a question, a request for confirmation. She keeps quiet.
«Would you torture and kill people?» the King asks, abruptly.
This time, the answer doesn't come quickly. He turns to face the soldier, standing up, grabbing his vest.
«Yes, Sir.» When the answer finally comes, it lacks the determination of the previous ones. The King looks intently at her, before rebutting:
«No, you wouldn't.»
Jade lowers her gaze. The King can easily imagine her heart beating out of control, like a child caught in a lie. He smiles.
«Your turn.» he comments, indicating the stool he was sitting on. The soldier nods, and marches past past him, promptly sitting down, even though neither the nurse nor the doctor are anywhere to be seen.
«You may speak freely.» the King insists.
For some long seconds, the woman says nothing, asks nothing. The man finds his way to another stool, sitting down, waiting, patiently. Finally:
«I do not think you would ever order random killing and torturing, Sir.»
«You don't sound too sure of that.» the King comments after a moment of silence.
Breathe in, breathe out. He can see the soldier is obviously holding back a lot. Yet Jade finally finds the courage to speak again as freely as she feels she can afford:
«I would have thought that easily until this morning.»
The King nods, and waits. Even though she's turning her back to him, he can see enough of her face to notice she's clenching her teeth.
«Why?» she finally asks.
«Because you were not taking the challenge seriously.»
«Nobody was! Not even the …»
«But I knew how to taunt you.» Her shoulders stoop lower. Breathe in, breathe out. «I didn't particularly enjoy it. I would rather have not had to resort to that to have you attack for real. Apparently, I did manage to strike a nerve. Or two.»
Breathe in, breathe out. Heart and mind racing, looking for words, sorting out thoughts and emotions. The King can see all that clearly, and decides to give her time.
«I … stabbed the fucker in the back, with an ice pick. Jumped on his back while he was going after my brother. And stabbed and stabbed while he was turning and swinging to get me off his back. And then I fell down and he jumped on top of me and I don't even know how, but I managed to stab his throat, and he was just spraying blood all over me, all over the place, and just suddenly fell down and all my strength had left me and I couldn't even push him away and my brother was completely paralyzed as well and I couldn't breath under his weight and I tried wiggling out and it was all slippery because of the blood and …»
Jade stops, feeling the King's hand on his shoulder. Her throat clenches, as she breathes heavily to hold back the tears.
«I must not be that good a man if I keep you reviving this every time we meet.»
«No, Sir!» Jade turns suddenly «There are no more raids, and that's thanks to you. Nobody else ever will have to go through that again, and that's the most important thing.» she turns back, ashamed of her outburst. Her voice drops lower «That's the whole reason I joined the army, Sir.»
There is a naive optimism in Jade's words that saddens the King. He stands there silently, wondering if she realizes the contrast between her words and the actual reason why they are there now, in that forsaken province, trying to remedy what he, the King, should have prevented from happening in the first place. And yet he's sure that, if he were to talk about it to the woman, her reply would express confidence that they'd be able to fix everything; in fact, the way she'd probably express it would be that he —the King— would manage to fix everything.
And he wonders: would she appreciate the lengths he's willing to go for that? How would her opinion change if he found himself forced into a more aggressive approach, into a brutal eradication of what remains of the Rector's influence?
«Not all threats come from the outside.» he hints.
Jade straightens her back. «I understand, Sir.»
«You're willing to stay even when you know you might find yourself pitted against your own?»
«Aren't we already, Sir?»
The King smiles for a brief moment. «And is this what you want? You wouldn't seek out a different life? Most military will gladly go reservist in their thirties, or even before.»
«I …» she stops «I'm satisfied with where I am, Sir.» there's more she's not telling, and despite his curiosity the King decides to not pressure her into revealing herself more than she's willing to.
«And what will you do when you go into retirement?»
She sighs «I'll go back home, play aunt with my nieces, tell them war stories before sleep.» And the King reads clearly the implicit of a woman who would like kids, but is not willing —or able— to bear her own. He skirts the issue, taking instead the opportunity to bring up the actual purpose of the talk.
«And how would you like to tell them you were the king's orderly?»
«Sir!» she turns around abruptly again «I would never …» and just as suddenly she stops, realizing she misinterpreted the King's words, and the offer they represent «Your Majesty, I don't …» she blushes «I am not …» embarrassed now even more by her inability to find the correct words. Finally, she bows her head, accepting «It would be an honor, Sir.»
The King nods.
«Good. I'll be needing someone to follow me around in the next days, someone to run some errands when needed. Someone loyal and trustworthy. Get yourself patched up, we'll discuss details in a more appropriate place.»
As Jade stands to salute «Ah, yes Sir, thank you Sir.», the King walks over to the inner door, knocking on the frame to signal the nurse —who has probably heard everything anyway— that she can come back to take care of the soldier. He then promptly leaves with a generic wave of the hand, barely turning to look at the dumbstruck woman.
Overwhelmed by memories, hopes and fears, Jade remains still even after the King has left the room. When the nurse approaches and invites her to sit down and start undressing, she obeys quietly, lost in a daze. She removes her vest slowly, waves of emotions washing over her, alternating between the euphoric joy of having been chosen for such an important role, and the despairing fear of the implications and consequences of the choice. And most importantly, she wonders why her, why now, why this way.
The nurse keeps silent, helping her undo the bindings{BTS}«The single most important difference between a man and a woman when it comes to fighting is the binding. Men keep their hair short, and their only floating appendage is generally held in place by underwear. We, on the other hand, need to be able to move fast and comfortably, and the key to our comfort is the binding. Bind your chest, bind your hair.»{/BTS}, then proceeding with a quick examination, reapplying the ointment with due care, shaking her head at the lack of reaction from Jade when her fingers press the bruised skin.
«So taken by the King's speech to not even feel pain anymore?» she quips.
That's enough to break Jade's introspection, her thoughts finally coming out all at once, in a messed half speech full of questions, with barely a complete sentence in it:
«He wants me as attendant! Me! Why me? I don't … I never … Why would … how do … oh damn, my mates are going to kill me! I'll be their laughing stock! How did … how can I even …» she hides her face in her hands, breathing heavily to regain control «This is more than I could ever dream for,» she finally manages to state, as calmly as possible in her state of anxiety «and yet now that this opportunity presents itself, I can't wrap my mind around it, and I'm scared silly to even think about what this could mean for me, for my future.»
«You have an infatuation for the King.» the nurse smiles «Oh, don't look at me that way, it's nothing to be ashamed of. So many of his subjects have this … myth of him as this … all-seeing, all-powerful regent spreading peace and love and good will and wealth,» the nurse mimics a hieratic pose, a hand softly extended to dispense blessings «a fatherly figure with a tender eye and a generous hand. Isn't that the King you've grown to believe in?» Jade eyes the nurse suspiciously, as she continues, ignoring her gaze:
«You have actually met him in person now. Is he the man you thought he was? Oh, sure enough, he still has an imposing presence, and sure enough one cannot dismiss how generous he can be. I'm sure you yourself could easily recount quite a few times where your people have come to him decrying their grievances, and they've been heard, and action has been taken to satisfy their needs.» Jade nods vigorously in confirmation, but understands from the turn of the nurse' words that there's more to come, more that won't be as eulogistic of the man.
«Have you ever seen him angry?» the nurse asks, abruptly.
«I …» Jade is perplexed by the question «I have barely ever seen him at all, until now!» she ends up replying, taking it literally «At the annual military reviews, and I was just one face in thousands, and never a … a notice, a sign or anything that would …» Jade doesn't even hear the nurse trying to interject a «That's not what I meant …», concluding instead with the one question that is burning her mind «So why me?»
The nurse shakes her head «You poor thing.» and seems to drop it at that, helping the soldier with the bindings again. Jade waits for the nurse to explain that final endearing comment, and yet, as the binding gets secured, she finds herself forced to pressure for an explanation:
«Why?»
Their gazes meet for a brief moment, before the nurse hastens to look away. Still feeling the soldier's eyes pointed at her, she finally gives in:
«It's … don't take my word for it, it's just my impression. I fear … I feel that you are going to be a … a scapegoat. All right, maybe not a scapegoat, more like a … a witness. You see …» she pauses, looking for the right way «It's not that the … the image that you, everybody I would say actually, that you have of the King is wrong, but it's … it's watered down, it's cleaned up, and most importantly, it's not him. He doesn't run the country on his own, he surrounds himself with advisors, ministers, intermediaries.»
The nurse stops, as Jade's gaze turns attentive. Then, she reprises:
«What I want to say is, he doesn't run the country. Others do it for him. And sure enough, he does have an influence on how the country is run: all report to him, and all are picked by him, so it is him who dictates the … guidelines. And of course, this is not to smear him, or reduce the importance that his person, his choices, his will has on everything in the country. It's still by his wisdom that he chooses his collaborators, and judges their actions, and if the country, or most of it at least, has manage to grow in wealth and health and safety and all the good that comes to us now, it's most definitely directly or indirectly by his power.»
The soldier's eye have narrowed to suspicion, to which the nurse responds with a timid, embarrassed smile.
«So, you see, everything is fine and dandy as long as things go the way he wants them to go, and we can count ourselves lucky that mostly they do, because that's the reason why we know him as the loving fatherly figure we know him as.» the nurse pauses, hoping for a sign from Jade that she has caught on what she means. She insists: «Can you see now where I'm going with this?»
Jade hesitates, her head wavering in a slow negation. The nurse sighs, and brings forth her explanation:
«So what happens when things don't go his way? What happens when his trust is betrayed, when things such as this» her arms describes a half circle to indicate the situation around and about them «happen? He gets angry.» she pauses for effect «Oh, this is still about your loving fatherly regent who cares for his people.» she smiles, wryly « Who wouldn't be enraged finding the person they entrusted their beloved to took advantaged of them, of that trust, and made their trustee suffer?»
The nurse turns serious again, as she delivers her final warning:
«And the King is angry, very angry. He has been outwitted for decades by a leech who has turned an entire province into a pool of misery, suffering and desperation. He doesn't take kindly to this. And as lovingly and paternal he might seem to those who live by his word, the King's anger is much, much worse than anything you can imagine. No one who has been at the end of it has ever lived to speak about it. What I think? This: that you will soon get to see your beloved King turn into a brutal, merciless beast as he exacts revenge for the pain and suffering of his people, and for his trust betrayed. And you will bear witness of his fury, his cruelty not only not humane, but possibly not even human.» and unsatisfied with the fear that already transpires from Jade's gaze, she insists: «And yes, a scapegoat, as he will not want any of his advisors next to him when he lashes out, for they are the ones that must uphold his upstanding image, and possibly officially take over his duty, were he to fall to his own rage. But you, you will be there.»
Then, worrying she might have overdone it, the nurse backtracks a little:
«Oh, don't worry so much. He won't take it out on you, ever. Just … you might get to see him do things you wouldn't expect someone like him —rather, like the image you have of him— might do. Just that.»
«What …»
«Who knows» the nurse shrugs «Gutting someone with his own bare hands, skinning an entirely family alive, flattening an entire city leaving no stone standing, no soul alive.»
As she leaves the sick bay, Jade feels even more shocked than when the King so casually dropped the news of her assignment as his orderly. Her mind tries to reject the nurse' implications, but at the same time it starts piecing together hints from the past encounters with the King, and she finds it hard to deny that the forewarning has at least some plausibility to it. Yet even under a presumption of giving credence to the nurse' words, she still assumes an overstatement of the cruelty and brutality the King might exhibit in a fit of rage.
Still, when she finally finds herself face to face with him, it's only because of years and years of ingrained training that she manages the perfect salute, finishing with the duly «Reporting for duty, Sir.»
His smile softens her heart and even if just for a brief moment, chases away the shadows clouding her mind.
«Walk with me, soldier.»
She follows, as they exit the barracks and apparently idly oversee the progress of the works in front of the palace.
«When your company arrived, you came from the north, right?» he asks.
«Northwest, actually, Sir.»
He nods briefly, but seems lost in his own thoughts, and the words he speak might not be necessarily addressed to her:
«Straight from our capital. And yet, fancy that, the main road to this place —which could be considered the actual capital of the province, where the rector had his actual residence— comes from the south, straight from the south. Not from the north or the west as would make sense if it followed the network of main roads that connect the capitals of the provinces —the other provinces, at least.» He turns to the soldier with a brilliant smile «Of course, the official province capital does belong to that network. But we don't care about that, do we?» The question is rhetoric, and gets no answer. «Have you been on the southern road, Jade?» the question has a grave tone to it.
«No, Sir.»
The King nods. «There's a single tree not long after you leave the city. It stands alone, no more than a few steps off the road, eastwards. For as long as you'll be stationed here, I want you to bring a basket of fresh produce —as fresh as the location allows— every night to that tree. Alina, in the palace kitchen, can help you prepare it. You will deliver it, drop it there, and return.»
The King stops walking, he turns to the soldier.
«Yes, Sir!» Jade promptly acknowledges the order. There's no smile on his face this time, a face obscured by something that the soldier can only read as sadness, if not despair. «Anything else, Sir?»
«I think I'd like to sleep under the stars tonight. Go pack for both of us. I'll meet you here again after you're done with the delivery.»
She salutes again, and has barely turned when the King interjects: «Two backpacks, Jade. You're my orderly, not my mule.»
She turns, forcing herself not to smile. «Of course, Sir.» and turns back, a renewed spring in her step, as the nurse' words, the threads, the fears are pushed aside by those simple words. “You're my orderly, not my mule.”
She is even more surprised by how silly it would be that such simple declaration, possibly said in jest, would bring her so much joy, but that thought simply reinforces the sentiment.
I'm His Majesty's orderly, she keeps repeating to herself, and everything else suddenly is of no importance, her own fears, the cautionary warnings of the nurse, even the sadness in the King's own eyes: all driven aside by the euphoria of the first of the King's direct orders to her, his orderly.
Something she couldn't even dream of is now suddenly reality, and the most brilliant future of mystery and excitement is going to unfold for her.
It's only as she finally comes to face one of the women in the King's entourage that Jade starts feeling the full weight of her role. Directed to the kitchen and to the person by the overseer's indications, the soldier has no troubles identifying Alina. Yet she hesitates to seek her attention, overwhelmed by her imposing presence, the manifest control of the domain, of all the servants working in the kitchen.
In the end, it's Alina who takes notice of Jade standing there, and approaches her, with a voice which is both inviting and decisive:
«How may I assist you?»
Taken aback, Jade finds herself saluting automatically, right before relaying the King's orders:
«I'm here on His Majesty orders to take a basket of …» her eyes wander as she recalls the exact wording «fresh produce» she concludes, hesitantly «for delivery.»
Alina's face widens in a friendly smile. «The King?» She leans her head on one side, taking a moment to evaluate the soldier, finally pointing briefly a finger at her «You're the soldier that escorted him back from the mines. Jade, was it?»
«Yes, milady.» Jade replies, surprised, as Alina nods, still smiling.
«Are you his courier now? No, wait, his attendant, maybe? What's the military term?»
«Orderly, milady.»
«Will this basket be for him?»
Jade hesitates, before answering as sincerely as she can: «I don't know, milady.»
«You just have to deliver it to some secret place and just be done with it?»
«Something like that, milady.»
Alina squints suspicious. She then turns, and instructs one of the servants to bring her a basket, as the puts herself to the task of the selection of the contents.
«Will he be joining us tonight?»
Jade takes a moment to understand that the question is addressed at her, and even after catching on, she feels hesitant to reply.
«Well?» Alina insists, stopping and turning again towards the soldier, understanding by her blushing, even before the answer comes, that it will be a negative.
«I'm afraid His Majesty plans on camping outside tonight.».
«Is he alright?» the questioning voice is now softer, almost hesitant, and Jade finds herself pondering for the correct answer again, even conscious that any hesitation could be misread. «Did something happen?» Alina insists, forcing the soldier to reply unprepared:
«I … we've had a … a friendly spar. I might … His Majesty … some minor bruises. Nothing major, to my knowledge.»
The King's woman sighs deeply, finding relief in Jade's words. She forces a smile «You had me worried there for a second.»
«I'm sorry, milady.»
«Don't be,» Alina retorts, as she starts filling the basket «it's not your fault. Here you go.»
«Thank you, milady.» Jade picks up her burden, but hesitates, sensing a sudden fragility in the other woman. «Is there anything I can do for you, milady?» she queries.
«No, thank you.» Alina shakes her head, finding a seat for herself.
«Do you wish me to deliver a message?» the soldier insists, to which the woman doesn't even reply, but for the same gesture of denial.
Jade has barely stepped out of the kitchen that Alina springs back to her feet, following. She grabs the soldier by her arm, dragging her off to a small cabinet. Here, she takes a few deep breaths, eyes closed, before finding a small stool on which to sit. Jade waits, setting the basket on the small table occupying the center of the room.
«Is he really alright?» Alina asks finally, her voice barely audible. She lifts her eyes to meet Jade's «I don't mean physically, but …»
«Milady, I cannot … I'm unable to … to judge His Majesty's …»
«He left abruptly yesterday, and we … he's been avoiding us since. And that's … worrisome, he … we fear he might … I mean, it's not so much his physical safety, it's … he might … oh dear.» The woman finally breaks down, but discretely, simply turning away from Jade, hiding her face in her hands, and sobbing quietly for a few seconds.
«I'm sorry,» she excuses herself when she recovers, her voice still strained by the weeping «I couldn't let others see me like this. Thank you for bearing with me.»
«Milady, I wish I could be of more help.»
Alina shakes her head. «Sweetheart, you'll be doing more than enough just being by his side.» she smiles «Stay with him, he's going to need you more than even he knowns now, especially now that he shunned us.»
«His Majesty would never …»
«Sh.» Alina shushes Jade softly placing two fingers on her lips. «Don't.» she removes the fingers, still smiling «Just … stay with him. Thank you.» she drops a quick kiss on those same lips, and departs, leaving the stunned soldier behind.
As she finds her way through the palace, out into the main square, down to the southern road, and finally straight through the city, Jade falls back into the confusing mix of fears and rejection she was left into by the nurse' words, words which now find more confirmations, if implicit, in Alina's worried anxiety, in her break down, in her reticence. And the soldier is left wondering if she really let herself get caught into something too big for her.
The prospective weights her shoulders down more than the basket she's carrying. She would have expected the honor of being the King's orderly to come with responsibilities and obligations well beyond her status until now, but now it would almost seems that she'd been tasked with the duty to prevent some kind of catastrophe of unimaginable proportions, and not even by the King himself —or at least not directly.
She keeps picturing possible scenarios that wold warrant such worry, and she keeps brushing them off as unrealistic. Surely the King would never order the mass slaughter of the same people he set off on his own to set free and help recover? Surely he would not lay waste of the same land he swore to restore? Or would he even care to send her out for such a delivery in the middle of nowhere?
Lost in her thoughts, Jade barely realizes how quickly she has moved out of the city and covered the stretch of road to her destination. She quickly stops, her gaze spanning the eerily silent landscape, barely cut by the weary tree. She turns back, to make sure this is the place her King sent her to, that no tree has escaped her attention as she was distracted by her musings. The city, farther away than she would have expected, does little to break the ghostly impression of the moonlit desert that surrounds her. But none of the other sparse trees visible out across the horizon fits the King's request.
The soldier approaches the tree slowly, still warily looking around, expecting something even she is not sure of, an ambush maybe, or the sudden appearance of a spectral vision. She lowers the basket to the ground, right next to a barely discernible root. Her eyes fall on the marks the King left on the trunk, exposing the bark of the tree, lifting her doubts about the place, but still leaving her perplexed about the reason to bring food to such a place. Does anybody actually live there, or somewhere close enough? Or is this an offering of some kind?
Is this actually the place? she still wonders. Are those markings a sign? Something left by the King himself? Or maybe by whoever lives around here? Or were they just the marking of a wild beast?
Jade steps away from the tree as slowly as she approached it, yet standing still to observe for a few moments as soon as she reaches the road. Nothing happens, no one comes to claim the contents of the basket, no sound but the sporadic gust of wind breaks the silence. No ghost makes themselves known.
Glad to be done with her task, the soldier marches back to the city as quickly as she can afford without looking like she's running away. Maybe there is a hidden madness in the King's way, after all, she's left thinking. But even if this were the case, what ever could she do about it? How could she, a simple soldier, do to prevent a disaster from happening?
«Sir.» a plain salute, to which the King barely responds with a gesture. He picks up his backpack, without even inquiring about the delivery, and sets off due west, Jade quickly following. Silently they navigate the streets, with the King apparently barely taking note of the sometimes perplexed, sometimes suspicious look of the rare passer-by.
Out of the city, back into the wasteland, the King's step slows down, dropping almost to a stroll.
«Walk with me, soldier.»
«Yes, Sir.» Jade quickens her step to reach up to the King's side, then falls back to match his step.
They proceed in silence, the King turning back every once in a while, without even stopping, just a quick glance as if to check the distance from the city, or maybe to verify that they aren't being followed, even though it's hard to believe anyone would dare —or maybe even care— to follow them, as the environment is bare of any cover that would assist a stealthy approach.
The King marches on with determination, despite the lack of an obvious track to follow, his eyes apparently transfixed on the horizon, except for the brief moments when he turns back. Now and again the soldier is filled by the sudden, perplexing sensation that the King seems to be running away from something, and she feels just as compelled to glance back together with the King, yet the suspicion dissipates just as quickly as they march on.
When the King finally stops, with a sharp «We'll set camp here.», Jade realises they've walked far enough that the city is barely visible under the moonlight. The place where they stopped doesn't seem to offer anything special compared to the rest of the wilderness they've crossed thus for, or that still stretches out in front of them.
The soldier sets off to gather some dried out shrubbery for the campfire, and yet her attention is mostly taken by the King, as she throws glances to observe his restless looking over to the horizon in all directions, his skittish steps as he lies out his place to sleep. Distracted, she barely even notices the small rodents that scamper around her feet as she uproots a small dead bush.
Back to the camp, the soldier takes care of digging up a shallow bowl in the sandy ground, and in the brief time she spends finally lighting up the fire, the King seems to settle down, his nervous bearing giving place to a pensive demeanor.
As they sit down around the fire to consume a frugal meal, Jade cannot but wonder what is on the King's mind, behind that distant look that often seems to get lost on the flames, behind the listless dining; yet it's obvious to her that she's as far as can be from having gained the familiarity to ask such a thing, and she's left yearning for that brief moment of confidence the King shared with her when she escorted him back to the palace after the mines.
Now and again, it looks like —or maybe she hopes that— the King is about to talk to her, ask her something in that mysterious, roundabout way he has of expressing his thoughts seeking answers for seemingly unrelated questions. Yet they get to the end of the meal with not a word spoken, and Jade's mind remains full of questions and doubt like never before.
«What would you say is the single most important thing this province is in desperate need of?»
The King enjoys a brief inner moment of satisfaction when his sudden question catches the soldier unprepared, and in her surprise she lowers the flask she was drinking from, her mouth still ajar.
«Sir?»
«What would you say» he repeats «is the single most important thing this province needs.»
Jade's eyes wander a brief moment, her hands still holding the flask.
«W… water?»
«One would be led to believe that, wouldn't they? The land is dry, there seems to be little rain, if any, the plants are small and scarce, and so are the animals.» The King gives Jade a moment to think about what he just said, leading on to the next remark: «Yet there is water. There's enough water to grow trees, if few and sparse between and mostly on the scattered hills. And there is enough water to provide outstanding luxury to the palace dwellers. And for some mysterious reason, whoever designed the main squared allowed for a fountain there —a fountain that has not seen any water in a long time, yet not since it was first built, which was not that long ago, either.»
«This … place has been … deprived of water?»
«Intentionally? It's possible. Unintentionally? I would guess more likely. Or maybe there have just been a few consecutive years of drought, and the aquifer has been depleted, or retreated further underground, leaving only the better equipped with the resources to access it.»
Jade finally finds the time to close the flask, setting it down between her feet. She feels confused now, by the apparent vagueness of the King's comments. With nothing to say, and even doubtful that it would be her place to say anything, she waits for him to conclude.
«I am not worried about the water. The people here seem to know how to get enough at least for survival, despite everything. Our prospectors are coming, and we may build aqueducts to carry water from the richer lands, win back the soil here if needed. As close as we may be to the desert here, this land can give more that it does now —but the problem is not with the water.» The King looks straight at her, as if to gauge her reaction «Even the desert, despite its harshness, its dire lack of water, manages to sustain a nation of strong, fierce people. So why doesn't this province?»
The soldier finally starts to see at least the direction in which the King's inquiry seems to take, even though she could not say now what the answer to the question would be. She begins to guess that if the problem is not the land, or its lack of resources, then it should be the people, even though she would not be able to identify a root cause. Fear? Lack of willpower? And still, why?
Jade finds herself wondering if the King is even seeking for answers in the first place, or if the questions he asks are rather a way into something deeper, something to make her think about the issues he seems to be troubled with —or even something for himself and nobody else, just him thinking aloud. But intentionally or not, she does get presented with the matters, and she cannot but wonder about them, against that small part of her mind that fights a losing battle to distract her, because it is not —or should not be— her business, or something she would have to face —ever.
And even if the new question manages to give new meanings to the discussions they had the night of the mines, the soldier fails to see the connection with the catastrophic outlook depicted by the nurse, or gleamed by Alina's crisis.
«You will take first guard.» the King's order pull Jade away from her introspection. «Wake me up in three hours.»
«Yes, Sir.» her reply is immediate, automatic, almost subconscious. She tries to be as inconspicuous as possible as she observes the King lying down to sleep, covering himself almost with a theatrical gesture, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the darkness of the night.