Brelira Story Draft 1

His Royal Majesty Carran of the House Selaran, the Second of his Name, by the Grace of the Sun and Moon, King of the Great Kingdom of Selaria, Ruler of the Ebony Hills, Emperor of the Isles of the Morning, and Protector of the Realm, was bored. Duke Darrian Selaran, the king’s uncle, was worried on behalf of the petitioners. When the king was bored, he tended to amuse himself by inflicting harsh-- perhaps overly harsh-- punishments on those who came to him to settle grievances or ask for assistance.

Don’t think such things, the duke told himself, Carran might not be a perfect king, but he’s young and inexperienced. He’ll learn in time, and until he does, he’ll need your support. Selarian politics were notoriously ruthless, and, thanks to the king’s rulings in many petitions, he was not well loved by the common folk. He needed allies, and Darrian seemed the only one available to him. Besides, he’s my nephew. Family has to stick together.

Still, it would be nice if Carran made it a little easier for him. Carran had been king for only three months, and should have been in mourning for at least half a year after his father’s death, but the young king had long since cast aside the simple, formal black military coat traditionally worn by new kings in favor more lavish garb, like the gold-embroidered plum silk robes he wore today. At least he’s wearing his colors on petition day. Last week, the king had been all in red and yellow, the colors of neighboring Irrania, which was most certainly not a friendly country. Darrian wasn’t sure what Carran had been thinking, but then again, he rarely was.

As the petitions droned on, Darrian surveyed the throne room. As a duke, he had a permanent claim to watch the court proceedings from one of the elevated balconies set into the marble walls of the throne room, a balcony more than adequately sized to hold its current party of himself, his daughter Calina, younger son Adrian, and several servants. As the king’s own uncle, his balcony was the closest to the throne on the right wall. Had there been a queen, she would have been given the balcony directly opposite him, to the king’s left, mirroring the seating arrangements at formal feasts and dinners.

His elevated position gave him an excellent view of the room. The king sat slouched on the gilded throne, toying with a bit of embroidery on his robes. Before him stood a middle aged craftsman in a respectful muted blue-- bright colors were reserved for nobility, of course, but blue dye was rare and expensive, and by wearing it today the man showed both his own wealth and his understanding of the importance of making a petition. And he was showing the proper care in explaining his case (something about taxes on mountain hardwoods), though given the droning quality of his voice and the young king’s lack of attention, he might have been better served to summarize.

The other petitioners, standing in a loose group by the entrance, seemed to agree. They had been in an orderly line this morning, but as the day had worn on, they had formed more of a jumbled clump of dull blues, purples, greens, and even the occasional brown or grey, though those were all clumped together at the back. Anyone so poor as to have to wear brown or particularly grey to court was very poor indeed, and they were much too wary and out of their comfort zone to try to mingle with their betters. But even they, timid as they were, were shifting about, coughing, and muttering amongst themselves. They had been here since shortly after dawn, and it was now the middle of the afternoon. And, while Darrian had a great many administrative tasks that this session was keeping him from, the commoners had sacrificed a day’s productivity to be here. He could always stay up late into the night, reading and writing by candlelight to catch up on a missed day’s work, but many commoners worked outside or in shops which only had customers during the day, and even those who didn’t often couldn’t afford candles. Sometimes, Darrian wondered if the particular tradition of long, eloquent petitions might be one better left to the past.

The tradition of every nobleman in the capital attending them most certainly had been. There were twelve ducal balconies, but only Darrian’s and one other, that of Jillian Lociel, Duke of Locillia, were occupied. The tiered seats below, which stretched the full length of the massive throne room and could seat nearly eight hundred people, contained perhaps a quarter of that number, though there were enough nobles presently in the capital to fill two thirds of the seats. And most of those present were barons and viscounts, clad in pastels, pinks yellows and lavenders and sky blues, the colors determined (or at least supposed to be determined, though Darrian saw several who had broken with tradition in this, as well) by the colors of their house rather than by what dyes they could afford.

Darrian’s attention was drawn back to the front of the room when he heard his nephew’s voice. “What?” the king demanded incredulously, actually sitting up and leaning forward in his throne. “What did you just say?”

The blue-clad petitioner hesitated, clearly taken aback at the king’s sudden enthusiasm. Or perhaps it was the queer light in his eyes. “I... I was saying that the revenue from the taxes is used to support Your Majesty’s navy,” the man said, “If Your Majesty would prefer me to elaborate--”

Carran cut him off. “No, I think I’ve heard quite enough.” The light in his eyes was growing stronger, and Darrian had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“He’s going to find some excuse to execute him, isn’t he,” Calina muttered. She, like Darrian and Adrian, was wearing full black mourning clothes, though hers was a simple, modest dress (much too simple and modest for the current fashion), whereas the men wore military jackets.

“Were you expecting anything else?” Adrian asked.

“Quiet, both of you!” Darrian snapped. Calina was twenty, Adrian seventeen, and both of them more than old enough to know not to speak during court.

“Yes,” Carran was saying on the dais, “I’ve heard more than enough. You would have me take money away from the fleets that guard our shores. Your selfish desire to make more money trading would have us overrun with Allin-Allineans or Irrians because our navy was undersupplied and undermanned.” His eyes were positively blazing now, and his voice was growing louder and angrier with every word. “You would weaken us, give our enemies an advantage. Who sent you? Batu-Bati? Arrinen? Sellena? Well?”

The man looked shocked, clearly at a loss as to how to respond. “I... Your Majesty, I...”

Carran stood suddenly, glowering, and the petitioner stopped. “I, Carran of the House Selaran, Second of my Name, by the Grace of the Sun and Moon, King of the Great Kingdom of Selaria, Ruler of the Ebony Hills, Emperor of the Isles of the Morning, and Protector of the Realm, hereby declare you a traitor. I condemn you to death by hanging, as soon as all information about any assistance or direction you may have has been extracted from you.” Carran smiled, a cold, dead thing. “Let’s see how long it takes you to get to the point when it’s my questioners you’re talking to.”

Two soldiers came up from the side of the room, took the man by the arms, and dragged him, begging and pleading his innocence, from the throne room.

“I believe that concludes petitions for the day,” Carran said, “You may all come back next week, but be warned: I will find any traitors among you.” He turned and stalked out the private exit to one side of the throne, his continual retinue of soldiers, servants, and sycophants trailing in his wake.

As the began to rise and converse among themselves, and the other petitioners hurried from the room, Adrian leaned over to his sister and murmured darkly, “Well, you were right.”

Darrian fixed his son with a stern look. “This is not a laughing matter. Your cousin’s paranoia may have just condemned an innocent man to torture and death.”

“I know that,” Adrian snapped, “Believe me, I am well aware of Carran’s minor faults, as you so insistently call them. In fact, I’m pretty sure I know more about them than you, the way you constantly downplay--”

“Adrian!” Calina interrupted, glaring at him. “I know we don’t always agree with him, but he is our father. Bickering in public like this serves no purpose but to make us seem weak and divided.”

Darrian raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is it ‘we’ now? And here I thought it was only Emmon who wanted me to pursue some rash course of action to bring Carran under control.”

Calina flushed prettily. She did everything prettily, his daughter, a trait she had inherited from her mother, along with her long, flowing black hair and wide grey eyes. The determination in those eyes, though, the unwillingness to back down even under his authority, that she got from him. It would probably make my life a lot easier if all three of them hadn’t gotten my stubbornness.
“Father, even you have to admit that he has problems.”

“Problems that will resolve themselves in time. He’s twenty-five, his father died not three months ago, and he’s being asked to rule a country long before he was ready. I think he’s done admirably, given the circumstances.”

“Admirably?” an incredulous voice asked from the darkened stairwell, “Admirably?! Surely even you, Father, don’t really believe that, not after what he just did.”

Emmon, Darrian’s oldest child, his heir, came out of the shadowed staircase and leaned against the doorframe. Of all of his children, Emmon looked the most like Darrian. They had the same straight brown hair, cut short, the same intent brown eyes, the same tall, heavily muscled frame. But though they looked like the same man at two different stages of life, their personalities could hardly be more different. Emmon was bold where Darrian was cautious, outgoing where his father was reserved, continually looking for change where Darrian longed for stability. The only thing that united them was their stubborn refusal to compromise, the absoluteness with which they threw themselves into every task they undertook.

Needless to say, it was not a situation that made for an easy family life.

“I did not say that what the king did was admirable. I only said that, overall, he has done quite well, given the challenges he has faced,” Darrian said as calmly as he could.

Emmon snorted derisively. “Challenges? What challenges? The weather’s been perfect for planting, we’re making a fortune in tariffs on Allin-Allinean ivory, and even Irria has stopped threatening war. What in the world are you claiming he has going against him?”

“There is a great deal of political uncertainty--”

“There’s always political uncertainty. Moon and Sun, Father, this is Selaria! When isn’t someone scheming?”

“You must admit, things have been worse than usual this past month.”

Emmon sighed in exasperation. “Yes, this past month. Once our dear cousin had an opportunity to prove his incompetence. Things were relatively quiet after Uncle died, right up until Carran started convincing everyone that they could take advantage of him.”

“What? Take advantage of him? He’s been accusing people of treason left and right, with no warning or evidence! And not just petitioners, either; Lord Celtaran was beheaded not two days ago!” Out of the corner of his eye, Darrian noted the servants hurrying over to the stairs. They knew better than to stay around for an argument between their lord and his eldest child. Small objects had a tendency to fly across rooms at such times, and more than one servant had been caught in the crossfire.

Emmon stared at him incredulously. “You think Celtaran was picked randomly? When his death conveniently brings his brother to power? The same brother who is married to Count Errigan’s favorite daughter?”

“You cannot seriously be accusing--”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything. Well, no, that’s not strictly true. I’m accusing you of gross inattention to happenings in court. You’re not stupid, Father, you could have figured it out if you had bothered to think on it for more than a few minutes. Even failing that, you could have heard it from practically anyone at court these past few days if you weren’t so busy alternating between looking down your nose at everyone for breaking tradition and shutting yourself away in your chambers all day signing papers.”

“If what you say is true, then I must take word of it to the king immediately,” Darrian said, rising.

Emmon moved to block the doorway. “Are you mad? Father, Carran will kill Errigan for this.”

“As he should. Count Errigan lied to the king and effectively sentenced an innocent man to death.”

“That’s all very well, but this is Errigan we’re talking about. His wife’s as bad as he is, and so are all three of his sons. The only question of how it would turn out would be which one of them ended up poisoning you.”

“I am not afraid to die in the name of justice.”

“Nor am I, but Father, listen to me. There are better ways of going about this. Ways so much less likely to involve throwing away your life for nothing.”

Darrian folded his arms, regarding his son speculatively. “I’m listening.”

Emmon flicked a glance at Calina, who gave him a nod, before taking a step closer to his father and continuing in a low voice. “Father, Carran isn’t capable of ruling effectively. You know it, I know it, the whole kingdom knows it. Before long, news will spread to our neighbors, and they’ll start looking at our borders and wondering what exactly we’d be able to do about it if they decide to start slicing off chunks. We need to do something about it, and soon, or else it might be too late.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Calina stood and stepped closer to him, speaking in the same low, earnest voice as Emmon. “He can’t rule on his own. That’s been proven fairly well, and we don’t have time to wait for further evidence. He’s in over his head and being maneuvered by every nobleman who cares to try. He trusts them because he has no reason not to, as long as he’s not in one of his moods, and they’re smart enough to stay out of his way then. What he needs is an advisor who has the country’s best interests in mind, not his own gain. Someone he knows he can trust absolutely, even over his so-called friends, like Count Errigan. Or, failing that...”

“He needs to be eliminated,” Emmon said flatly, “so that someone like that can take control directly.”

Darrian stood there, shocked, looking from Emmon to Calina and back again. They wore identical grim, determined expressions. He looked at Adrian, who was still in his chair but had turned to face them, and found that his younger son, while he looked more nervous than his siblings, seemed resolved as well.

Finally, he managed to speak. “Are you mad?” he hissed. “No wonder he’s worried about traitors! Even his own cousins--”

“We are not traitors,” Emmon said fiercely. “We are patriots. Yes, we’re showing disloyalty to our king, but he has done everything in his power to lose our loyalty. Do you think we want this? We’re well aware that he’s our family, so this is not a decision we’ve come to lightly--”

“Oh, now it’s decided, then? Why did you even bother asking me? Why not just assassinate him and leave me to take the crown? After all, I’ve clearly missed at least one other assassination. Why not count on my obliviousness?”

“Because, contrary to what you seem to believe, we don’t want to kill him,” Calina said. “We would much prefer if you just convinced him to listen to your advice. Assassination is an unwelcome and hopefully unnecessary last resort.”

Darrian was still furious with the lot of them for asking this of him, for coming up with it in the first place. “So either way, you’d have me act like Errigan, who you were so disdainful of a moment ago. Either I play puppet-master to the king or I kill someone to get at their inheritance.” The three traded guilty looks at that remark; at least they had enough decency to be ashamed of what they were proposing, though it clearly wasn’t enough to stop them. “What, did you not think I’d notice the similarities? This plan works out rather well for you, doesn’t it? Emmon gets to be Crown Prince, Calina a princess, and Adrian the new Duke Selaran. I had thought better of you.”

Adrian spoke up for the first time. “We are better than that, Father. We’ve told you and told you, we want to advise him, not kill him. As you said, he’s our cousin, and whatever his faults, we love him. And besides, it would likely be disastrous politically if we killed him. Everyone would come to the same conclusion you just did, and we would risk losing support among the nobility and the commoners both, regardless of how many of them we were saving from execution for treason. And we’d be giving our neighbors an excellent excuse to invade. They, or anyone else who saw fit, could instantly rally support by claiming they were meting out justice on the kinslayers. We’d be undermining our own position and quite possibly bringing about exactly what we were hoping to avoid in the first place.”

“And this is supposed to convince me of the wisdom of your plan?”

Adrian flushed. “It was supposed to convince you that we really have thought this through, and that we don’t want to kill Carran.”

Darrian sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, you’ve convinced me of one thing, at least,” he said.

“And what would that be?” Emmon asked.

“That I need to talk to the king.” At their worried expressions, ha added, “Not to tell him of your plans. He may be my nephew, but you are my children, and I would never do something so likely to get you killed. And not to try to make him a figurehead for my rule, either. Just to talk to him, and see if I can get him to behave a little more reasonably.” He paused, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “And there will be no more talk of coups or assassinations or manipulating the king. Understood?”

They nodded, though none of them looked happy about it.

“Good. Now, go find something more productive to do that plotting,” he said, pushing between Emmon and Calina to get to the doorway at the back of the balcony. He descended the stairs quickly, thinking about what to say to the king, and was distracted enough that he almost ran into Carran, who was coming up the stairs.

“Ah, Uncle! Just the man I was hoping to see! Come, walk with me.” He smiled and turned back down the stairs. Darrian followed somewhat uncertainly. Sun and Moon please grant that he wasn’t close enough to hear our argument. They won’t go through with anything, I know they won’t, but Carran might.

At the bottom of the stairs, four guards in the royal colors awaited them, and Darrian felt a momentary spike of fear, memories of the petitioner dragged from the stage earlier that day, of Lord Celtaran’s head mounted above the main gates threatening to overwhelm him. But the soldiers simply fell in around them, an honor guard protecting the king and his uncle, and they wound their way through the labyrinthine green marble passageways of the castle in the general direction of the king’s private chambers. They did not, however, enter one of his several sitting rooms; instead, their destination turned out to be the king’s private garden.

Though not so large as the several public gardens in other areas of the castle, the king’s garden was gorgeously planted and immaculately kept. Apple and pear trees, in their full spring bloom of white and pink, lined the edge of the walled space, hiding the bleak stone from view behind a wall of color. Rosebushes grew between the trees, with vines winding around their trunks and up the walls behind them. Though it was too early in the year for them to be in bloom, in a few months they would add their brilliant red blooms to the colors of the garden.

In the more open area in the center of the courtyard, there were large flowerbeds full of blooms, orange and purple and yellow and blue, set like gemstones against the lush green backdrop of their leaves. A sand-covered path wound amongst them with deliberate, seemingly natural meanders, until it led to the one part of the garden not made to look like a more perfect version of nature, a small fountain which shared the pool its water was drawn from with several large golden fish.

They stopped before the fountain. For a long while, Carran seemed content to stand there, watching the fish swim lazy circles beneath the rippled surface as the sun sank lower in the sky and the shadows lengthened. Finally, Darrian lost patience with waiting. “You wanted to speak to me, Your Majesty?” he asked as politely as he could.

The king blinked, as though only just remembering Darrian’s presence. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you for some time about the number of traitors I’ve been finding in recent weeks. I’m having trouble knowing who to trust, but I know you’ll be honest with me. ‘Family must always stick together,’ as you say.” He smiled. Not a scheming or triumphant smirk, either, but an open, friendly, honest grin.

Darrian felt ridiculously guilty. Moon and Sun, curse them for making me choose like this. Of course, they probably wouldn’t have approached him if they hadn’t already known that he would choose them. Family comes first, indeed. “I would of course be happy to help, Sire. Was there anything more specific that you wanted my advice on?”

Carran laughed lightly. Why couldn’t he be like this all the time? When not in one of his strange moods, the king was a perfectly nice, if slightly irresponsible, young man. “No need to stand on such ceremony, Uncle,” Carran said, “it’s only us, my name will do just fine. In answer to your question, I was hoping you might have some idea on how to best discover any hidden traitors, or perhaps a way to convince people that treason isn’t worth the effort.”

Darrian hesitated. “You want my honest answer, Carran?”

“Always.”

“People are much less likely to want to overthrow a generous ruler, or one they feel is honestly concerned about their problems. Perhaps you could hear more petitions in some way. And you could offer anyone you suspect of treason a chance to defend themselves before an open court, or even a punishment of exile rather than death should they reveal their fellow conspirators.”

“We’ve tried that. We always try that. It doesn’t work. They always proclaim their innocence, and we end up having to question them more... intensely. Even then, they sometimes refuse to admit their guilt.” He stopped, looking troubled.

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps the reason they refused to admit their guilt is that they really were innocent?” Darrian ventured.

Carran’s gaze snapped back to him, his eyes burning with anger and the barest hint of that queer light that indicated the beginning of one of his moods. “Of course I have. Do you take me for a fool? Of course I doubt my judgement. But I have to trust myself. It’s either that or be ruled by the counsel of a hundred different men, each of them arguing for a different course. I have to prove that I’m decisive, that I can rule by myself, or some power-hungry bastard will end up robbing me of all my authority and using me as a figurehead.”

Oh, Carran. You’re so worried about how you might be controlled by this duke or that count that you haven’t noticed it actually happening. And you’re trying so hard... “Perhaps, but we have a court system for a reason. One man cannot know the truth in every case. If you allowed these cases to be ruled on by a judge, no one could fault your fairness--”

“So rather than trying to convince me, they would merely bribe or blackmail the judge. It’s no better. And in cases of treason, who could know better than the king? I am, after all, the interested party.”

“Precisely. You have a personal stake in the outcome of such a trial. Your emotions may cloud your judgement. Therefore, you ought to stay as far--”

“My emotions may cloud my judgement? Are you questioning my ability to rule?” The odd look in Carran’s eyes was growing stronger.

“No,” Darrian said hastily, trying to pacify his nephew before things got out of hand, “Of course not. You have shown yourself to be a most able ruler. I was simply thinking that in your place, I would find it difficult to think objectively.” That seemed to pacify him somewhat, so Darrian continued, “You never responded to my first suggestion, about hearing more petitions to build popular support.”

“Petitions are so boring,” the king complained in the exact tone he had used to protest learning history as a child.

“Revolts certainly are not,” Darrian countered, “and that may well be what you have on your hands if your suspicions about the number of potential traitors are correct and you don’t do something to discourage them.”

He sighed. “Fine. I suppose it wouldn’t be too terrible to have an extra half-day of petitions every week. I’ll talk to my head scribe about it.” The dangerous light faded completely from his gaze, and he smiled. “Thank you for the advice, Uncle Darrian.”

Darrian returned the smile. “Of course. Any time you are in need of something, do not hesitate to ask it of me.” With that, he gave a polite, formal bow and strode from the garden, leaving the king to return to his contemplation of the fountain and its fish.

Maybe I can do this, Darrian thought on the long, solitary walk back to his chambers, maybe I can convince him to do what’s right. Not make him my puppet, like my children seem to want, but advise him on matters of ruling. I even managed to talk him down from the beginning of one of his moods. Surely, once I explain how my approach is working, Emmon and Calina will agree that their radical ideas aren’t necessary. Stubborn though they were, his children were not stupid, and he believed them when they said they would much rather avoid harming their cousin in any way. And even if they didn’t, perhaps they would think that his persuasion was similar enough to their puppeteer idea that they wouldn’t complain. Darrian himself didn’t much care what they thought. So long as I can keep both my nephew and my children, I don’t much care what anyone thinks of me.