Percin of Valehold set his jaw so tightly his teeth damn near shattered. His hand crunched the piece of paper before him as he looked across the room. Much of it was empty. Hectar sipped some of an elder vintage that Damien had brought with him, as Highfather Lyam frantically prayed to The Keeper and The Lamplighter for some sort of guidance on what to do. The child had completely gone around him, and announced the situation to the kingdom. He had to move now, with no time to consolidate strength. She had no idea what she was doing, and in her own stubbornness, was putting her life in danger. Percin ran a hand through his brown hair, eyes raising from the page, locking onto Damien.

  “Did you know about this?” He asked, clenching and unclenching his fist.

  “No, of course not!” Damien gasped, , acting shocked, his rocky gray eyes alive with mischief.

  Percin scoffed, rolling his eyes.

  Highfather Lyam continued his quiet prayers as the Lord of Whispers sipped his wine.

  Hectar finally spoke up, the Lord of Wages keeping his cup in a white knuckle grip.

  “She did not even consult with me before granting them a month free of the King’s Tax. Does she have any idea how devastating this could be?” He slammed a fist into the table. Percin rolled his eyes.

  It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t terrible. It was a time of peace, more likely Hectar was upset he’d miss out on a little profit. They would need to fund King Lucen’s funeral, however. Gods know how expensive such a thing would be, with all of the food, musicians, poets and dancers. Bards and performers, cooks. It would be Hectar’s business, but despite it, Percin couldn’t help but sigh.

  “If this becomes a common occurrence, we may need to exclude her from the meetings.” Highfather Lyam grumbled grimly, breaking his hectic prayer for the moment.

  They’d need to read her father’s will soon. Percin wasn’t quite sure of what King Lucen’s will actually read- he could only hope he did not name a new Lord of Wages and utterly ruin his reining in of Hectar. A good king could do wonders, but a poor king could end civilizations. A sick and dying man could ruin his nation.

  “Ser Theron undoubtedly helped her..” Hectar slurped down half his glass of wine. “The council is weakened, and she calls a Madwoman to sit as Lord of Waves?”

  “What would you suggest we do? Ser Theron stands with her, and by extension, the guards.” Damien jabbed, a smirk clear on his face.

  Hectar shook his head, leaning back. Highfather Lyam grumbled as he leaned forward on the table.

  “We live in a time of peace, and yet it feels as though the Kingdom is going to collapse underneath us.” Percin groaned, dropping the note. “There will be anger. Some houses will not want to follow a ten year old girl.” He said, struggling with what next to say.

  He stood, moving towards a window on the far side of the room. Its stained glass depicted the Lamplighter, the god who gave men their clever ideas. He wore brightly colored robes, flowing from him like water as he hefted a shining lantern above his head.

  “Perhaps a tournament?” He suggested.

  “Bread and circus…my favorite!” Hectar grinned. “Nothing a peasant likes more than to forget.”

  “But we cannot afford to.” Damien said. “The eyes of the world will be upon us. Any sizable kingdom could swoop in for the kill. Weakness cannot be tolerated.”

  Percin looked to the Lord of Whispers.

  Whose side are you even on? He wondered.

  Highfather Lyam nodded as he turned to face Percin.

  “King Lucen was very charitable with the church. Such a favor of coin could be returned.” He said. “We could begin the ceremony with an anointing. The blessed oils of the Nine could bring to her some legitimacy among the common folk of the realm.”

  Percin nodded, ideas forming in his mind, shapeless as of yet but with time he could fix this. Time seemed to be the one thing they were missing. They had food, coin, men at arms. But everything seemed to be operating slowly. So slow, and yet he couldn’t keep up. It was as if he were in a race with a horse, riding atop a tortoise.

  “So, a feast. A tournament perhaps, and performers. Much to plan for.” Percin mused.

  “If Meriwyn is doing as she pleases, perhaps we ought to as well?” Damien suggested.

  “What do you mean?” Percin asked cautiously.

  “Rousse is in Zairos, and we all know he will not stop there.” Damien shrugged as he stood next to Percin near the window.

  “I say we end this story, before it has time to get bloody.” Damien said.

  “He’s a pirate lord, nothing more! We’ve no need to waste our time on it.” Highfather Lyam barked. Hectar nodded in agreement, pouring himself yet another glass of wine.

  “Then we should stop him before he becomes more. He has the Azalus blood in his veins.” Damien insisted.

  Hectar scoffed. “Even if he raises an army, he will die marching that coast for gold to pay them long before he can make it back here.”

  “Then why leave it to chance?” Damien questioned. “Why not take action, and end this for ourselves?”

  Percin could not meet the Lord of Whisper’s gaze. He found himself in agreement. Perhaps it would be better to behead the snake now, rather than give him a chance to slink into the grass. But Percin could only see the bright eye’d Rousse of his boyhood in his mind, not even the angry knight they’d sent away twenty years prior.

  Hectar shook his head bitterly. “The cost of an assassin? She already spared them from a month of the tax, I cannot afford such expenditures!”

  “On one assassin?” Percin asked, exasperated.

  “We’ll need a good one, to get through Zairos!” Hectar blubbered “And there’s the cost of the tourney and the feast…just too much to do!”

  “Of course, if Rousse is left anything in his will, or allowed to return from exile…” Damien pressed, and Percin knew he had them. Rousse would clear the council, instill his own men, not the ones who had abandoned him all those years ago.

  “Anything left to him could be….confiscated….for ‘funeral expenses.” Damien smirked.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  “The first sensible thing out of your mouth today!” Hectar said sourly.

  Highfather Lyam scratched his chin, humming to himself.

  “The church has the Walkers In Silence. No need to risk this with a mercenary- one of our own little hands can pluck his soul.” The older man said.

  “Get it done.” Percin finally demanded, sighing. His stomach swirled with doubt, with disgust. It’d been twenty years, but did that discount every moment they’d shared as comrades? What would Lucen think? Killing his older brother, so shortly after Lucen’s own death. Highfather Lyam and Hectar left the room quickly, chattering in hushed tones about a meeting in the church. Percin and Damein were now alone in the council chamber.

  “Why did you help her?” Percin asked. Damien locked eyes with him, an indecipherable look passing over the Lord of Whispers.

  “Whatever do you mean?” He asked, departing the chamber, the echo of the shutting door the only company he had left in the room.

  When he was a boy, Percin Holt had been brought from Valehold as a ward. He was nine years old when he was sent to the capital, away from home. He did not know it when he’d left, but he would not return until he was nearly thirty years old. Rousse and Lucen had adopted him as one of their own. Lucen the IIIrd was typically away fighting the Bastard Revolts, and Percin found his only memories of the man were the occasional feast and factoids he dredged from historical manuscripts. He had seen the man in the flesh before his death, yet there were historians who likely had a better grasp on the man than he did. Alone, in the council chamber, Percin allowed himself to fall back in time, to the days of his youth. When they romped through the forests around Castle Azalon, playing Black Knight and Guards and Thieves. A smile dredged itself from his sorrow.

  “Had I known I’d be the last of us three…” Percin said, placing his hand to the stained glass window.

  “Lamplighter, guide me. Have I done the right thing? For the Kingdom? For…” He didn’t say her name. He was ordering Rousse’s death, and thinking of her? It seemed shameful, sinful. Queen Islyn had died giving birth to Meriwyn though. Parts of her mother lived on in her, that willful nature. She had her eyes too, and her voice- the first time she spoke in the council it took everything he had not to weep. It had been as though she had returned to them. He had taken an oath, but it seemed Meriwyn would make it hell to uphold.

  Percin turned from the stained glass of the window, returning to the table in the center of the room. Most days it was clean, today it was littered with all matter and manner of documents. The scrawled chicken scratch note that warned him of Meriwyn’s plot- though he could do nothing to stop it by that point. She had made her announcement. There would be discontent among the houses, he would not risk an outside threat.

  In the choice of Meriwyn or Rousse, he could not deny Islyn’s wishes. He could never deny her.

  She was your greatest weakness. He told himself. At least now she cannot be played against you.

  He only prayed the assassin would come upon Rousse in his sleep. He would not like that, to die outside of battle, but Percin hoped he wouldn’t have time to know of this betrayal. He hoped Rousse would die with those happy memories intact. They’d dismissed him as a barbarian, refused to allow him return to the place of his birth. Percin knew personally that he would like to die at Valehold. Something seemed complete about ending in the place he began. In all likelihood, Rousse would have died anyway. He was merely ensuring it would be quick.

  The gods abhor disloyalty. Percin thought. But loyalty to whom?

  He paced the far wall for who knows how long, back and forth tracing the same steps across the cold stone of the council chamber, the sound echoing off the domed roof. He looked up there, to the fresco painting on the ceiling. It showed the founder of each and every House in the Kingdom. Those original Knights who led the Landfall, for which all of Durendane was named, and to whom they all owed their success. Ser Todd, in his gallant green armor, the imperious Ser Holt atop his majestic white horse. The brave Ser Harlan, as broad as two men and said to have been nearly eight feet tall. The rugged Ser Greene, who appeared more a mountain man than a knight, yet still grand in a feral sort of way. Ser Cragclaw, with his dark eyes and darker hair, sword forged of moonstone as pale as the night is long. The others were there, Ser Lothar, Ser Styrm, Ser Rickar, Ser Cinders, Ser Corinth, and the final, the first King of Durendane- King Arnulf the Ist Azalus. There were others too, a crowd of many dozens of smaller faces crowded in and around those saintlike men who had forged the Kingdom. They reached out to them in reverence. It was a work both cluttered and beautiful, compiled over many lifetimes. Percin wondered what would happen when they ran out of room.

  His eyes fell back upon King Arnulf the Ist Azalus.

  His eyes were as gold as his hair, even in the painting his eyes were like spears. There was a sharpness to them.

  He held his sword before him, planted blade first in the ground. He looked the sort of man who could face down an army.

  “What would you do?” He asked the old masters.

  They stared down at him.

  They’d never let it get this bad. Percin decided. He gripped the edge of the table before him, looking back down at the host of issues spread across it.

  “Why did you have to die?” He asked Lucen, who could not reply.

  “Damn you, you couldn’t have given me five more years? Long enough for our kingdom not to be left in the hands of children, thieves….” He looked at his own hands. “Murderers.”

  The door swung open, and Percin turned away, wiping his eyes.

  A servant stood in the door.

  “Apologies, my Lord, but a raven has arrived. It’s addressed to you.” She extended a hand through the door, sealed scroll in her hand.

  “The Lord of Hawks insisted I come to you, and none other.”

  There was a ball of ice in his stomach. What was it now, word of outright rebellion? That seemed, in his mind, the only way this could get any worse. He took the letter from her, trying to still the tremble in his hand.She watched him for a moment, only leaving when he looked back up at her. She shut the door behind her.

  He reached for his letter opener, with a quick flick of his wrist the blade had freed the wax from paper. He unfurled it.

  Percin took a deep breath as his eyes ran over the words on the scroll before him.

  The ball of ice in his stomach gradually began to melt, as a smile rose to his face.

  “Finally.” He sighed, allowing a nervous laugh. “Some good news.”

  Things were not resolved, but at the very least, Percin could rely on a helping hand.

  He glanced up to the founders. They stared at him, their judging eyes scouring him for sin.

  “I will do what I must. For my oath. For her. For Durendane.” Percin resolved.

  If they disapproved, they did not voice it.