I. A GATHERING
Ælar and his closest advisor, Saril Llaranivroth, stood backstage at an event in the city of Quarrovth - the prince's adopted home. Saril, a shrewd politico and former employee of the Imperial Chamberlain's office, was trying to ensure that Ælar, head of House Quarrovth, would be Quarrovth city's favorite son despite having not set foot there until his teenage years. Events such as these - gatherings mostly of loyal House functionaries with the occasional apathetic citizen or homeless person - consisted of House orators making lengthy speeches before the head himself would take the stage, say a few words, and disperse the group.
Despite the mediocre attendance numbers for these events, a day or two after their end the people of Quarrovth all seemed to know and appreciate Ælar a little more. The fact that the House he led had no official political power in this brave new republic made no difference; it was the
name recognition that mattered.
"The Prime Minister expressed her concerns about the incident to me yesterday,
serjo. I'm worried we may have gone too far this time." Saril Llaranivroth said grimly. A tan man with a sallow, leathery face and a crooked nose that had never been set properly after a childhood fracture, he looked as if he was perpetually delivering bad news. Today the news concerned a recent brawl between House Quarrovth youth and the Pelagis prefecture.
"I don't think this will be a problem, Saril." came Ælar's reply. He was sitting in a chair having powder applied to his long Quarrovth nose. "I spoke to the leader of our House's youth wing about reining in some of the more... aggressive voices within our ranks."
"I
think," Saril said, stepping towards the prince's ear, "she's worried about her political standing. If you had designs on..."
"Saril, my friend," said Ælar, dismissing a makeup artist and rising to his feet, "if those were my plans you would be the first to know." Standing six foot two, Ælar made for an imposing figure despite his advancing age. Next to the five foot five Saril, he looked like a giant.
"Would I?" Saril asked bitingly. "Because everyone is saying you want to force the PM to resign."
"Keep your voice down!" Ælar half-whispered. "This isn't my office."
"Well, I think I deserve to know what you're planning."
Ælar looked to each side before leaning into Saril's ear. "That's not my plan... yet."
"Yet?" Saril whispered, face reddening. "When did you intend to tell me this?"
"When I knew what our chances were. And I still don't."
"Well, you'd better figure that out before you do anything
rash."
Ælar stepped back and leaned on the side of the vanity he was sitting at a moment before. "I've always liked your... directness," he said. "Contact your people in Letonna. See what they're willing to do for House Quarrovth, and for how much."
The applause began to roar outside as a band played the first of four ruffles and flourishes. "That's my cue," Ælar said with a grin. "I'll see you in a bit."
Emma and Peté stood alone in a clearing fifty miles north of Rastianav, Ozia; the ground, rocky and untilled, was near the border with the old Myrorian homeland. It was in a region of the world over which six thousand years' worth of battles had been fought, and that was the grave of countless men and women.
If he was present, Ælar might have felt beneath the hard ground the steps of thousands of his ancestors - the Kei'hesse'zhi - being marched to Ozian boats that would sail them across the strait to Vonisia in the 15th century, two hundred years before their exodus to the Pelagian Empire. Meneldur might have felt the hoofbeats of thousands of his ancestors' horses - Dunedain horses - as they rushed into Ozia from the north millennia ago.
Neither Ælar nor Meneldur stood on the field this day, though - it was only Emma, that half-Dunedain, half-Myrorian, half-Ozian princess-cum-dire, and her father.
Emma was trying her best
not to think of any ancestors of hers that died on this field - so as not to take sides. She stared awkwardly at her phone in her hands while the disgraced former Empeurer surveyed the field like a general after a battle.
"
Sorry i couldn't make it", a text from Zeki said. "
didnt want to leave you alone with gramps but im just so busy."
Peté was thinking soulfully on the death of his uncle, stabbed to death by Ozian partisans in the Great War nearly 100 years before. It was in this very spot - or near it at least - that he fell.
"Ten bayonets is what it took to kill him," Peté said solemnly. "If only we could all go out so valiantly."
Emma cleared her throat. "Mother always said we all go out valiantly."
Peté said nothing for a moment. Emma looked up and saw her father looking at her. His hair was white, and his high cheekbones covered in wrinkles, but his dark eyes were still piercing, after ninety-some years. She met his gaze. It was hard for her to put up with Eluvataran dourness - but then again, she was much farther from death than he.
"That's wise," her father said after what seemed like an eternity. "Your mother’s people always had such a benevolent view of death," he stopped, as if to look for words. "But I can't help but feel it was the young ones that came up with that."
"Perhaps," Emma said. "Mother always said that once your spirit leaves your body it's happy to be away from this world. Away from all this pain, you know. I'd be happy for her if I were you. And I think she'd say it's healthy for us to remember the good times while we're still here."
"Those are wise words. Do you believe them?"
"I don't think there's a spirit inside me. But I think one shouldn't dwell on the past."
Peté nodded slowly, but said nothing. He turned his head upward - at least as far as his arthritic neck would allow. The sky was bright, but cloudy.
"Good advice."
"How are things in Myroria?" Emma asked. She took little interest in affairs across Cefnor but wanted to steer the old man's mind somewhere else.
"Ælar is causing a row," he said sternly.
"He certainly knows how to do that," Emma said, brushing her hair out of her face. A strong wind was picking up. This close to old Resdaynia, a devout Myrorian might claim to hear the moans of the spirits of dead ancestors on the wind.
"His Quarrovth boys got into a fight with the prefecture in Pelagis;" Peté began, with a tinge of disgust in his voice. "Some of them no older than 15. He says he discourages it,” Peté sniffed, “but he's congratulating the winners the next day. It's a dangerous disgrace to the whole system."
"I don't know much about that system, but I think violence has always been a part of it."
"It has," Peté said. His voice carried the authority of someone who knew such things firsthand. "But not like this. Not like Ælar's boys. Not in many, many years."
The wind blew stiffly and Peté crossed his arms. The tropical-weight wool blazer he was wearing was doing little to keep him warm.
"Let's discuss it in the car," Emma said. "It's a long drive back to the airport, anyway." She beckoned her father towards her, and they walked towards a black sedan, wheels covered in dust. She whispered something in Ozian to a guard standing by the driver's side door, and the guard swaggered to an SUV parked nearby. "I'll drive," she said to her father. "Get in."
Peté slowly lowered his body into the bucket passenger seat as Emma turned the key. The car, and the two SUVs in front and behind her, roared to life.
"What did the Prime Minister say about all this?" Emma asked, as the three vehicles pulled away towards an unimproved road. Emma glanced at the former king and saw his eyes widen.
"I haven't talked to a single member of the Myrorian government since your mother passed. And before that - oh, probably not since 1970 or '71."
"What?!" Emma exclaimed, keeping an eye on the road as she looked at him. "No wonder all the newspapers call you disgraced. You let them."
"I can't control the newspapers, Emma. I have neither favors nor intimidation on my side now."
"Sure you can," Emma said. "Do you think my reputation here is based on Ma's good word alone?"
"Your
mother," Peté began, correcting her colloquialism, "is well liked here."
"That lasted me two months. Then the newspapers sounded a little resentful of me. But once they started hearing about how I killed a rival with my bare hands - "
Peté looked about set to have a heart attack. Emma quickly interjected -
"It wasn't true! But it's the story that matters. Do you get my point, Father?"
"Not... entirely;" Peté questioned.
"Agh," Emma sighed. "I was going to wait until we got on the plane to do this. Reach inside the center console."
Peté looked skeptical but slowly opened the console. Reaching inside, he slowly grasped a long metal blade. "What is this?"
"A bayonet for an Iseltov model 7 rifle. Circa 1900."
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Listen, Fa' - " Emma paused. "Father. Your Uncle Celar probably never got stabbed ten times with ten different bayonets. It was probably twice, with one. But everyone that ever saw what happened is dead now." Peté pursed his lips and turned the bayonet over in his wrinkled hands.
"That's a gift to you. Hang it above the mantle in Ilium House back home. And every time you look at it, think about how Uncle Celar made his own reputation, even after he was dead." Peté remained silent, his eying the century-old blade.
"One time - oh, this must have been 1965 or so - we were all at Quarrovth Estate. You and Meneldur had gone hunting," Emma began. "And I was sleeping on the floor of the Green Room. I woke up to hear Ælar and Mother yelling about something. I walked over to those glass doors separating the Green Room from the first-floor parlor, you know, and they were standing in the parlor arguing. I guess they never saw me, because they kept yelling even though I was looking at them, plain as day." Emma turned the car onto a paved road with a
thump.
"And their argument got more and more heated - I don't even recall what it was about. And finally I hear Ælar call mother a
drunk." Emma said the word
drunk dripping with ire and anger. "Just like that. A
drunk. I guess he regretted it as soon as he said it, because he got this look on his face like he wished he'd never been born. And Mother - she wound up her arm and - " Emma slammed her palm on the steering wheel. "Slapped him as hard as I've seen anyone slap anyone. I don't think he came out of his room the rest of the week."
"What was the point of that story?" Peté said, face oddly blank.
"Ælar has all those boys pressing to get rid of the Council, and throw out the Prime Minister... I think you just need to slap some sense into him."
