The Axe and the Throne (13 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dusk fell upon the wooden tiles of the rooftops causing the specks of sap to glow as if self-illuminated. It was the mightiest city in the mightiest of kingdoms—the kingdom his father had taken when Alther was a boy not much older than his own son now was. Adeltia spread out before him as he gazed from the castle walls of its capital city, taking a reticent pride in the fact that it was Rivervale's banners that now hung from every turret of the distant outer walls, boasting the sigil of many tributaries converging into the mighty Eos. He recalled not his first trip to this kingdom, but his first trip here as a conqueror.
How differently I then envisioned my life would be, helping to rule this kingdom.

Alther looked to his son beside him and exhaled, knowing it was a mistake to have brought him. Stephon stood tall for his age of fifteen in his high-collared leathern tunic, his tournament foil kept proudly at his belt, admiring the view of what would one day be his kingdom. He had his father's spry frame and his mother's bright golden hair, prized among Adeltians, but where hers was long and wavy, his was short with tight ringlets. Alther imagined Stephon must be having the same thoughts of glory and grandeur he himself had imagined as a young man.
I have seen little of either since becoming a joyless custodian of that which these walls protect.

The two resumed their stroll along the wall walk, hearing what sounded to be children at play below. Had Alther been told two decades prior that his father would be allowing children in the courtyards, a place where knights should be swinging swords and hurling insults, sharpening steel against steel and mind against mind, Alther would have considered it madness. But King Lyell had seemed to have softened over the years, at least in terms of military preparedness. Having conquered all the civilized lands of consequence on their continent, the apparent need for such military strength and readiness dwindled.

Having been raised during the height of his father's zeal, Alther could still feel the blows from the intense training. “An angry opponent is an easy opponent,” said his father. “Revel in the joy of taunting your foe to the point of him defeating himself, and then you will know
true
victory, for a sharp mind can cut even an armored man to the quick.” But Alther found himself to be the one provoked to anger, always losing to the larger, nimbler, and more experienced swordsmen his father put before him. He learned to endure the abuse with detachment, as any whines or wincing only furthered the length and severity of his training. And he had become a fine swordsman, even by his father's measure, able to withstand the barrages of slices, thrusts, and insults all aimed at fresh wounds and tender flesh. But Alther had learned above all humility—a lesson he did not think his father had intended to teach, a trait not befitting a future ruler.

“Grab the pig-wizard's cape,” cried one of the boys from below. “Come on, show us a trick!”

Alther peered over the parapet to see four tall boys surrounding a fifth who was small only in height. The pig-wizard, as they called him, had the shape of a ham in truth, but this ham had upon its back a violet cape of a renowned Adeltian house. The boy may have been royalty, but it made no difference to the four surrounding him, who in all fairness were likely just as royal given their access to the courtyards.

“Why is your tail draped about your neck and not sprouting from your ass, pig-wizard?”

“Careful, he might turn you into a toad or something.”

“I'd be more afraid of him farting a fireball!”

The children laughed at the stout one in the middle and began their assault. The one closest grabbed the boy by his cape, jerking him backwards so that he fell on his ass. He turned and got to his feet slowly only to have a different boy pull him down hard again upon his backside. By the third time, they had dragged him far enough that he nearly smashed his head upon the stone forming the perimeter of the gardens.

“That is enough,” Alther called down to the boys. They quickly dispersed when they realized they had an audience. The tortured boy continued to cry, not seeming to have heard Alther's intervention. He stood up, dragged the top of his arm all the way down to the finger across his snotty nose, brushed off his cape, and limped off.

“That was poorly done, Father.” Stephon spoke as if lecturing a servant. “A man must learn his place.”

Half his blood is mine
, thought Alther as they continued toward the king's chambers,
but it seems he is pure Adeltian, in truth.

Alther and his son entered his father's study and proceeded down the long entryway that led to the seated king. Aside from the grand desk and ornate topographical carvings on the walls, it was a simple room with simple furnishings. His father preferred to do his work of import within the comforts of this room adjacent to his bedchambers. It had none of the regality of the massive throne room, which saw little use by Lyell, but the nature of the study lent it an air of muffled secrecy. A man could enter a room such as this, never exit, and none would be the wiser.
I must maintain composure and show discipline so that I may walk out the same way I walked in.
Alther did not truly fear his father killing him, but it never hurt to be scrupulous.

“Ah, my son and his,” said Lyell as he looked up from the maps and papers on his desk. “Come to tell me of the wealth and riches they have secured for my kingdom, no doubt.” Lyell was by all accounts an old king, yet he had the look of a man that retained enough strength from his youth to gladly throttle a man should the need arise. His skin sagged slightly around the eyes, but his short and cleanly cropped beard of thick white hair and his penetrating stare made him a formidable presence. Alther was much the younger reflection of his father, with darker hair, firmer skin, and a more lithesome build, but where his father was all steely resolve, Alther was troubled apprehension—a fact he was especially cognizant of when in his father's presence.

“I am afraid not, Father.” Alther knew he must look how he felt, sour and melancholy, the way he always felt when having to report his failure to his father.
I was trained to wield swords and lead men into battle, not to manage the finances of a foreign land where all despise me and plot to ensure my downfall.
“The merchants of the Spicelands have once again increased the price for transporting pepper and poppy. Worse yet, the price of salt has increased tenfold without cause, and they report supplies of juniper and corian—”

“No need to list every spice in the cook's kitchen, my boy,” interrupted the king. Alther had carefully planned this speech, ensuring that it would detail the multitude of obstacles that stood in the way of him meeting his own modest goals, which were but a fraction of his father's lofty requests.

“Yes, Your Grace. What I mean to say, in short, is that Westport will not be producing the, ehm, amount of revenue for the Throne that we had anticipated. The amount we had agreed upon, I mean to say.” Alther spoke meekly and stumbled with his words.

He immediately regretted calling his father by the formal title for a ruler as he knew it was like to only incite the man to anger. “I am your father and your king,” he had reminded Alther in the past, “and there is nothing unduly graceful about either.”

The king returned his gaze to his papers and let out a sigh of displeasure. He then allowed silence to linger as he was prone to do. It was far easier for Alther to endure his father's discourtesy when alone, but Stephon had been adamant about getting a chance to show his newly acquired prowess for politics to his grandfather.

“Perhaps you could explain to me, Alther, how it is that Westport, the richer of the sister cities before we took the Throne, the richest city in all the realm, has now come to be evermore poorer while Eastport's incomes grow with fervor?” Lyell still looked down at his papers.

Alther was prepared to trade ill words in regard to the merchants but was not ready to answer any questions of substance as to his continued failure. He had been so engrossed with his own finances that he had little time devoted toward righting the problems with his city's income. Crella spent more than he wished on unnecessary luxuries, but the true source of his troubles came from using his own money to help pad and conceal the disastrous state of his city's lack of revenue. That was a solution, however, that could not continue; he had nearly consumed all his own once substantial monetary reserves.
If left to the devices of my lovely wife and these merchants I shall be a pauper and worse yet, an embarrassment to my father.

“Your Gr—.” Alther caught himself and began anew with a deep breath, cursing his father for having had him trained in Adeltian customs only to later discourage their use. “Father, it has been difficult to maintain order in the city. The Adeltian people resent my rule more than that of Cassen's, as I am an outsider, and he is not. The conditions near the docks are poor, and sailors I hear prefer the cleaner bars and brothels of Eastport in spite of the extra distance. They fear the waters near the Devil's Mouth as well and favor the more southerly route.” Alther thought it best not to mention the demon ships the sailors claimed to have been attacked by. Even Alther knew they were pirates at most.

The king pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. “Did I not pay to have you schooled and tutored as a boy? Did none of those tutors show you a map? The Devil's Mouth is of no threat to sailors on their way to Westport, and the conditions of the waters have not changed since our seizing power.” Lyell turned his gaze to Alther now. He wore a look of disappointment that only a father can give a son after assigning him a task that he was right to fear was beyond his capabilities. “Had it occurred to you, my son, that your governing of Westport might be somewhat hindered by your residing in Eastport?”

It had occurred to Alther, and his father had brought it up on several occasions already. Westport was a city devoted wholly to trade and had no castles or structures built specifically for royalty. Alther had been unable to find in Westport a place regal enough for his highborn wife, and Crella forbade him under threat of public humiliation to live under a separate roof. “If you cannot secure an estate for your family that meets the standards of what should be provided for the wife and son of the
heir to the throne,
you are certainly free to find a smaller such home where you alone can stay. Just know that upon your return I will have let a number of gentleman into my bedchambers commensurate with my estimate of the amount of whores and trollops you have debased while away,” she had informed him. “Give or take a few perhaps,” she added with her usual candor.
Would that I could please both my father and wife… I fear it an insurmountable goal.

“I am afraid I have been unable, as of yet, to find a residence beseeming my good wife.” In Alther's befuddled state he had at last given his father the true reason for his remaining in Eastport, a fact he had been careful to conceal for fear of ridicule.

“Ha! Did you hear that, Derudin? My noble son, the heir to the throne who shall one day inherit the kingdoms of both Rivervale and Adeltia, is unable to manage his own household—let alone the once thriving city of Westport.” The king appeared to be genuinely amused by the fact.

Alther flinched, less at the words from his father—for he had endured far worse from him—and more from the realization that Derudin was present in the room. His father's sage advisor stood just to the side of the desk in fact, if not a little to the rear, where he always stood. It was unsettling how the old man was able to remain hidden in plain sight or even stand motionless for so long at his age. Derudin made no sound or gesture in response, but his acknowledgment of the king's sentiment appeared somehow implicit.