The King's Blood (84 page)

Ciara chuckled, wiping away the previous conversation as if it were a harmless stain. The assassin knew when to plant a seed, and when to leave it to grow. He leaned up and struggled to place a foot to the ground.

"What are you doing?" Ciara called, standing up as Taban put another foot to the ground.

"It is never wise to remain in one place for overlong," he said, getting his second foot to the floor.

"Here, let me help you," and the girl hooked her arm around the assassin's shoulder, taking a lot of weight upon her.
 

The irony was not lost on Taban as his eyes searched hers before asking, "Do you think they'll have some oatmeal left?"

"Oatmeal? Really?"

The assassin shrugged, "I fear I have become addicted to the spackle."

He should have slept.

The stench of moldy wood carried across the courtyard, as the few knights still upright split the firewood. With every swing of the ancient axe, they'd look behind to gaze at the boy trying to not hover as visions of an old Dwarven mechanism he read about danced through his muddled brain.

"Sire! Sire!" the shrill voice trailed behind the man in far too delicate slippers as he plowed through the mud.

Aldrin sighed and turned away from the few workingmen. The fresh velvet tunic bunched around his shoulders and he pulled at the arms as he faced the sniveling toady Albrant's men found dug in safe in the launder's room. He couldn't remember the name well, but the droopy eyes and jutting upper jaw put him in mind of a greying basset hound.
 

"You should not call me that..." Bernard? Bartlet? Aldrin was fairly certain it began with a 'B.'
 

"Yes, Sire," the not Bernard said as he bowed deeply. Aldrin tried to not roll his eyes, but he felt a sigh slip loose. "You are needed urgently with the Queen, there is much urgent news to attend to. Urgently."

"Very well, take me to her."

He really should have slept.

The night was complicated, with his men rounding upon the invaders and the invaders rounding upon his men, then he managed to garble out a cease-fire with that General of theirs. And just as everyone was settling down for a glaring match over tea, Moren marched her army right up to the front gate.
 

That was another handful of hours lost to people bickering over the proper pronunciation of "hat rack." Then there were the bodies to clean up, the servants to reassure, and a line that needed succeeding. It'd be months before the gentry could be summoned for a proper reclamation, and gods knew Aldrin wasn't ready for that test of strength and prowess to claim the throne.
 

Moren slumped off with her lieutenants, and generals, and commanders, claiming most of what had once been a parlor for her command center. She'd politely suggested Aldrin get some rest, and he'd wandered off in search of a quiet bed, but as he passed the room that still held his brother's corpse his legs kept walking and soon he found himself up to old tricks, watching the knights work.

The toady was babbling about coronations and dowries and other things that should probably be of Aldrin's concern now. He waved it all off with a nod, hoping he didn't accidentally call for anyone's execution. Toady paused at the parlor's door and readjusted the scrap of a hat on his head so it rested at a 45-degree angle. Aldrin blinked at him slowly, but didn't say a word. Fashion, right, another one of those "court things."

A far better manicured hand than the King's knocked against the door and a voice called out "Enter," with the kind of command Aldrin hoped to muster one day. He squared his shoulders and tried to rise to his full height, revealing his bare ankles to the world. Finding pants that fit were probably right after learning how to pass laws.

"Bonaventure," Moren called to the boy sauntering into her den. Some of the men crowded around her table bowed their heads, others looked at the toady beside Aldrin trying to piece together which of them was king.

"You wanted to see me?" Aldrin asked, parting the sea of men who smelled as if they'd ridden a fortnight on the back of a horse.

Moren nodded her head and said crisply to her men, "You are all dismissed. We need to discuss matters in private."

Aldrin didn't look at the men as they shuffled out of the parlor, each staring down at the king. Moren smiled weakly upon him, before her eyes looked up, "You as well, Barnabas." The toady grimaced at being caught, but bowed deeply to hide it as he backed out of the room, ass first.

"Your brother's body has been recovered," Moren said slowly, her critical eyes watching Aldrin.
 

"Oh...good," the King answered back, blanking his mind.

She paused, her head tilting to one side, "We may have a small service here, or carry the body back to the Starton Estate to inter it with the others."

Aldrin nodded his bowed head, "The people loved him, the people will want to say their goodbyes," he looked up into hers, and a crystal fire emphasized his orders, "He will be interred at Starton."

"Very good," Moren said as if she were praising a dog for not crapping on the rug. "Strange man, that Emperor," her voice fell carefully as she sorted her words, "capturing the keep, locking all the armed men in a dungeon, and then, days later, assassinating the King in an unlocked room."

"Yes," Aldrin said, his words as crisp as fresh laundry, "It is impossible to understand the motives of the truly mad."

Moren watched him, expecting a torrential outpouring, but the boy remained bottled up, his shoulders stooped from a burden he'd never unpack. "That is true," she finally responded, letting him know in her way that his secret would never pass her lips, "onto other matters at hand. Your truce with that Marciano ensures us a brief respite from the Empire's long fingers, but war is certain. Revenge…" she shrugged. An eye for an eye, a head for a head, a king for an emperor. Would the cycle ever break?

"In the meantime," Moren continued, "we have a few men to reward. I've already floated the idea of Albrant for Duke after all his tireless efforts..."

"No."

Moren paused, her eyes narrowing at the first sign of resistance from Aldrin, "Beg pardon?"

"No, he deserves no laurels, no titles."

Moren folded her arms, "You may have taken your own path to get here, but he did endanger his own life and his mens to keep the King safe. That requires respect and admiration, or you shall find yourself very lonely when the Empire comes back."

"He sacrificed his own men to save himself."

The Queen nodded, she'd done much the same. No one won a war by being the good guy. "Toss a title or a scrap of land to a man and he'll fight to the death for you. Ignore him and he'll convince twenty of his fellows to abandon you."

Aldrin swallowed the news hard, like one of Mitrione's dinner rolls, but he could see the bitter nugget of wisdom. After all, what was another piece of his soul? Eventually, he nodded to her,
fine, let the Knight have his accolades.
 

"Excellent," Moren clapped her hands, happy her puppet was performing, "I have arranged a small, courtly proceeding. Nothing too fancy, we can't afford it. You'll simply give your generous thanks and dole out a few words of triumph and hope for the kingdom. I already have Barnabas working on your speech."

Aldrin's head rose and he looked deep into those calculating eyes. A small smile curled around the edges of his lips, but he flushed all emotion from his voice, "Very well. If I must."

"'Ey, stop poking!"
 

"If I were poking, you'd know it."

"How's that?
 

"You'd be bleeding all over the floor," Isa responded to Kynton as she poked him again with her finger and laughed. A genuine, almost warm laugh. The priest's jaw hit the floor.

Ciara shook her head, and turned her eyes to the procession before them. A handful of men stood at attention around an empty chair. Not much had been said about this gathering, only to round up everyone in the castle and get them to the great hall. King's orders.

She hadn't seen Aldrin since the whole tower's roof exploding incident, he'd been swept up by a wall of stone and politics. A small part of her suspected she'd never really see him again, the boy had been drown out by King Bonaventure. He really needed a better first name.

"Oi! Why don't you poke Ciara instead? She's just as much in the way as me," Kynton waved his hands at the witch, snapping from a lack of sleep and a lack of bacon in his gut. Cursed witch downed the last strip just as he got to the kitchen.

"Because she's still in armor, you moron," Isa countered. Then looked over at Ciara, "Why are you still in that, anyway?"

Ciara shrugged, her shoulders jangling, "It's comfortable enough."

The short man who looked more like a basset hound haunted about at the foot of the makeshift throne and cleared his throat. When that had no affect, he banged a stick that looked a lot like Isa's discarded staff against the ground three times. "All shall rise for our Lord."

This earned a strange glance from the assembled minions, who were already standing. Maybe they were supposed to stand more? Whispers and murmurs replaced the silence as everyone tried to determine how best to not piss off their new king. Starting off on the wrong foot with royalty was a good way to lose said foot, and possibly your head.

"Oh, for Scepticar's sake," Ciara muttered, before holding her hands up to her face and shouting, "Get On With It!"

The basset hound blanched at her lack of decorum, his chest puffing like a bird about to face down a rival. Ciara only laughed back in response. She'd never hear the end of it from her mother later.

A familiar blonde head poked about from the side entrance, his eyes scanning the crowd. Before he could find whatever he searched for, Aldrin felt the thousand pound stare of very bored, very assembled citizens. He shuffled out into the hall as every eye followed him, trying to muster up a bit of dignity even as the royal clothes scratched his skin. He missed the old, ratty tunic.

Moren followed quickly behind, her presence enthusing her men, as their clapping and cheering overtook the others. The few servants politely brought their hands together, and Albrant's men glared on. They'd lost so many while the Queen waited.

"Yes, jolly good. Wonderful show," Kynton clapped enthusiastically, holding his hands above his head. "Was that it? Can we go now?"

"Shut up, priest," Isa muttered, poking him in the side with her elbow again.

Aldrin paused before the chair extracted from the kitchen and set aside specially as his throne, then he looked out at the sea of faces, each without their own place to sit. "My lord," the toady insisted, pointing towards the cushioned seat.

Instead, Bonaventure turned to face his subjects for the first time as something other than the spare prince. "My people..." Moren's lips tightened at his decision to ignore decorum and remain standing, but she softened as the crowd clapped.

"I stand before you, not because of any work of my own, or any of my own skill." The crowd murmured,
yes, it was rather obvious. Look at those arms.
But Aldrin ignored it, his hands outstretched as he continued the part-time bard's words, "but because of you. Each of you sacrificed to bring us to this day."

Barnabas nodded, his lips moving along to his speech. Slowly, Aldrin walked towards the crowd, the men parting to let him pass as he talked, "Blood, lives, sweat and more blood. Each were shed to defend our home, to keep safe our home from the greed of the snaking Empire and their false god."

That got a fresh round of applause, which lit up Barnabas' face. Aldrin paused, waiting for the fervor to die down. "I could not stand here today were it not for you," his eyes searched the crowd and he paused upon the lone bit of color in a sea of white. Aldrin faltered for a moment, and with a dusky voice said, "and you will always be in my heart."

Barnabas looked over at Moren; the kid had gone way off script. The Queen tried to politely cough, and quickly intoned the next line under her breath. But Aldrin wasn't listening to either of them, instead he watched an always-stoic Ciara nod to him and then turn and shove the witch making gagging noises. He smiled for himself, before letting the King slip back into place.