RE: Monarch

I read quietly within my mother’s quarters, as I often did when she was taken with sudden bouts of the consumption we eventually came to know as Nithia’s syndrome. It hadn’t gotten serious yet, father still insisting it was nothing more than the occasional weakness of the body that had plagued her since childhood. Still, I had been practically raised on stories with protagonists who lost parents or parental figures to early tragedy, so some part of me was terrified that if I left her, even for a second, fate would take her from me as part of some overwrought inciting incident.

I couldn’t know then, of course, that losing a parent to sickness doesn’t motivate you to do much of anything. The opposite is more often true. When losing one of the precious few in the world who loves you unconditionally, the world itself loses much of its luster. You rally against the gods, against fate itself, and the things you used to enjoy lose their sheen, and the priorities you once held reorder themselves until the list is practically unrecognizable.

Not knowing any of that, I stuck to her side like glue, terrified that my life would take the same course as so many of the stories we had shared.

It was more difficult to delve into the serious, Neo-fable styled fiction I’d grown so accustomed to while she was sick. So instead, I read light things. Biographies of famous figures. Comedies. Stories about characters who had little to worry about other than going to school and learning.

The closest I’d come to reading a serious tale was the story I currently read. The Ghoul Charmer, an amusing, pulpy novel about a wandering bard that found himself in all manner of trouble. The bard had a chaotic and musing relationship with a patron god who treated him well and looked after him, so long as he followed the rules.

“Do you dislike it?” My mother asked, setting her book down on her simple white gown. “You’re reading slower than usual.”

“It’s not dislike, exactly, it’s just not really grabbing me.” I closed my book, leaving my finger between the parchment to hold my place. “Ildran always seems to have things magically work out for him. Either his god interferes or he acquires a new spell that is exactly what he needs to overcome his problems.”

“You’re unhappy that your lighthearted adventure story is lighthearted?” Mother teased.

“That’s reductive.” I rolled my eyes. “And it’s not about tone, more about substance. I just wanted something more…”

I felt father coming through slight vibrations in the floor before I saw him. He stepped into the room smoothly, holding something behind his back. The daisy looked comically small in his massive hand, smaller than a blade of grass.

He saw me, and the flower immediately disappeared within the gulf of a palm turned fist, a single crushed petal falling to the floor.

“Good afternoon, my King.” My mother’s voice took on the smooth, measured nature it always did when she was talking to Gil.

“Wife,” Gil grunted. He was still focused on me. “Why aren’t you in the practice yard with Sera?”

I shuddered slightly. The last time I’d sparred with Sera she’d left so many bruises that I was unable to sleep in any other position than supine. Instinctively, I pulled my legs up in front of me as a sort of shield.

“I was keeping mother company.”

King Gil studied me, blank faced. “Oh? And was she so lonely she asked you neglect your duties and attend her instead?”

“Gil please,” mother started, her face the expression of queasy disquiet she often wore when conflict brewed between the two of us.

“No. I’m here because I wanted to read,” I said. My chin jutted out slightly, a whisper of the defiance I felt already growing within me.

“And what material are you teaching so studiously?” Father held his hand out to mother. With pale fingers, she handed him the book, the arm of her dress slightly yellowed where it was pressed to her mouth during sudden fits of coughing.

I felt a vague sense of wrongness, almost a violation, as he leafed through the book. Father had never taken an interest in our reading before.

“Go to the yard.” His voice was stoic. “Train with your sister.”

Shooting an apologetic look to mother, I did as he asked. After exiting the room I paused, listening as their voices picked up in volume and tempo, then retreated to the yard.

King Gil summoned me a few days later. I hoped it was for something entirely unrelated, but that hope was dashed as soon as I entered his study. The Ghoul Charmer was splayed out spine-up on his desk. I felt immediately uncomfortable at the positioning of the book. I’d done something similar in my childhood, and the librarian had lectured me for over an hour.

“Father.” I bowed in greeting.

“Sit. I don’t have much time.” A scribe attended him, fussing with a massive stack of documents. My father’s face was uncharacteristically thoughtful, as if he was unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he reached out and seized the book, snapping it shut and pointing the outward edge at me much the same way as a man might brandish a knife. “This… trash. Is this the sort of thing the two of you always read?”

I considered the question. It was likely he’d already interrogated mother on the topic. My father disliked asking questions he didn’t already know at least part of the answer to. I decided to go with a slightly embellished truth.

“Not really. That particularly tome is a bit more whimsical than our usual fare.”

“Whimsical indeed.” My father snorted.

“I take it you didn’t enjoy your reading then?” The worry I felt was partially replaced with the amusing image of father leafing through the tome, searching for the violent bits.

He ignored the subtle jibe. “I seldom enjoy trite flights of fancy, son. It is the philosophy of the thing I’m concerned with.”

I cocked my head. If Slayer had an underlying philosophy it was news to me. It was equally light on symbols and motifs, acting as little more than wish-fulfillment. “What philosophy is that?”

“This bizarre interpretation of camaraderie with one’s enemy.”

If it was anyone but my father, I would have laughed in their face. I tightened my lips. “It’s just a silly story, father.”

“But it isn’t.” King Gil stared at the book hatefully. “Or at least, it shouldn’t be. There are men that I’ve met that have held similar beliefs.”

“I’ll retire the story,” I said, quickly. “We’ll find something new.”

“Why do you do that?” He asked.

“Do what?”

“I’ve been formalizing arrangements since before you were born. I know what it sounds like when a man is shutting down a conversation out of polite distaste.” Despite being said so casually, it was unusually accurate. He stood, holding the book, and eying the small blaze that burned in the corner fireplace. I thought he might throw it in just to spite me. It certainly wouldn’t be out of character.

Instead, he held it out to me.

I took it, surprised. This was entirely uncharted territory for us. My usual conversations with father either ended quickly or loudly.

“Shall I return this to the library?” I asked.

“No. I want you to read it again.”

My mind immediately went to the stories of shapeshifters and parasitic slimes that overtook bodies. “Funny.”

“This is serious, Cairn,” father reiterated. “Your mother enjoys the reading, so I will not interfere. But read it again. This time, I want you to mark all the times the blithering idiot stays his hand. When he shows mercy to an enemy he should have slain, especially if he had no tactical or logical reason for doing so. And for each scenario, I want you to write out a list of possible consequences that might have happened, to him or those around him because he was too weak to do what was necessary.”

“I will, father.” I said. In truth, the request took me aback.

“Victory is never easy, Cairn. It requires sacrifice. Sometimes the cost is small. Sometimes it is greater and more horrible than you could ever imagine. But there is always a cost.”

The advice was oddly sage. Almost reasonable, if you were willing to ignore every terrible thing he’d ever done.

I feared this level of interest would become a common occurrence, but that did not come to pass. He never mentioned it again. But as I reread The Ghoul Slayer, it was as if the blinders had been removed.

I found myself ill at ease finding that my father was not wrong. Maybe he wasn’t right, either, but Ildran was an idiot. He showed mercy so regularly and easily it was almost pointless. Even to villains any would classify as despicable and worthy of death, he would stay his hand if they did as little as admitting to the error of their ways.

As quickly as I could, I put this out of my mind and refused to think on it again. It didn’t mean anything. It was just a story.

----

Guemon’s estate was a relatively small, a fraction of the size of the massive, spiraling estates the other council members lived in. Despite the difference in size, it was by far the heaviest guarded.

I frowned. This didn’t look like business as usual, no matter how paranoid a person might be. There were four guards posted outside the front gates, and numerous sentries patrolling nearby rooftops with crossbows. As soon as they spotted me, there were a series of whistles, and while they did not visibly react or change patterns, every eye in the narrow street followed me closely.

Something had spooked Guemon. Badly.

Just in case, I kept my arms out at my sides, hands in clear view and away from the pockets of my robe. I was thankful that I had decided to leave my sword at the house, though the cold lines of my dagger weighed heavily against my back.

I approached the guards at the front gate, fully prepared to be rebuffed, and have to argue and bully my way through.

The guards parted almost immediately. The gate slid open.

It threw me off momentarily. If Guemon was taking all these precautions, it was strange that I was not restrained purely on principle. But no. If anything, it almost as if he was expecting me. If this had happened last time I would have been concerned about walking into a trap. But after the asmodials, my perspective had shifted, warped almost. I hoped it was a trap. If my suspicions were wrong, and it did turn out to be Guemon at fault, that would only simplify things.

A man in red approached me. A human. He sauntered up to me with a disarming grin, not concerned at all with accosting a prince, lacking all the grim determination of the surrounding men. If anything, that general sense of apathy made him feel all the more dangerous.

Before he could pat me down, I pulled the sheathed dagger from my back, making sure to keep it sheath. The surrounding guards stiffened. From the corner of my eye, I saw a rooftop crossbowman take aim, settling the shaft of the weapon into the crook of his elbow.

Guemon’s men were not screwing around.

The man in red did not react. His hand never strayed close to his sword. Slowly and carefully, I tossed it underhanded to him. He caught it with a spinning flourish—immediately locating the weight of the blade and flipped it pommel up, flicking his thumb upwards against the cross-guard.

“Lowhil. Well.” He looked me up and down. “How very metropolitan.” When I didn’t rise to the bait, he walked around me, but did not physically pat me down as I had expected. “Anything else I need to be aware of?”

“No.” I said, honestly.

“If you say so.” The man in red sounded disappointed. Then, he took me by the arm and lead me towards the house. Rather than walking straight in, he diverted us to a golden platform set off to the side. The way it pressed into the grass implied it was a recent addition.

I stepped on to the platform. The man in red opened a book, as if he was returning to some afternoon reading. Beneath my feet, the platform buzzed, and a wave of foreign mana passed through me. It crackled at the still unhealed wound in my chest.

The man in red whistled once, and made a signal behind his back. Then, just as casually as before, he opened the sides of my robe, revealing the newly placed inscription.

He clucked his tongue. “Would you look at that? We match.” He pulled down the neck of his shirt to reveal an inscription. It was different than mine, even at first glance. The only thing our two inscriptions had in common was the head as the focal point of the spell. His inscription was longer and winding. And I was pretty sure I picked out the individual words of demonic that related to fire and explosions.

It wasn’t a suicide contingency. It was the closest a man could come to a guarantee that the person who killed him would die violently.

He released my robe and led me into the house.

What had once been a modest, stately home was now overrun with heavily armed and armored guests. A pack of them played stones at the kitchen table. One exited the bathroom. The wide halls felt packed and claustrophobic, and I was suddenly furious with Guemon. Even if he had nothing to do with the attack, the size of the group must have meant more than few of the men here had been pulled way from duties guarding the Enclave itself.

A number of Guemon’s doors were nailed shut and barricaded. Every window was closed off with wood, leaving small gaps that could been seen through but not into. For the first time, I felt a slight pang of worry. Some of these fortifications looked permanent.

They took me into a back room.

The sight was horrifying. My mind flickered back to the asmodials. It didn’t last long, but the flash was enough to leave me panting and covered in sweat.

The rumors of Guemon’s illness were not exaggerated.

His violet skin had faded to a sickly lilac. A gelatinous amber ooze covered his mouth and nose, which he breathed through heavily. A series of tubes filtered dull blood into a gray receptacle, which was treated somehow, coming out bright red and returning to his arm.

Guemon wasn’t just sick. He was dying.

His eyes opened, scanning the room with the sort of malaise that goes together with a late stage illness. He saw me, and his lips turned downward, some fire coming back into his face and making him slightly more recognizable.

“Come to finish the job?” He asked.

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