“You had the right of it, Grandfather.”
Damn, was his voice always so deep? Colbern asked himself. Or perhaps he has grown into his role like all of us did before him?
Colbern studied the War Hall. How it had all changed in a matter of days. The adornments he had come to know in the decades since the Century War had been removed except for one long table with seating for five. All else had been replaced by parchment after parchment showing maps of Afari or potential battle formations for the troops they had amassed. Other tools – a triangular divider, quills, ink wells, wax seals – laid out before them, along with silver trays bearing food and drink aplenty, all suggestive of the long hours their conversation would require.
Beauty was forgone for the practical, leaving utility without apology. The scene reminded Colbern of his younger years when both he and his brother found themselves primed to lead.
“I suppose I did,” Colbern answered, moments after the opportunity had passed. His voice carried long and far through the chamber, without furniture or masses to absorb his sound.
“How many this time?” Symon queried.
“Three,” Ely snapped before taking a draught from his goblet. “The bloody bastards were entrenched here far too long. One agent had been here for over four years, working first as a baker’s assistant before somehow worming his way into the guardhouse as a squire. The little runt was almost knighted, too, before a patrol caught him in the dungeon scouting the tunnels. Only under extreme duress was his ploy uncovered.”
Symon shut his eyes and grimaced. “And what of that traitor now?” he seethed.
“Well, like the rest of him, he shat himself when he took to the noose. Struggled for a full minute too.”
Colbern turned his lip. He loathed any method of punishment that prolonged the inevitable, with hangings being his least favorite. Berold would have approved, though. Drat, he thought. And if he were here, he would say as much. No matter. It’s not his turn. Still, best to keep up appearances.
“Good riddance,” Colbern uttered. “And a display like that sends a message.”
Ely raised his goblet to his grandfather in agreement. Colbern returned the gesture, forcing himself to choke down the drink rather than spew it.
“Any idea from whence they came?” Dawkin asked without bothering to turn around. He mulled at the open window, leaning against the pillar as he stared at the harbor below.
Ely shook his head. “Nay. The three captives screamed only a few words to confess their treacherous acts. None spoke of their origins. Mayhaps they grew up in Tosily and were trained to blend into our peoples. Or they could have been recruited from our island and paid handsomely for each year of their ruse. Whatever their way, we’ll never know.”
Dawkin spun away from the window, grinding his teeth. “Too many secrets! How are we supposed to fight the enemy if we don’t even know them?”
Thump-tat-tat-thump. Their signature knock for the day rapped on the door before parting. Gerry entered with scrolls in hand. Forlorn, his eyelids and cheeks hung, speaking volumes of the hour which had passed.
“Brother,” Symon began, “is it that bad?”
Gerry passed his scrolls in answer. Still garbed to receive court, he shuffled to the nearest empty chair, dropping his regal circlet as he sat. The ornament clattered onto the table, spinning twice before finally settling down.
Symon unfurled the scrolls, reading through the top one. Ely glanced over his shoulder while Dawkin came aside Symon to snatch the remaining scrolls underneath.
“What news?”
“It says . . .” Ely trailed off into silence though his lips kept moving as he read. “Truly, am I reading this correctly?”
“Aye,” Symon answered ominously.
“Tell me,” Colbern insisted.
“Grandfather,” Gerry replied low, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “It’s about us but not to us.”
“What is?”
“A Holy Proclamation. From Vloma. A decree with a handful of slanderous points. All against our favor. Part One: Reinterpreting The Adumbration. It’s a lengthy explanation, but basically, the mages and councilors said the Church just recanted their acceptance that Mar last visited this earth here in Marland. The scroll goes on to state Mar’s journey did not end on our island, as previously thought. After careful examination of ancient texts and testimony, a truer version of events points to him concluding his mortal visit not on an island but a peninsula.”
“Blasphemy!” Colbern shouted. “Total blasphemy! And let me guess, that holiest site, this so-called peninsula, is firmly under their control. Port San-Mont, I suppose, right in our own backyard? Or maybe it’s the whole sliver of Belgarda? Those self-righteous bastards. Claiming their little land shaped like some serpent could be the last place Mar ever set foot.”
“Worse,” Dawkin spoke up as he raised his glance from the set of scrolls he held. “The Church went with another site, declaring a new Land of Mar’s Ascension: Volkmar.”
Colbern gasped. Gerry closed his eyes. Symon crumbled the parchment in his hands.
“Volkmar?” Symon asked.
“You had the right of it, Ely,” Dawkin nodded to his brother, who stood opposite of Symon. “And so did you,” he added, turning to Symon. “A delegation. A show of force. Though in truth, it seems Volkmar’s meeting with Belgarda was more than a diplomacy stunt. Hmmm. Seems their betrayal of us, their newfound alliance, or whatever you want to call it – It all had deep roots, ones planted long before the Lost Souls began their disturbances, and certainly ahead of the attack on Glic Anglisk.”
Dawkin rattled on, his words fading into the background, while Colbern considered the depths of the proclamation.
Volkmar. A pagan state of barbarians. With ink and quill, the Church of Mar had baptized a nation of sinners into the blessed. The decree had also damned Marland, which for centuries had acted as the ascension point for the god of Mar. Without the backing of the Church, Marland’s historical claim as a holy site solidified its heresy. Monks and bishops working the abbeys and churches of the island would now be forced to turn away the devout, lest they repented their loyalty to Kin Saliswater and swore allegiance to the Devout State of Belgarda over the Kingdom of Marland, praying in the direction of Vloma over Arcporte. While Colbern knew Saliswater could count on the loyalists in the capital and surrounding hamlets, the decision would undoubtedly split the fealties of the countryside, from the Highmoorr Peaks to the Ridge of Tarns to the Farflung Lands.
Colbern leaned on the table. “We can’t let word of this get out. Not yet. We must tell our side of the story. Ready the couriers.”
“Too late,” Gerry said.
“Nonsense. The masses will give consideration to all with the name Saliswater.” Colbern reached for the circlet on the table to hand it back to Gerry. “We’ll pull the same stunt you and your brothers did. Four acting as one. We’ll allow time between each of the public appearances, so if the people talk, we can credit our fastest steads with bringing our dearest King Jameson to all corners of the island.”
“Grandfather –” Gerry pleaded.
“Now, now, it will work. And to aid, I will act on your behalf, of course. Why old King Artus still has some leverage to flaunt –”
“Listen!” Gerry roared. He leapt from his seat. “We were the last to know. I don’t understand how, but by some trickery and design, the message has already spread.”
“Which means one thing,” Dawkin added.
“There are more traitors in our midst,” Ely concluded. “More foxes in our den. More than we could ever know.”
A quiet settled over the War Hall, all while their minds raged with the noise of fear and doubt. None stood more acutely aware of their failures than Colbern, whose head drooped between his shoulders.
Idiots. We were bloody idiots. We believed we expelled the enemy from our island. For over two decades, we lived with this false sense of security, a complacency that left smirks on the faces of our adversaries. But how could we not believe the lie? We lived so carefully. Audemar, ruling unopposed and unaffected as king. His sons – their secret in the dark, with none in the kingdom expressing any hint of suspicion – ascending and descending in rotations, one after another, for years without one falling.
Colbern lifted his eyes. His four grandsons – lost to themselves – remained silent.
This will define them. This challenge. And how they answer.
They need hope.
Colbern cleared his throat. “Your father was half the Continent away when he tasted such treachery for the first time. I suspect you’ve retained your knowledge of the histories, so repeating them for you now would be a waste of time. I know because I stood before him in a scene not unlike this, much like I do before you now. He sat dejected, with parchment in hand, questioning where it all went wrong.”
Colbern sauntered to the pitcher of wine to pour himself a drink. He cradled the goblet in his hand as he prattled on with his recollection, not sure of how he would end it.
“He prevailed, at least in the day, extinguishing so many of Kin Foleppi that he earned his famous moniker: The Foxcatcher. It’s easy to dismiss his efforts in the current moment as failures, but back then, by Mar, did he win the peoples’ trust. You’d think your father was Mar reborn the way the common folk and nobles spoke of him. Lords envied his power. Boys ran through the streets and fought over the right of who could pretend to play him. Mothers and fathers named their sons after him. ‘Twas an uplifting time.”
“Even if it was a façade?” Ely quipped.
Symon slapped his shoulder, chiding him to quiet. Colbern gestured in acceptance, turning to Ely.
“You are right to call out the pretenses of his rule. You must realize, whether true or not, they proved effective. When the Century War came to a close, the Conclave unanimously approved an extension of his rule. Kin Saliswater remained unopposed nearly throughout the remainder of his reign.”
“Until he wasn’t.”
Colbern glanced at Gerry, who had returned to his seat, head raised every so slightly between his sunken shoulders.
“The lie faded, the truth caught up with him. I saw it. I was there when he died.”
Dawkin rounded the table to clap his brother on the shoulder. “Aye. As was I. For the first attempt, then the final farewell.”
Colbern straightened. “You are sons of King Audemar, early in your reign, learning a valuable lesson: This is what it means to rule. The deception. The weight of power. The fragile peace existing in a world of truth and lies. All of it. It comes with the Throne.”
“How did you manage, Grandfather?” Ely asked. “Honestly, you’ve seen more rule in your life than our father and us put together. What’s your secret?”
Dear Mar, would that I could tell you. “Everything you already know. Teachings instilled in you since birth. Always gathering allies at your side, in peace and in war. Building trust by keeping your word. Mercy when unexpected, vengeance when called for . . . All of it, you know. You only need to see through the conviction of your actions. Rule – unapologetically, with haste – knowing your failures and successes will build, together, your legacy.”
“Wise words,” Symon acknowledged, folding his arms. “You must have taught Father those same lessons.”
“Aye,” Colbern admitted.
“‘Tis one difference,” Gerry said. He rose from his seat, suddenly emboldened by a realization. “Grandfather ruled as one. So did Father. We are four. We needn’t do it alone.” Gerry pivoted to face Dawkin. “You relieved my rule at Glic Anglisk when . . . my spirits fell.”
“I did.”
“Would you do it again?”
Dawkin shifted in place, his eyes darting between Ely, Symon, and his grandfather. They settled back on Gerry, whose own gaze had never strayed.
“Aye,” Dawkin confessed.
Gerry turned to Symon. His jaw set, his nostrils flared, Symon looked to the ground as he approached.
“Brother,” Gerry started.
“Yes?” Symon asked.
“In his own way, Dawkin did right by us.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because we’re still here. No matter our faults, our mistakes, we remain together.”
“You think that enough?” Ely pressed.
“Deep down, don’t you?”
Ely considered for a moment. “I suppose,” he relented.
“Come now, Ely, you can do better than that.”
Ely chuckled. “Look at us? Upstaged by a runt.”
“Ely,” Symon scolded.
Ely extended the palm of his hand. “I jest, I jest. He has the right of it all. He’s right, he’s right.” Ely strode up to Gerry. “We face this together.”
Dawkin inched closer, his weariness having faded. “As kings.”
“As brothers,” Symon added.
“Aye,” Dawkin admitted.
Grins ensued. Along with some banter. They later agreed Gerry’s truth session could wait until morning. As the evening unfolded, Ely excused himself first. Then Dawkin. Symon and Gerry remained, speaking like lads on the events of court and the tales the captains and the sailors had brought in from the sea. Colbern smirked through it all, grateful for the smaller, everyday moments he could share with his grandsons.
Alas, finally, Symon and Gerry took their leave. The rest of the castle had settled in by then, the echoes familiar throughout the day abating with the passing hours, the War Hall being no exception. As the wicks burned and the wax melted, Colbern sat back, relishing in the peace of the night.
“You look proud of yourself.”
Colbern blinked, annoyed his tranquility had only lasted a moment.
“I thought you had retired,” he said, looking over his shoulder.
A familiar face – identical to his own – stared back at him.
“You only wish,” his brother, Berold, replied. He patted Colbern on the shoulder as he circled the long table to study its maps and tools.
“How much did you hear?” Colbern gestured to the wall opposite him. Blank and unadorned, with nary a crack distinguishable to the naked eye, not even the four would have ventured to guess it held a hidden door he and his brother had used since their youth.
“Enough. My mind wandered a bit when you drolled on and on with your advice. But my senses returned toward the end.”
“Are you admitting I did well, brother?”
“They left united, of their own accord. So don’t let the little effort you contributed go straight to your head.”
Colbern grinned. “Does that mean you’ll finally relent on the boys? Even the smart one?”
Berold huffed as he offered a sharp glance. Colbern shifted before rising, knowing he had crossed a line in provocation.
“The boy needs to be pushed. He’s the natural leader of the four. The true king. Like his father was at his age, he’s too soft. His edge needs to be honed, sharpened. His strength will come in time.”
“You mean his fury.”
“Audemar did fine enough with it. He maintained control of his temper – through my instruction – and unleashed his power when necessary. That edge aided him. Made him better.” Berold flipped aside a few loose parchments, letting them fall from the table. “You leave him to me.”
Colbern ground his teeth. Too often, during his ascension as Artus, Berold had flaunted his will. Colbern would learn of his dual use of pressure and brutality, then confront him, demanding he abandon his perilous ways. Berold would promise to ease his clout, only to resume his tactics when the opportunity allowed.
The vicious cycle resulted in a sibling rivalry approaching four scores, one in which Berold’s agenda won nearly every time. First, in their shared reign as King Artus, in which Berold’s directives always found a way of persisting over Colbern’s. Then with their son, Audemar, whom Berold molded into his protégé during the latter years of the Century War.
Now, with their grandsons, with his sights on Dawkin in particular. Berold would ensure he became his father’s son, cementing the Saliswater legacy for brutality.
Berold flipped another map, which rolled to the table’s edge to fall to the ground.
Colbern glanced at the parchment, which in the dealings of the evening had become stained with wine. Crimson patches dotted the drawings, perhaps serving as Mar’s ominous signs of all to come.
The parchment curled as it rolled on the floor. But not before Colbern caught sight of one red-stained land in particular.
Marland.
Colbern turned to Berold, who absentmindedly popped a handful of grapes and nuts into his mouth, oblivious to his brother’s judgment.
He corrupted Audemar. He will do so with Dawkin. In light of all that has happened – and so much more we do not know – is that so wrong?
The moral dilemma hardly proved new to him. The memories of his concessions to Berold – allowing him to raise Audemar by his methods – flooded back to him.
He broke their son’s kind spirit. He replaced Audemar’s openness with cynicism, his grace with vengeance. Then again, so many nobles did the same with their heirs, as did knights with their squires and captains with their sailors. Colbern and Berold had inherited the mantle of kinghood in an era of war, which they, in turn, passed down to Audemar. How else could their son have grown, if not by hardening, to face a lifetime of battles and challenges?
Colbern stood to arch his back. As much as he hated to admit, Berold’s way proved right time and again. In the complacency of his youth, he admitted as much, no matter how often he tried to rationalize against it. Now, in the twilight of his years, he came to the same truth once more, this time by way of sagacity and prudence.
He considered his brother for a moment, who tilted the silver platter to admire his reflection.
“Your intentions aside for the moment,” Colbern urged. “What do you see in their future?”
Berold smirked. He laid the platter down to snatch one of the wax seals from the table. Then with his other hand, he grabbed a candleholder. He tilted it over the largest unfurled map – an aged painted piece illustrating Marland and the whole of Greater Afari – to pour the melted wax onto the parchment.
“They are four. Four times the brains and brawn Audemar could ever muster. Twice the ability you and I had. One can rule while the other three prepare and plan. Over and over. ‘Tis a great advantage possessed by no king or queen on the Continent.”
Berold set the candlestick down after having made four blotches of wax, each in separate kingdoms on the mainland. He pressed the bottom of the seal into the nearest spot, leaving a golden four-pointed compass over the land of Tosily.
He went on, imprinting the seal on the kingdoms of Volkmar and the Devout State of Belgarda before pausing over the blotch he had poured on Ibia.
“Empire has never been a choice word in our courts. Our people prefer control over the sea, whose waves and tides remind us it’s a waterscape that defies mastery.
“Our kingdom’s resources have been pushed to the brink. Fish only feed so many, while wheat and barley stores go empty almost as soon as they can be filled. And that was before the recent chaos set afire parts of the country.
“Colinne remains sparsely colonized, despite its annexation two decades ago. With this new ‘threat,’ we have the opportunity to convince the Marlish to finally settle in lands not their own. In fact, we’ll offer it as an incentive, gifting the bravest knights and the most loyal nobles tracts in honor of their service.”
Colbern mulled over the proposition. Similar schemes had been recommended in the past, especially during the height of the Century War. At the time, the kingdom of Colinne had stood in their way, what with their policies on open borders and their multitude of alliances. With those gone, the possibility of success seemed attainable, if only in theory.
“I left you speechless, I say,” Berold grinned.
“Will the boys be at an equal loss of words?”
“Perhaps. ‘Tis no matter so long as they don’t linger in their thoughts, like you do, and act.”
As brothers, Colbern thought, remembering the boys’ words. As kings.
“Relax, little brother.” Berold tossed the wax seal up and caught it in his hand. “They are Saliswater. They will prevail.”
Yes, they will. But at what cost?
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