A Kingdom for the Taking
Tel gazed stonily down upon the courtyard, clicking his tongue at the disheveled figure that weaved an erratic course across the flagstone. He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Father’s grip is surely grafted to his goblet—seeing that he is never separated from it.”
The clop-clopping of hooves from a horse-drawn carriage sounded off the high stone walls of the observation chamber, their echoed cadence oddly out of sync with the horse’s stride. Tel’s gaze traced the sloshed path of wine and he snorted. “Our treasury drains to the cesspool and commercial ventures slide to ruin, all while father drowns himself in claret.”
Slovan tugged at the sleeve of his younger half-brother, a shimmer of alarm showing in his eyes. “You shouldn’t never talk bad about papa, Tel,” he said in a hushed voice. “He’s a good man and, um… well, people like him! Any man in the kingdom would stand by da.”
“Heh!” Tel flicked a hand outward, as if shooing away the tall-masted schooners that bobbed in the cove beyond the castle walls. “You are dense, Slovan, and slow to grasp reality. Father was once a man much beloved, but no one outside the castle has caught a glimpse of him in years. And aside from that, what man would dare stand up to me, the Crown Prince of Balara?”
“Our father, for one,” said Princess Lymeera, not looking up from her needlework. “There is still some bite to him, you know, on those occasions that he remains sober.”
Slovan clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle an improbable fit of giggles. Tel cast a frosty glance at his half-brother and turned to regard Lymeera.
What a family is this? A father lost to drink; a brother with no wits to lose; and a sister that… well, a sister who is Lymeera.
“Oh really, dear sister?” said Tel. “And just when was it that father last demonstrated some semblance of lucidity? Might we ever expect the fog to dissipate?” Tel’s gaze drifted back to the window and his tone went wistful. “By the Gods, would that he were truly be lost to the murk…”
Slovan’s brow creased and he leaned forward to peer out the window. “Fog?”
Lymeera’s gaze snapped up from her needlework, first to Slovan, who stood at the window intently searching the horizon, and then to Tel, who watched her expectantly. She flashed a warning glare at her twin brother, and returned her attention to Slovan. Clearing her voice, she spoke casually. “Slovan, it would seem that I’ve not brought all my yarns. Would you be a dear and fetch them? In my chambers there’s a skein of russet that I need.”
Slovan turned from the window to peer at Lymeera doubtfully. “Uh, a skein of….?”
“A bundle of dark red yarn, Slovan. The color of brick.”
A purposeful smile lit Slovan’s face and he bolted for the door, looking for all the world an oversized adolescent. His heavy steps clomped down the stairwell and Lymeera turned angry eyes upon Tel. “Do not be foolish, Tel! Never jest about any harm that might befall father, not even to Slovan!”
Tel waved her warning aside. “Nonsense, dear sister. Our brother is ‘half’ not just in relation, but just as surely in wits. A slathering hound that humped his leg would exercise, even at that moment, a higher level of mental acuity than would our simpleton brother. His prepubescent mind would never grasp the fact that the dog had motives beyond loyalty.” With a slightly narrowed eye Tel watched Lymeera shake her head, her lips pursed.
How well I know you, fair Lymeera. You will now seek to undermine my resolve.
Her voice took a note of uncertainty. “Should we not be considering this action, Tel? He is our father, after all, and if we are found out…”
Tel spoke grimly, a rime of ice frosting his pale grey eyes. “Yes, the bungling ninny is our father, as much as that thought displeases me. The only grace there is that his loss will raise me from a position of mere ceremony. Mark my words, Lymeera, once I’ve become King, I will restore proper structure to Balara. I’ll press the ever-bolder peasantry into obeisance, and the honor of Family Kessant will rise above the mire wherein the King now wallows as a pig in slop.” He paused, a forefinger laid along the bridge of his nose. “I do worry about mother, though. She’s told me time and again that she’d never assume the role of a widowed Queen—that if father’s death preceded hers she’d abdicate to her son. But she’s relatively young yet—what if she decides to ascend the throne once father is gone?”
Lymeera shook her head. “Of that, at least, I am certain. Mother has spoken to me in confidence many times. She married father not for rank nor for privilege, but rather for the man that he is. Or rather, for the man he once was. I am confident mother that would be content to finish her days free of the plotting and subterfuge that attend to matters of court. With her son as King she’d enjoy the benefits of royalty without assuming its tiresome responsibilities.”
Tel nodded and rapped his knuckles on the window sill. “What of Slovan, then? Though he is officially nothing but an orphan taken in as a ward, he’s undoubtedly the consequence of some youthful dalliance by the Prince-not-yet-King.”
“Leave Slovan be, Tel, he’s harmless enough. As you say, even if he weren’t forevermore a child, at best he’s an illegitimate bastard.” She looked away and shook her head. “I would agree to none of this if there might be any hope that I could persuade father to nullify my betrothal to Lord Galador. The man is a bloated, reeking toad. I’m told he rarely leaves his bed—a stream of attendants cart food in and garbage out—there is even a hoist mounted to leverage him over the bedpan!” She wrinkled her nose. “What kind of life could I hope for at House Galador?”
Tel cast a sly glance at his sister. “Ah, but do you not feel compelled to uphold your duty to the Royal House of Kessant? A joining with Galador would create a direct conduit into the vast wealth of his family.”
Lymeera’s gaze snapped to him. “Tel! You swore that as King you’d dismiss that covenant!”
Tel nodded slowly and a hard smile cracked his lips. “There’s also the matter of a certain handsome young merchant, is there not? But of course he has no lineage, and father would never allow marriage into a family of base bloodline.” He peered at her, watching her alarmed expression fade into the annoyed realization that he toyed with her. “Yes, I will do as you wish,” said Tel. “That will be my reward for your role in our plot. But be reminded of the life that awaits you, should I not soon become king.”
Lymeera nodded, her expression resolutely blank.
***
King Argon lifted his low-hooded, bloodshot eyes to Varion, Minister of the Court and Promulgator of Accord. The king’s jowls hung flaccid, like bladders half-full, and dark wine matted his graying beard. He raised the chalice and drained it in three messy gulps, with the overflow dripping to a stained robe bulging over his paunch. A steward dashed forward to refill the goblet, after which Argon waved the boy from the room.
The two sat alone.
“So… you believe there is merit to my suspicion, Varion?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I share your misgivings.” Varion’s voice rasped like a saw blade through thin paneling. He smiled blandly, his mottled age spots stretching into curious patterns on skin of wrinkled parchment. “I have the ears of the castle, my Lord. I have heard whispers; tales of sinister plotting and collusion, and all speak of the King’s demise.”
Argon took another swallow and pushed himself to his feet. He stood wobbling a few moments before coming steady. He looked long upon his Minister; silent and considering, and finally the King nodded. Wispy, grizzled Varion had been prime Minister to his own father—to his grandfather, even. Argon trusted him more than anyone, save perhaps his mistress Valainya.
“Mine own son, plotting to kill me.” He drained the goblet and held it up, studying the refraction of light through precisely cut crystal, and he abruptly turned and flung it across the room. With startling accuracy it shattered into a hail of fragments in the roaring fireplace, each tiny shard for the briefest moment holding the flames like a firework bursting over the hell-fires below. The King scowled.
“When will it be, then?”
“Your Majesty, that I cannot say. But…I have reason to suspect that it will be a poisoning.”
Argon slumped down into his throne, shaking his head sadly. “You will speak of this to no one, Varion. I could put a stop to it easily enough, but I cannot help myself—I still have hope that it’s naught but a baseless rumor. If it truly is to be, then I must see this vile act in the making with mine own eyes.”
After a moment of silence Varion took his queue to leave. As he rose to his feet Argon spoke wearily. “Attend to my legion of tasters, Minister; ensure that they are doubly zealous. And summon the page for a new goblet.”
***
“We should abandon this plan, Tel. While there is still time.”
Tel cursed under his breath and stopped, turning to face his sister, a dark anger welling. He understood they now skated the thinnest film of ice, a dangerous passage over remorseless depths.
“Lymeera.” He spoke softly, but her eyes widened.
Good. She sees my resolve.
“It is too late to turn back. The alchemical will be soon enough be missed—you know how regularly it is inventoried and tested. Who would you prefer reign as King when the theft of the poison is detected?” He watched closely as her eyes darted from side to side.
“But Tel. We know he uses tasters. They will surely defeat your plan.”
“And that is why we bear this gift ourselves. An offering is expected of us today, on father’s half-century day of birth. Would he waste the rarest Renzanoble Liqueur, presented by his own son and daughter, on a taster? I think not; it is far too precious and his desire runs too deep.” Tel resumed his stride, waving a hand for her to follow. “Come.” He smiled, hearing her footsteps scurry to catch up.
Entering the throne room, Tel and Lymeera came to stand before King Argon Kessant. The King drowsed, slumped to one side, his rounded belly expanding and contracting with each wet, snuffling, snore. A goblet dangled precariously from the King’s fingers where his arm hung over the throne’s armrest, and the light from a torch behind broke into a rainbow of colors through the cut crystal, sending slivers of light dancing throughout the throne room. Tel cleared his throat.
“Ahem. Ah, Your Majesty? —Father?”
The King started and his eyes popped open; the goblet released from his fingers and dropped to shatter on the stone tiles.
“Eh?!! Bloody mothers, surprising me like that! Now look what you’ve done.” The King’s exclamation fell off to a mutter. “A mess, such a mess… where’s my steward?” He leaned to one side, reaching for the bell-cord to summon his attendant.
“Father!” Tel stepped forward and flashed a brilliant smile. “Happy Birthday, papa! We bring you a gift!” He thrust the small, brightly wrapped package forward, but his smile cracked just a fraction as his father’s bloodshot eyes came slowly round to bear on him, like a crossbow settling on its mark. The King’s eyes seemed to narrow ever so slightly.
By the Gods, I’d swear he sees straight through me.
Of a sudden, Tel was no longer the disdainful, self-absorbed young man standing before a decrepit relic. He had reverted to a trembling boy, standing before the wrath of a powerful, perceptive father—as it once had been. Even so, he held his poise, leaning further forward, nodding encouragingly at the package in his hands. When his father’s eyes fell to the package Tel cast a sideways glance at Lymeera; she stood wide-eyed and pale.
Damn the woman! Can she make not the slightest pretense?
Argon came to his feet in a series of ponderous motions that made for a major production; once risen to his full height Tel was uncomfortably reminded of how large a man his father was. And there was none of his familiar stoop now, how could that be? Argon swiped a great hand down his ruddy face, and he stepped forward to study Tel closely.
Suddenly both hands shot forward, and Tel nearly shrieked as the King’s powerful fingers closed on one shoulder. He followed Argon’s gaze as it shifted to Lymeera—she stood small and quivering under her father’s hand. And then Argon brusquely pulled them both inward, enfolding them in a smothering embrace, and Tel smelled wine, rank, on the old man’s breath.
“My loving son and my beautiful daughter, come to pay homage to their doddering old father—even though he has fallen so far from his once noble standard.” Argon gently pushed them both out to arms length, and with a slight shake of his head he released them. Tel’s eyes went wide as he saw a tear roll down his father’s cheek. The King drug a grungy sleeve over his face before looking back to Tel.
“Enough then; enough of this sentimental foolishness. Let’s have a look at what you’ve brought your raspy old da.”
Tel placed the small package in his father’s outstretched hands. “It is not so much as you deserve, father, but it was very difficult to come by.”
The King stripped away the wrapping and tossed it to the floor, and he held up the crystal flask, cut with the well-known Renzanoble sigil. The liqueur inside glowed a brilliant golden hue, with flecks of silver shimmering throughout. A tearful smile lit Argon’s face as he pulled the stopper out and held the flask to his nose. He took a deep whiff.
“Ah, but isn’t that a fine scent. I developed a taste for the spirit when I was but a young Prince, visiting the far Isle of Ren.” He reached out to again take Tel by the shoulder, pulling him in close. “The first sampling, eh? For you?” He pushed the bottle toward his son and made an exaggerated wink.
“Ah… no thank you, father,” Tel stammered out, pushing the flask back. “There’s not much of it, I’m afraid, and this is your special day.”
Argon nodded his agreement. “Just a sip for now, then.” He put the flask to his lips and threw his head back. Tel smiled, the color coming back to his cheeks.
Just a sip indeed; he’s likely drained half the flask. No matter, though, a single swallow will do…
The King lowered the flask, pushed the stopper back into the bottle and thrust it into a pocket under his soiled robe. He swiped a sleeve across his lips and another tear started down his cheek. “Ah, and this is something indeed, I cannot begin to tell you what this gift means to me. I can’t remem… rememb—”
Argon faltered. His hand went to his forehead and his eyes turned glassy and unfocused. “I… I can’t…” His hand fell back on Tel’s shoulder, but with no power in the grip this time—feeble, even. Tel took on a grievously concerned expression, but a look of triumph lit his eyes.
“Father? Are you all right?”
The King’s hand slipped from Tel’s shoulder as his eyes rolled up, and Argon collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heap. Tel stepped back to survey the silent scene, and a smile stretched his face.
King! So quickly as that, I am now King of Balara!
He turned to Lymeera. Her eyes were wide and misty and her lips trembled. Tel looked down upon her from his new, lofty plateau, and he felt some sense of benevolence. She had at least not fully botched her role; perhaps he truly would release her from her troth. There was quite a bounty to be had from a union with House Galador, though, and the Kessant fortunes—his fortunes, now—were flagging. He pulled her into an embrace, an embrace made infinitely more joyous by knowing that he could embrace her, or implicate her, or do whatever he wished with her.
“Lymeera, it is done. You played your role… eh, adequately. I—”
He abruptly thrust her back, and he scrabbled to raise his tunic. A sharp prick burned at his back, as though he’d been stung by a wasp. He rubbed the skin there, and raised his hand to peer at his fingertips. There was a slight smear of blood there—very little, really. His gaze rose to Lymeera. She stepped further out of his reach, a knowing smile on her face.
“Lymeera?”
“Do you think you are the only member of this family who plays at duplicity? Surely not, Tel.”
He took a faltering step toward her, and she moved easily away.
“Would you truly have released me from my betrothal, dear brother? Your greatest concern would seem to be wealth, and we have little enough left of that, while family Galador has plenty and more.” Tel stumbled to his knees. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.
“A simple poison prick Tel.” She held up a small needle for him to see. “I collected it in the apothecary while you assembled father’s potion.”
Tel again tried to speak, but his voice came out as a gurgling choke.
“You are dieing in a stew of your own coagulating juices, Tel. But have no fear; it will be blessedly over in short moments.”
He could make no coherent sound, but the painful question was obvious in his eyes.
“What has happened here? Can you not guess? The King is dead, killed by his own son. But poor, inept Tel did not survive the attempt.” She wiped the needle clean and turned to toss it close to the silent hulk of Argon. “No, there was some justice today,” she said, “as the father also killed his betraying son. How tragic. Two generations of Royalty lost in one exchange! You do remember that father was once known to carry a poisoned asp, do you not?”
Tel’s eyes went even wider as he fought to inhale air into his closing lungs.
“You mentioned a certain young merchant, I think?” Lymeera’s spoke brightly, her voice a musical lilt. “Perhaps he will be my choice, but I am no longer so certain. Perhaps I’ll instead find a suitable prince? I will be able to make whatever choice I wish, you see, for I am now Queen of Balara.”
Tel half-gasped, half-choked, his hateful glare turning to panic, and he abruptly pitched forward, his head impacting the stone tile with a dull thud.
“Goodbye forevermore, dear brother,” she said softly.
A slow, deliberate clapping resonated from behind, and Lymeera whirled around. She gasped at the sight of Argon climbing ponderously to his feet, his face a grim smile. “Very well done, daughter of mine—a clever ruse. But not clever enough, I fear.”
“Father?”
“Your daughterly concern has now been restored? How very touching.”
“How?…”
“How did I survive the poison that you and your dear brother attempted to kill me with? It’s rather simple, really—I never drank it.” He pulled the flask from his pocket and eyed it sadly. “Such as shame, to ruin a potion such as this. I’ll see if my alchemists can strip the poison—a gamble worth the risk of a single taster, I would say.”
Lymeera cast a panicked glance to either side, her eyes searching for the escape she knew was not there.
“It is not a new ploy that you have attempted, you know.” Argon made his observations in a melancholy, matter-of-fact tone. “It has been played out time and again—alas; the dangers attendant to a King with an impatient heir. But…” He shook his head. “But I truly did not expect it of Tel, and certainly not of you.”
“Father, I can explain—”
Argon held up his hand. “You can explain nothing I do not already know, good daughter. Now it is my turn to explain to you. To begin…” Argon faltered. “To… to begi..” His eyes went wide as he clutched at his chest. His accusing eyes darted to Lymeera, and she shook her head. Argon sagged to his knees, and yet another voice came from behind.
“And so… finally it has come to this.”
Lymeera started at the intrusion and spun to scan the dim room. She cocked her head to one side. That voice… so familiar?
“m... mother?”
“No, Lymeera.” Queen Illanor stepped out from the draperies near the rear entry to the throne room, and she walked to stand before her failing husband. Argon’s eyes rose to lock with hers.
“How…?” He choked out the word.
Queen Illanor cast a cloyingly sweet smile. “It is simple, Argon. I am the Queen. I can tell whoever I wish to be gone from my presence, at my whim.” She put her fingers gently on his forehead. “That would include even your tasters, if I am insistent enough.” She nodded at the cask of wine at the side of the throne room. “It is a slower poison than that which your son prescribed, I would guess, and so you have some moments still.” Queen Illanor looked to Lymeera with an odd smile. “I have waited so long for this opportunity, Lymeera.” Illanor turned to peer expectantly back into the shadowy darkness.
“The façade is finally finished, then, dear mother?”
Lymeera’s eyes widened at yet another familiar voice. But something was different—changed. The crisp enunciation; the choice of words.
“Yes, son.”
Lymeera caught her breath as he stepped from the darkness. She looked into his eyes, and she saw no dullness there. She turned back to Illanor.
“M… Mother?”
“I have already told you, Lymeera. No.”
The Princess looked at Illanor in blank confusion, and the Queen looked down upon King Argon, who lay slouched against the wall at an awkward angle. The King slowly shook his head from side to side.
“Shall I tell her, then, Argon?”
The King croaked unintelligible, and slowly slid from his slump against the wall to lay prostrate on the floor, gurgling.
“As you wish, then.” Illanor lifted her gaze to Lymeera.
“It is the common rumor, as you know, that Slovan is the illegitimate offspring of King Argon, sired prior to his marriage into my family. Then later, so the story goes, after Argon had assumed the throne, the mother of Slovan died, or in some manner became indisposed. The King then took his bastard son in as ward—out of, perhaps, misdirected pity.”
Lymeera nodded slowly at Illanor. “Yes,” she said softly. “I knew all of that, mother.”
The Queen shook her head. “Ah, dear Lymeera. You say that you know, but what you have accepted as truth is only partially so. It is true that Slovan, whose real name is Andar, was a bastard child of the King, born out of wedlock. What is not true is that he was brought in as a ward after his mother died.”
Lymeera looked blankly at her mother, and then a possible realization began to color her face.
“Good, my dear, I see that you are not so slow as you thought your half-brother to be.” Illanor smiled beatifically at Lymeera, and she continued. “The reality is deeply ironic. Slovan, or Andar, was a bastard because he was born out of wedlock. But he was born to me, Lymeera, of your father’s seed.”
Lymeera looked at her mother in shock. “But..”
“Yes indeed—but. Why then did Andar remain a bastard, when he was truly born of the King and Queen?” She smiled thinly. “It is because he was not born of the King and Queen, he was born of a brash, handsome prince and an impressionable princess, not yet of age. Such was an entirely unacceptable circumstance; it would have derailed the important joining of Houses Kessant and Delon, and it would have dangerously smeared the prospect of Prince Argon’s rise to the throne.”
Illanor smiled grimly. “And so Andar was simply never acknowledged. Princess Illanor traveled abroad, anonymous, to wait out her pregnancy, and when Andar was born he was secretly farmed out to foster care. I was very bitter over that, but I gradually came to forgive your father for abiding by a credo forced upon the both of us. I forgave him, that is, until the birthing of you and Tel.”
Lymeera had no words. She had thought she had come to understand, but what now?
“Lymeera, you called me ‘mother’, and I said no. That is because you are of Argon’s seed, but not of my womb. You, Lymeera, and Tel, are the true bastards. Andar is the true-born of Argon and Illanor; you are born of Argon’s whore.”
Lymeera looked in shock toward her father; he gave one last wheeze and lay still.
“Mine was a devious plan, Lymeera; to bring Andar back into the family that had rejected him. I visited my young son when he was in the orphanage—discreetly, of course, and I coached him to appear always non-threatening. To pretend that he was slow, stupid. I was later able to use the outrage of having a whore’s children brought into the family as leverage to force Argon to take in his legitimate son, even if he accepted him as nothing but a ward. That was made much easier since no one, not even Argon, suspected that poor Slovan was anything but a simple idiot.”
Illanor walked over and knelt to feel for Argon’s pulse. She shook her head and rose. “And so there you have it, Lymeera. I had expected neither you nor Tel to survive this exchange.” She drew an asp from beneath her robe. “And I fear that I must still make that so.”
Andar stepped forward. “Mother—please, no. At times Lymeera has shown a kindness toward me. I would have her live.” He looked to his half-sister with a mixture of pity and sadness, and he turned to face Illanor. “Lymeera cannot remain here, of course; the true bloodlines must be divulged. But the family of Lord Galador would prove a very useful ally now, and their wealth would bolster the crown. I doubt Galador would yet blanch at the prospect of marriage to fair Lymeera, especially if we assure his family privileged access to the royal court.”
Illanor let the asp drop from her hand. “Let the King’s will prevail.”
Lymeera looked dumbly from her half-brother Andar, risen from cretin to King at a moment’s notice, to Illanor, the woman she had thought her mother but who had plotted her death, and she sank to the floor, her arms crossed over her bosom and her hands tightly clenched to either shoulder. She began to rock to and fro on the cold stone tile, sobbed quietly.
The End