“Brothers . . . Kings . . .”
Gerry scarcely heeded the rest of his brother’s words. His concentration ebbed and flowed like the tide beneath Siren’s Cavern. Now and then, he caught an expression of interest before returning to his original thought. That is until Dawkin uttered the one mention to capture his full attention.
“Princess . . .”
Gerry perked just as Ely slammed his hand on the table.
“Why not me?” Ely insisted. “I drew the longest straw. It should be me!”
“The straws were not for that . . .” Dawkin replied.
That? What was ‘that’?
“But I –” Ely said.
“They were for who among us goes on to Ibia for the royal wedding. You three chose the longest straws, while I selected the shortest, so I will stay. The matter of who stands in for the wedding and the wedding night will fall to another drawing entirely.”
The wedding night?!
“Aye,” Symon chimed. He shifted in his seat to focus on Ely. “You know this, Ely. On all the voyages we took with Father in our youth, we always chose straws for who would go. And then we always did another drawing for who would represent the Prince in important matters. Like for banquets, royal tournaments, and the like.”
“But this is different,” Ely continued. “Or so it should.”
“Why is that?” Dawkin asked.
“Because I won.”
Dawkin and Symon shared a look, smirking. Even Gerry could not help but to respond with a sly grin.
“Need we put it to a vote?” Dawkin asked.
“No, no,” Ely responded, throwing his hands up, exasperated. “I know how the lot of you will decide.”
“Very well. Then it shall be. The one to attend the wedding will be determined by another vote, the time and place of which I will leave to you three.”
Gerry’s heart fluttered. I still have a chance. To stand in as King Jameson for the entire length of the ceremony. To say the vows before the High Bishop, to be toasted and congratulated. To see her to the wedding chamber for –
His breath caught in his throat. He nearly choked as the blood drained from his face. His pulse fluctuated, becoming erratic.
Her . . . I . . .
He came to, returning from his anxiety to the present moment. Only then did he notice his brothers staring at him, with even Ely expressing a look of concern.
“Are you well, Geremias?” Ely asked.
Am I? “I, I just considered, that, when one of us is with Taresa, Princess Taresa, after the ceremony, that night, when all the festivities, the toasts, everything, have concluded–”
“Oh, for the love of Mar!” Ely interrupted, his impatience returning. “Out with it!”
“I just wonder if Taresa will take notice of us.”
The other three looked to each other, confused.
“Us?” Symon asked.
“I mean, when we . . . lay . . . with her. The first of us. Then . . . another . . . Then the other two of us. I presume she will notice a difference with our bodies –”
At that last word, Gerry blushed. He had hoped his brothers would fill in the gaps before he spelled out the extent of his thoughts. They hadn’t, so he found himself laying open the concept of which they never spoke, that is, the sharing of a woman.
The three looked to each other again. This time not out of confusion but consideration. While each of them – even Gerry – had been with women, the situation of all four being with the same woman had never happened. Princess Taresa was assumed to be a virgin, pure as the day of her birth until the night of her wedding. With no experience per se, she would have no prior exposure to intimacy. That would translate to an advantage in the first few encounters, Gerry thought. However, as the brothers rotated from one ascension to another, the lifelong secret to their true identities would be put to the test, putting themselves at risk. Along with Taresa.
The moment of his embarrassment subsiding, Gerry turned to his siblings for guidance and support. To his amazement, Dawkin and Symon seemed equally flustered. Neither offered a reply, leaving Ely to pipe up in typical fashion.
“So what’s the problem? We have our truth sessions. We will simply go about this issue like all the others so that we as brothers will know what the other has done.”
Symon stroked his chin, obviously less than satisfied with Ely’s assurance. “Gerry has a point. Our differences will be so much more obvious in the flesh.”
“Oh, so now you boast of your long sword?” Ely quipped.
Symon’s face went flush. Not from embarrassment. From anger. “My sword is none of your concern.”
“I beg to differ, thanks to the musings of our younger brother.”
“I only –” Gerry started.
“Yes, yes, you were thinking with your sword – long or otherwise – that is very, very clear.”
“Ely!” Symon shouted.
“Symon!” Ely jested back.
“Everyone!” Dawkin roared, pounding his fist on the table as he did. “That is quite enough, don’t you agree?” He sighed. “Though it pains me to say this, I agree with Ely. Our truth sessions are designed to recall the details of events which, should they turn problematic, we can then discuss to come to a joint resolution. In regards to the Princess Taresa, should she note then voice anything about our . . . distinctive qualities, imagined or otherwise . . . we can then comprise a plan of action to deal with her.”
“Do tell, Dawkin.” An impish grin bent on Ely’s lips. He clearly enjoyed where this conversation had taken them.
“Well, we can give her some fading potion–”
“No!” Gerry erupted.
“Pardon?”
“She is not a soldier or a whore you can just, just inebriate at will. She is to be my wife.”
Even Symon raised a brow at that one. He shifted, leaning forward. “Gerry, calm yourself. Dawkin meant no slight. Remember, she is to be a wife to King Jameson. Which means the four of us.”
“This is outrageous!” Dawkin said. “Listen, if it becomes a problem, we will find a solution. Fading potion. Ale. Salve. Hell, I don’t care. We are ruling a kingdom, for Mar’s sake. Let us return to the important matters of state at hand. Yes?”
The three nodded, with Symon and Ely seeming at ease of letting go of the discussion. Gerry’s thoughts, though, persisted with the topic, long after Dawkin had droned on and on before adjourning their meeting.
The topic of Taresa - or rather, that of the royal wedding – soon resurfaced, however, when Artus descended to tell the boys the Sovereign Fleet was nearly set for departure.
His brothers at the ready, Gerry found himself scrambling. He had retired to his chamber in Terran to daydream about the wedding. In doing so, he had forgotten all about the preparations he was to take for the voyage. With Ely chosen as the one to represent them as King Jameson, Symon and Gerry were to don the garb of the Voiceless, to escort their brother undetected. Symon could always slip into a breastplate, jerkin, or other armor with ease, making his robing effortless. Gerry, on the other hand, always struggled with the straps and clasps. No matter the tailoring or cut, no bit of armor ever fit him right.
In haste, Gerry tossed the knightly armor on his bed, all the while the voice of his approaching grandfather ringing through the halls, growing more boisterous. Both his tasset and pauldron were askew by the time Artus checked in on him.
“My boy,” Artus said. “What is going on with you? Why aren’t you ready?”
“I . . . forgot,” Gerry admitted.
Artus placed his hands on his hips, more perplexed than frustrated. From behind, Ely came.
“Why the delay, Grandfather?” Ely peeked over Artus’ shoulder. “Seriously? After Dawkin’s far-too-long speech this morning, you keep us waiting?”
“I’m sorry.” Gerry lowered his head, making a show of quickening his pace when, in fact, he was trying to hide his shame.
“You’re nowhere close to being finished,” Ely snorted. “It’s one thing if I make us look like King Fool. But, Gerry, for you to do this –”
“Ely,” Artus said.
“He can’t possibly put on his armor in time for outgoing tide now.”
“You’ve said your piece,” Artus chided.
“Very well.” Ely studied Gerry for a moment. Then, he raised a brow. “At least allow me to propose a quick solution.”
Artus looked from Ely to Gerry, curious. “As you wish.”
Within the hour, Gerry stood on the deck of the flagship, the salt air smacking his cheeks. Such gusts often bothered him, though in this case, he wished for them to strike more forcefully. Or for the sea below to rise as a rogue wave to wash him bare. Or for any force, natural or otherwise, to swipe the moles and prosthetic nose from his face.
He felt like an idiot, as surely as Ely had intended. He bore the garb of a lesser Har-Kin – Kutte, Yves, or some sort – though his cape had the insignia of the King’s Treasurer, to mark him as an attendant or aide of some sort, that no one may question his presence. Still, as if the embarrassment of being lowered to the status of a servant weren’t enough, the arrangement of his disguise made his self-consciousness even worse. Ely had fitted him with the most hideous of snouts: a slender nose with a goosebump in the center. So profuse was it in length he knew it garnered attention rather than deflect it. To further add to his façade, Ely had adorned Gerry with all manner of moles. Small ones. Large ones. Round moles. Those of intricate shapes and patterns. Gerry, having seen himself in the mirror once Ely finished, shuddered at the idea of what others thought. They think me a leper, I suppose.
Symon, in the full armor of the Voiceless, strode up to Gerry. Though he had lowered his visor, Gerry still caught the whiffs of muffled chuckling.
“Laugh all you want,” Gerry said. “I’m sure behind closed doors everyone else is.”
“Serves you right. Being undressed before the most important voyage of our lives.”
“Glad to have your support, Symon.”
Between them sauntered Ely. He slapped a hand on each of their shoulders. “Cheerful! Come on, be cheerful, chaps!” He glanced at Gerry, clearly pleased at his work. “No one suspects a thing.”
“I hope a storm rocks this ship so much that you spew your guts,” Gerry said.
“Bold words from a servant.” Ely slapped him on the back. “Away with you!” Ely said loud enough for all those within earshot to hear. “Fetch me a skin of wine, you lowly peasant. Your king requires drink before a long seafaring adventure.”
Utterly humiliated, Gerry slinked away to fetch for his brother. He descended the forecastle to the main deck, about to go below, when the Royal Admiral shouted from the quarter deck.
“Prepare to set sail!”
In his moping, Gerry had not noticed the planks connecting the ship to the dock had been cleared, the ropes at the cleats untied, and the sails lowered. All took place with remarkable efficiency, at least in Gerry’s eyes. Within a minute of the Admiral’s command, Gerry felt the deck below his feet shift as the flagship made its way from the dock pilings.
Forgetting his ridiculous persona, Gerry moved to the rail, where many of the sailors had gathered to wave at their families on the dock. The commoners, separated from the nobles and royals by a line of guards, stood at the far end of the pier, waving back. At the near end of the pilings, relatives of the upper caste offered their salutes to their departing loved ones, which expressed much less affection and far more formality.
And there, at the very end of the dock, Artus offered a hand.
In the absence of King Jameson due to the royal wedding, the Conclave of Barons – at the King’s urging – had appointed Baron Ralf of Har-Kin Furde as Steward of the Throne. That resolution was issued weeks before. Since then, the Furde baron had contracted an unexplained illness, rendering him unable to tend to his noble duties, let alone his newly-appointed regal ones. Every other lord the Saliswaters could trust had committed to attending the royal wedding in Arinn, while those who couldn’t appeared suspiciously too eager to step in and tend to the Throne. Not wanting to witness such infighting, Artus stepped in at the last moment to serve as Steward. The barons of the Conclave – seeing the former king chose duty to his country over the chance to see his grandson wed – conceded to the change.
Around Artus, several Voiceless and personal guards to the Saliswater stood. Gerry paid them little attention save one, the Voiceless knight closest to Grandfather.
The lowered visor on his helm prevented Gerry from seeing his face. Nonetheless, he knew the posture, the disposition, of the man too well.
Dawkin, in the armor of a Voiceless, stared at the flagship with Artus. Unlike his grandfather, he raised no hand, made no gesture which could be interrupted as affection. He kept up the ruse of a knight on duty. As the one who had drawn the short straw in the Fourpointe Chamber, he knew that was his charge. And so he committed to it.
The Sovereign Fleet eased from Arc Harbor with nary an incident. Once again, meandering in his own thoughts, Gerry had lost sense of time. Only a few hundred paces from the wharf, a current of the Marlish Sea carried the first of the fleet into the vast ocean beyond, toward Ibia and the beginning of a new chapter in Marlish history.
The flagship entered the current last. Though far from the mouth of the harbor, Gerry could still make out the shapes of his grandfather and brother on the dock.
He knew not if they could see him. Still, coming out from the confines of his mind into the present, he knew he should say good-bye. Thus, he offered them a wave.
The next time I see them, he thought, I will be a different man than I am now. I will have seen the continent for the first time since we were crowned. I will have visited the courts of lands beyond my own. I will be a king proper — one with a wife.
My very own queen.414Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoExZc6Fiad
