RE: Monarch

In the stories, they always color the end of battles with orange rays of a magmatic sunset. Even the most narrow victory invokes this, no matter how heavy the toil or many the fallen.

Reality, however, is far less glamorous. Dirt and grime gets everywhere, taking any moment of respite or distraction to advance its invasion, coating armor, weapons, and equipment. Soldiers tire. Those who surrender are more often treated to the heel of a boot than seldom antiquated customs of respect and honor.

We checked the perimeter first to ensure the barrier was gone. Unlike the barrier that cut off retreat from the sanctum all those years ago, the shaman had not anchored his magic to a power source, and subsequently, the barrier likely had dissolved shortly after he fell unconscious. Tired, tense faces followed us as we entered the camp, flicking to the drephin still held unceremoniously beneath my father’s arm.

A ragged cheer went up on our approach. There were still traces of carnage, but the small number of human bodies scattered across the grounds were already gone. Probably loaded into a wagon acting as a mobile morgue.

King Gil held the shaman up high for all to see, giving him a solid shake. Then he dropped the elf to the ground in a heap. Two of his dark-clad honor guard appeared from nowhere and hauled the prisoner off, pausing only to slap a pair of shining manacles across his arms and tighten them. There were a series of runic inscriptions on the manacles.

“Those will hold him?” I asked, watching the guards carry the unconscious elf off towards the Crimson Brand’s tent.

“They’ve held far stronger,” King Gil confirmed. Then, as if he’d tired of the moment of respite, he rounded on me. “Why the hells didn’t you bring anyone with you?”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m the King, whelp. What’s your excuse?”

I considered, briefly, what exactly to tell him. Informing my father of everything that had happened—the strange behavior of the troops, their reticence in coming to the bannerlords’ aid—might show too much of my hand, or worse, incite more extreme measures, if the order to allow a rout had come from him, as I suspected.

“Breaching the barrier was difficult with the resources available to me,” I said.

Gil’s face darkened. “You’re telling me that an entire tent full of bumbling, chanting bastards couldn’t manage something as simple as that?”

I was already on unsteady ground with the Brand. As they were likely to be my only readily available resource for advancement during this return to Whitefall, I wasn’t keen on pissing them off as a whole more than I already had, regardless of the poor leadership of this group.

“They offered a degree of assistance. Without it, escaping the barrier at all would have been impossible,” I said.

“A degree… of assistance,” My father repeated, with the sort of emphasis that told me he had fixated on my wording and would not be dissuaded.

“One of their number—Eckor—was very helpful.” I pointed to where Eckor sat, idly staring up at the sky next to the makeshift medical tent. He was no longer dressed in the Crimson Brand regalia, dark robe replaced by a simple tabard and ill-fitting trousers that were shredded at the knees.

“How fortuitous. For him.” The menace in my father’s voice filled me with secondhand fear. He walked by the zoned-out mage, pulling a golden rod from the bag tied at his belt and launching the currency towards Eckor with a flick of his thumb. The golden rod bounced off Eckor’s forehead, and the mage started, first staring at the king, then at the shining gold now nestled in the grass.

King Gil didn’t so much as pause. He continued towards the Crimson Brand’s tent with heavy footfalls.

Well, I tried.

“What—uh—are you going to do, my lord?” I called after him. Surely he didn’t mean to kill them. Human mages were rare enough that I couldn’t imagine even the most short-sighted tyrant slaughtering their mages for stepping out of line, especially when, technically, they had followed orders.

“Basics of caravan management, boy,” My father called back, loud enough for the entire clearing to hear. ”Unless we intend to dump some of these simpletons, or worse, our valuable cargo, our first order of business is to replace the horses we lost.”

I watched him go, unsure what he meant. Just days ago, I was prepared to add King Gil to my ever-growing list of enemies. In the Everwood, that grim expectation shifted. Turned into possibility, rather than a certainty. He wasn’t a great ruler. Probably not even a good one. He still turned to violence as a first and last resort, with minor variation in the middle. But he’d ended slavery in the capital. And he seemed cleverer than before. More open to alternate solutions and less traditional ideas.

And the miasma of bitterness that so often drove him to cruelty was gone.

My father had changed. It was undeniable. The extent and authenticity of that change would only show its face with time.

***

After a disorganized retreat into the plains and several false alarms at the expense of wildlife, our passage was mercifully uneventful. I’d unraveled my trusty bedroll and laid it out on top of the wagon that held the captured shaman. In those days I was a light sleeper, and as secure as the manacles and enchanted iron bars that held the shaman were, I was all too familiar with the flexibility even a basic mastery of magic provided.

I slept better beneath the stars than I had the first night in an elaborate noble’s carriage.

Lady Melody of House Vasemoux had taken to visiting me. I often met my evenings with the awkward sight of a noble lady hoisting up her dress and struggling to scale the wagon’s canvas roof. I regarded her visits with a mix of relief and trepidation. Relief for the company. Trepidation that the other silken shoe had yet to fall.

Her designs were transparent. Melody wouldn’t be the worst match. She was the heir of a respectable house with few blemishes. As a companion, she was charming, even funny, and a repository of more knowledge than I gathered over a lifetime.

But as we drew closer to home, my thoughts turned to Lillian, over and over again.

There was a stir beneath me.

Melody paused, unbalanced at the wagon’s entrance, a wineskin in one hand and two bowls of stew stacked on the other. How she intended to make the climb without spilling it all, I’ll never know.

“Need a lift?” I called down.

“Elphion—I’ll take all the help I can get,” she answered, nearly dropping the wineskin in surprise.

“You or the cargo?”

Melody paused. “The cargo.”

The prior night, I’d levitated her to the wagon’s top. It worked well enough, but her descent—belly stuffed with an evening’s worth of wine and venison—had proven predictably disastrous.

I snapped my fingers—more for show than anything else—and three small levitation circles appeared, busing the wine and stew to the top of the wagon as Melody made the perilous ascent. I grabbed her hand once the food and drink were settled, hauling her to the top.

She all but collapsed on the canvas surface, breathing hard, her cheeks pink. “Are we certain… this thing is solid?”

I nodded. The constant creaking of the rooftop was deceptive. As it transported prisoners, the wagon’s interior was one of the few reinforced with steel, trading heavier weight and lower mobility for security.

“Good. That’s good,” Melody panted.

“Now a question of magic,” I paused dramatically. “Do we drink wine with our meal, or beforehand, so the meal magically tastes better?”

Melody laughed. “You sound like my uncle. So deep in his cups he frequently loses track of the sky.”

“Maybe I was a slovenly drunk in a past life.”

“Doubtful.” Having apparently decided entirely on her own, Melody seized the wineskin and uncorked it, guzzling down at least a third. She dabbed at her mouth with a lace handkerchief and gave me a loaded glance. “You’re too focused and meticulous.”

I snorted. “Trust me. Nothing about that came naturally.”

Melody fell silent. Deep in her own thoughts, she absentmindedly passed me the wineskin. Considering how she drank, and the uncharacteristically tense expression, she was probably gathering courage. I tipped the wineskin, feeling satisfied as the sweet summer red burned gently down my throat.

With a sigh, Melody leaned forward, a lock of golden hair spilling over her shoulder. “There is something I wish to ask. It’s plagued me for some time, but I fear my query would be seen as improper.”

The least I could do was give her a straight answer.

I took another sip. “Are we not friends, Lady Melody?”

“I suppose we are.” Melody winced.

I made a vague, dismissive gesture. “Then leave propriety discarded in our wake, for we are beyond it.”

Melody idly traced a pattern into the canvas covering. “My mother sent me on this journey with a directive. The same directive countless noble parents give their daughters of marriageable age. One I shared little interest in. I actually intended to ignore it—or at the very least, pursue it with minimal effort. Mother handles much of the house business herself, and I saw no reason not to follow in her footsteps.”

“But something changed.”

Melody nodded, her eyes taking on the glassy sheen of inebriation. “You were wary at first, but you didn’t look down on me for my house. You let me help. And even more astounding, you shared the credit.”

I took a last sip. The first had been for social lubrication, the second for comfort. The third was because I wanted to. Any more, and the gluttonous demon within me threatened to awaken. The last thing I needed was to rouse my more destructive appetites.

“I take it you talked to my father?”

Melody shivered. “This entire trip, the King hasn’t so much as looked my way. But yesterday, he… approached me. Just stood there, looming—“

“That’s his default state.”

“I thought he was about to tear my arms off,” Melody said in quiet wonderment. “That’s all I could think of when he took my hand. Imagine my surprise when he kissed it and bowed, offering thanks for my contribution.”

“Recognition entirely deserved,” I pointed out. “Your hunters and your knowledge of the drephin were both crucial. Without either, casualties would have mounted.”

“Most nobles would have taken the credit and rewarded us later, on their own terms,” Melody insisted.

“Something I’ve learned,” I said, working through the words slowly even as I scanned the perimeter, “is that concepts such as pedigree and bloodline are vastly overvalued. Commoner or royalty, man or woman, adult or child. In the end, it makes little difference. You can find useful people everywhere, if you’re willing to look.”

Melody set her mouth in determination. She guzzled from the wineskin one last time, barely capping it before she tossed it aside.

“I know this isn’t proper—“ Melody started.

“We’re ditching propriety, remember.”

“Right. And that traditionally, the man asks the woman after a round of furtive looks and weeks, sometimes months of outings. But barring some unforetold disaster, we arrive in Whitefall tomorrow, where you will be met with a number of favors and gifts from individuals far more significant than myself.”

“You’ll always have my ear, Lady Melody.”

Melody’s distinguished voice picked up tempo, words falling over each other. She pulled a second, more ornate handkerchief from her blouse. “Would you ever consider courting me?”

Somewhere in the depths of my mind, Vogrin laughed.

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