Interlude 20060921
The Anglish King, Markos Deimaros, sits on his throne. His hair and clothing are disheveled. He lounges with one leg over the arm of his throne, his manner tired, relaxed, almost comic. Painters have tried to capture it, actors have striven to emulate it, but none with the versimilitude that hangs heavily about this king. He is become a cliche', "The Crown Lies Heavy on His Brow".
At the dias, attending the sovreign, is a younger man of similar features, wearing his long night's labors with a more recognizable and pedestrian mien. He is the King's nephew, a Lord, with a Lord's duties and responsibilities, but the weight he carries is infinitely less. He is merely exhausted.
"By your leave, Uncle? I mean, Majesty?", the younger Deimaros speaks, "The night's business is at an end. Your guards have reported all is well in the streets. Nothing more can be done until morning. You should get some sleep. I will stay in my apartments in the palace in case you have urgent need of me. I could have some food sent in, if you are hungry..."
His voice trails off at a gesture from the King. "No need for that, Leighton. I'll be fine. You are right, I will be off to my rest soon. I'll just stay here for a few more moments, if you don't mind. No need to send for a servant, I'll get myself to bed. You have done our family proud tonight. You will make a good King... someday. Now go, leave an old man to his thoughts. I'll see you in the morning."
With a bow and a muttured "Water turns the Wheel", he leaves the darkened hall. The King replys softly, long after his nephew has departed, "The Wheel turns the World", and then even more softly, barely more than a thought, "The Wheel grinds us to dust, and the world moves on."
For a time, the only sounds are the King's breathing and the settling of the castle. Shortly, the deep heavy sighs of a King turn to the gentle rumbles of sleep, a sound indistinguishable from that of the most common slumbering laborer. Finally, in repose, the King is just a man, with the worries and dreams of a man. But it does not last.
The King wakes. He wakes with the long habit of an old soldier. No part of his demeanor changes, only the slightest change in breathing. Without yet moving, he readies himself for sudden action.
A voice cuts quietly through the silence, like the sharpest knife through flesh. No flash or fuss, and only the slightest pressure, going straight to the vitals. "You're getting old, Brother. Were I an assassin, you'd already be going cold."
"Were you an assassin, you would not have made it this far.", replies the King.
"An assassin can be friend as easily as foe. Many a king has met his end from those he trusted. You used to be more careful.", the voice softens from a knife's edge to a feather's stroke, tired as the King's, and carrying tones of long familiarity.
"I also used to have no friends. At my age, and with an heir standing by, I can afford a few trusted friends, even if it kills me", the King smiles, shifting upright on his throne, a glint of impish delight in his eyes, "I can still best you with a blade, old friend. You should have killed me in my sleep."
"Bah, it's too much trouble. Sneaking and poisons and cleaning off the blood. And then there's the succession and all that 'the King is Dead, Long live the King' stuff. It's my personal goal to make sure that you outlive me, old man. That way, I don't have to bury you." A blonde, heavy-set man with a friendly face and a stained doublet steps fully into the light. He carries a velvet wrapped bundle the size and shape of a framed painting or a mirror. A grin cracks his face, and his youthful eyes fill with laughter. "It's good to see you Markos."
"And you, Arum. I was worried for a bit. How did it go?" The King leans forward, still tired, but anxious and alert.
"Well, Shaid got away. Reports put him in my house after the explosion, but we've not been able to trace his movements after that. Luckily, he's not going to be as much trouble without the Church behind him, and most of Angland now thinks that he was some kind of sorcerer." He pauses to place the wrapped package carefully on the floor next to the dias. "The Church is meeting tomorrow to ex-communicate him. Most of the Witch-hunters stayed, but a few of them dissappeared with Shaid. No way to tell yet if they're all traitors or just dupes. Unfortunately, he'll probably root out the disloyal before we ever get a chance to use them. You'll have to watch out for him."
The King replies, "We knew that he'd probably survive. He has the Storm's own luck. But he's crippled for now. I've already informed the Kardian ambassador that, in light of our current internal discord, we can not commit to providing any support for their Rowmari War. Oh, he raised a stink over that one, believe me. Tried to remind me of my familial duty to revenge my neice. You should have seen his face when she brought me my tea!"
The King smiles broadly while his friend lets out a hearty laugh. "It's not *that* funny", the King points out rather matter-of-factly.
"Are you kidding", asks Arum, "I can see it now! I bet that stonefaced bastard nearly choked on his wooden teeth!"
"Well, he did choke a little. Leighton had to slap him on the back until he coughed them back up", the King's grin widens, caught in the spirit of things. Arum tries to regain composure and fails miserably, collapsing into a fit of laughing and hiccuping. The King can't hold back any longer, and both are indisposed for a time until it passes.
The King recovers quickly, and passes a cup of wine to the other man. He drinks deeply of the spiced wine and passes the cup back, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Both men are smiling now, ans the king looks more at ease.
"Was anything recovered from Shaid's manor?" asks the king.
"Nothing of interest. The destruction was very extensive. I've rarely seen anything like it, and never in Angland," replies Arum, "My agents were very thorough."
"What of your agents? Have they been silenced?", asks the King, "We don't want this coming back to haunt us."
"They are dead and buried, " replies Arum with a barely discernible downward glance.
The King glowers sternly, "You put too much faith in people Arum. Too many loose ends. I could have them found and dealth with properly, you know."
"You won't."
"Do not presume too much, my friend. Perhaps I put too much faith in YOU," the King's expression softens, "Very well. I trust you Arum. Just make sure that they STAY dead and buried."
"Yes Majesty," a grin once again carves lines of joyful history across the cherubic face, "Besides, who knows if we might need them again. And you *did* like the girl."
"She was a spitfire, wasn't she," muses the King, "Not a great beauty, though. She could have benefitted from your craft."
"Perhaps. But you know how I feel about that."
"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry," the King reaches out and lays a hand on his friend's shoulder, "But it may be time for Arum Reild to die. He's been useful, but there are too many questions, too many links between us now. I have need of a new courtier. A steward or clerk maybe? Someone that can befriend my nephew and keep an eye on him. Perhaps another Reild? A distant relative perhaps? Second cousin?"
"I thought as much. It's already arranged. Arum Reild dies tonight," he sighs heavily, shoulders sagging, "Nothing to do with the fighting, just a weak heart. His sister's step-son is the legal heir. All proper. Khail Verimis Reild. Young, but not too young, full of righteous indignation, and a head full of romantric notions. He'll get along with Leighton just fine. I'll miss Arum though. I grew quite fond of heresy. I suppose Khail will dispose of most of it. Doesn't fit his character. I even arranged for the special collection to go missing, right under Shaid's nose. I wish I could have seen his face."
"I'll miss Arum too," replies the king, "I've valued your council, old friend. If it lightens your heart at all, this will probably be the last time. I imagine Leighton will succeed me soon enough. I have half a mind to abdicate, but he's not ready yet. Do you think we can get him into the council soon?"
"The Church has already nominated Dismet Jaithe for the High Seat and your Council. He's ancient. He won't sit for more than a year. Leighton's already taken his devotions as Bailiff with the Templar. When Jaithe dies, a few words in the right ears should eliminate most of the candidates. If Veros objects strongly enough to your nephew, the others will back him just to spite the old crow. You'll put your heir in firm control of the Church before he ever mounts the throne. He'll have one of the strongest legacies you can give him. Ormryd willing."
"And what of my trueborn son?" The King's eyes brim with barely controlled emotion, "Did he survive the night? My spies could not tell me for sure."
"Jaycin's been buried along with our clever friends," the man called Arum replies, "I have faith that he'll be well. He's chosen his own path, as usual. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he finds the truth of the Blinding, someday. He could reunite the Church and the Brethren with that knowledge, or destroy them both forever. Provided that he doesn't Fall."
"We all Fall sometimes."
"But our Brothers are there to raise us up again."
"Goodbye, my leige."
"Goodbye, Arum."
A blonde, soft-faced man kneels alone on a dusty floor before a velvet covered rectangle. A single candle casts sinister shadows. His shoulders sag, his oft cheerful demeanor is wracked as if by palsy, weeping and laughing in turn. He tips his head back, eyes gazing imploringly toward the ceiling, seeing far beyond that dusty space. He rests his face in his hands, visibly mastering his will. He sits back on his haunches and crosses his hands in front of himself as if in benediction. He mouths syllables that bear no semblance of ant known language. Snuffing the candle, he draws aside the velvet cloth, revealing a shattered mirror, lit from within by some pale lunatic glow. His own face is reflected back at him, a hundred time, a thousand, each image distinct.
Each reflection shares some chraracteristic with the man himself; some are nearly identical, others are as different as two men can be, but sharing one small quirk of brow or habitual stance. Some laugh, some cry, some sneer and wring their hands while others cower and plead. As the syllables spill from the kneeling man's mouth, one face becomes more frequent, until every facet contains a similar visage, quite different from the original. He is a red-haired young man, at the peak of his years, still there are distinctions. You might imagine them to be innumerable twins, or close brothers, the same in appearance, but altered by years of experiences. One a clerk, one a cleric, one a conscript. One cheerful, one grim.
The blonde man's voice runs dry. He reaches out, carefully selecting a particular facet. He touches it. There is a flash. The blonde man is gone, another rises and covers the mirror.