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Post by devilinthedetails on Feb 20, 2022 1:41:55 GMT 10
Title: Comets and Compromise
Rating: PG-13 for references to sexism.
Prompt: Resolution
Summary: The scandals and compromises that ensure when Keladry of Mindelan is placed on probation and Roald chooses to be her sponsor. A mild AU.
Author's Note: This story got so long (over 4k words) that I decided to post this now, and post the second half once I'm finished writing and editing it. So if you enjoy this, please keep an eye on the thread for the forthcoming second half.
Comets and Compromise
A Dangerous Precedent
“You didn’t even consult me.” Thayet’s hazel eyes were hard and accusing as Jon had ever seen them in their long, mostly happy years of marriage.
Jon pinched his forehead, where a nasty migraine was brewing. He knew–because his wife had made it abundantly clear on multiple occasions both before and after their wedding– that she appreciated being left in the dark and unconsulted about any issues that might be deemed important about as much as a conservative did unexpected change, but he was prone to conveniently forgetting that fact when he was about to engage in an action, generally political, of which he predicted she would disapprove. Whenever he did that, he inevitably suffered the consequences of her ire, which were rendered all the more painful because he couldn’t regard himself as the entirely undeserving victim of her vented fury.
This time, she had at least elected to berate him in the relative privacy of their parlor in the royal quarters, a small blessing for which Jon was devoutly grateful to whichever merciful deity had bestowed it.
“I apologize.” Jon’s effort to appease her was doomed to failure.
“Your apology means nothing,” snapped Thayet. “Because I realize the reason that you didn’t consult me was because you knew I would disagree with you, and you didn’t even respect me enough to want to hear out my arguments. You were willing to listen to Lord Wyldon, but not to me. Your wife in case you’ve forgotten in the midst of all your governing.”
“My dear, that’s not true.” Jon reached out to clasp his wife’s wrist. To calm and comfort her.
This must have come across as more patronizing than he’d intended, because she twisted away from him with a glare that contained all the searing venom of a viper.
“It was bad enough last year when you took advantage of me being away from the palace to persuade Kally not to pursue her knighthood.” The storm that was Thayet raged on unabated, and Jon winced at the thought of how his wife had only started speaking with him out of the public eye.
That was how furious she had been when he convinced Kally not to try for her shield. She had seen it as such a betrayal of everything their reign was supposed to stand for that she had not engaged in private conversation with him for months, and now he had stepped again on that sensitive ground. Picking at a barely healed wound. Making it bleed again. Jeopradizing their relationship in the name of kingship, and a crown was such cold comfort when his wife’s warm body wasn’t beside him in bed.
“This is even worse,” Thayet pronounced. “You agreed that Keladry of Mindelan should be subject to a year’s probation with Lord Wyldon of all people as sole judge of where she meets the terms of her probation. And you agreed to this in front of Alanna the Lioness. A slap in her face and the face of every female warrior. Including myself.”
“I had to agree to that,” said Jon quietly. Pleading with his wife to understand the incomprehensible. So he could stop feeling as alone as he had since Alanna had stalked out of the meeting, declaring in iciest tones that she could find business for herself as far away from Corus as possible. “Otherwise, he would’ve resigned his position, and he’s a conservative voice at court with whom we can at least compromise. If he’s resigned, and it’s perceived as us driving him away for his staunch, traditional principles–especially so soon after he rescued our royal children-we’ll find it much more difficult to push through the reforms that we care about, my love.”
“I don’t know about you, but I cared about the reform that allowed girls to train as knights.” Thayet was plainly unimpressed and unmoved by his appeal.
“I cared about that reform too.” Jon’s jaw clenched. “That’s why I signed such a proclamation in the first place.”
“A proclamation that means less than the parchment it’s written on if you don’t stand by it, guaranteeing it with your own strength.” Thayet snorted. “I remember no clauses about probation in your grand proclamation, Jon. Acceding to Lord Wyldon’s request that the Mindelan girl be placed on probation sets a dangerous precedent. Gives conservatives grounds to make a case that every female who wishes to train as a knight should be subject to such an unfair probationary period.”
“I know that.” Jon sighed. “It wasn’t a compromise I made lightly. It’s one that tore me apart.”
“It should tear you apart to retract a promise you made.” Thayet still extended no hint of sympathy. “Our reforms are worthless if we don’t stick to them through thick and thin, and compromise is all well and good, but there comes a point when it is meaningless. When it demands that we sacrifice everything we believe in and everything that we have worked to achieve. In such instances, we must refuse to compromise or else we stand for nothing and have compromised away all our dreams of what Tortall could be. All our legacy.”
“You’re being overdramatic.” Jon huffed, crossing his arms over his heaving chest. “I haven’t done any of that.”
“Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night.” Thayet strode toward the door, looking back only to toss over her shoulder the cutting words, “Alanna won’t be talking to you for at least a year, and I can’t say that I blame her.”
Jon felt a stab in his heart then. It did hurt that his best friend believed he had betrayed her, and the fact that his wife was siding with his best friend against him only poured salt into his wound. Piled onto his pain.
“Wyldon is an honorable man.” One of Jon’s great strengths as a king was that he could read the minds and souls of his subjects. Could predict how they would act before they made a move. Often before they had even decided how they should move. His assessments of people were rarely wrong. Especially not about a man as devoted to the Code of Chivalry as Lord Wyldon. “He’ll be fair in his judgment of Keladry even if it kills him.”
“If he cared about fairness and honor, he never would’ve shamed himself and you by requesting that Keladry be put on probation.” Thayet slammed the door by way of punctuation.
“You’re being too simplistic–too black and white–in your thinking, and politics are never simple,” Jon snarled, but he was shouting at a closed door.
A Memory of Comets
“Mama.” Roald came to her after her argument with Jon had subsided, and Thayet couldn’t claim that she was surprised when he sought her out on the balcony where she had come to calm and cool her temper. As neutral as he was in most matters, her oldest son was in the habit of subtly siding with her in a majority of the arguments she had with her husband. He was very gallant and tender in that way. A loyal son to her if not to Jon. “I’m sorry you’re upset about Keladry’s probation. I promise to do everything in my power to aid her in the pages’ wing.”
“Good boy.” Touched, Thayet cupped his cheek. Then, because she had her duties as a wife and mother, added a sterner stricture. “Don’t do anything that would distress or disappoint your father. You owe him a proper obedience.”
“Yes, Mama.” Roald bowed his head, accepting the order, though Thayet sensed that his vow was given more because he cared about not distressing or disappointing her than because he was committed to avoiding distressing or disappointing Jon.
Roald hesitated a moment before asking, “How can I keep my promise to do everything in my power to aid Keladry in the pages’ wing while not distressing or disappointing Papa? Anything I do to help her will distress and disappoint him.”
“I can’t tell you the answer to that.” Thayet kissed his furrowed brow. “That’s a delicate balance–a careful compromise–that you must strike for yourself.”
“Yes, Mama.” Roald nodded again, absorbing her words. After some reflection, he murmured, “I won’t break any rules. Then it won’t be my fault if Papa is distressed or disappointed because I won’t have done anything truly wrong.”
Thayet wasn’t as certain of that as he was but lost the opportunity to express as much when he went on, biting his lip, “The probation is just so unfair. It rankles.”
Her son, Thayet thought, did have a habit of valuing justice above all else. Even more than diplomacy or the manners Master Oakbridge had hammered into his head since he could talk.
She patted his shoulder. Wondering how she had come to be the one soothing him when he had come out to comfort her. “Life is not fair, Roald. That is more often true for women and girls than for boys and men.”
“I thought you and Papa were working to change that.” Roald stared at her as if she had grown a second head, and she was reminded–sharply–of how young and innocent he was. Only twelve years old and still believing the world could be a fair place. One that treated men and women, boys and girls, equally.
“We are,” Thayet assured him. “It is just that changes–especially great ones–take time, my son.”
“Yes, Mama.” Roald gave a respectful nod, and Thayet had the impression that he didn’t understand. That he had failed to learn the lesson she was trying to teach.
“Do you remember Gyasi’s Comet?” she asked.
Gyasi’s Comet, named for the astronmer at the Carthaki university who had discovered that the comet that sliced through the sky every seventy-five years was the same one on a repeating schedule, was a once-in-a-lifetime sight to behold. Last time Gyasi’s Comet had cycled around, Jon had taken a six-year-old Roald and a five-year-old Kally to the top of Balor’s Needle so they could watch it soar flaming red-orange over Corus and the Olorun.
“Of course, Mama.” Non-plussed, obviously confused about what relevance this had to the discussion, Roald gaped at her.
“Gyasi’s Comet comes around once-in-a-lifetime. Twice if one lives to a ripe old age and is exceedingly fortunate with one’s timing. On the last occasion Gyasi’s Comet circled the world, you were six-years-old.” Thayet offered him a slight smile tinged by sorrow. “The time before that, your great-grandfather had yet to conquer Barzun. A mere four cycles of the comet ago, there were still slaves in Tortall. King Roger the Third had yet to free them. So, you see, time and progress are relative. Change seems to occur at a crawl within our lifetimes, but measured in the cycles of comets, it comes at a breakneck speed.”
“So you’re saying that there might come a time, two or three cycles of Gyasi’s Comet from now, when the world will be a different place, and it will seem unfathomable to the people living in that time that there was ever an era when girls who wished to train as knights were subjec to probation?” Roald shot her a speculative glance. Mulling this over in his mind.
“Exactly.” Thayet nodded. Pleased he had grasped her point. Understood her lesson.
Then he cut through her pleasure with a frown. “But we aren’t comets, Mama. We’re people who live and breathe in the now. It doesn’t do you, me, or Keladry of Mindelan any good if female pages aren’t subjected to probationary periods in the future if they are subjected to them in the present.”
“We do live in the now, but we are also part of the future,” Thayet corrected him gently but firmly. “We shape and influence the future every day of our lives. With every decision that we make. You, me, and Keladry of Mindelan.”
“Oh.” Roald seemed to consider this for a moment. Then kissed her cheek, vowing, “I will continue to ponder your wise words, Mama.”
“Now, you are just buttering me up.” Thayet laughed, enjoying this stolen conversation with her son before he returned to the pages’ wing and Lord Wyldon’s strict training regimen.
Courting Controversy
Roald had never been one to court controversy. To invite speculation and scandal by his conduct. Which, he supposed, made what he was about to do all the more insane. Yet he had to do it because it was justice, and Keladry of Mindelan deserved some semblance of justice after the shameful probation that had been placed upon her just because she was a girl entering what had hitherto been a boys’ world.
Besides, there was nobody else he trusted that would volunteer to serve as her sponsor. Faleron, a level-headed youth Roald respected, had made his intention to sponsor his cousin Merric plain, and Roald couldn’t fault him for wishing to honor that tradition–to stick by his kinsman. Cleon, a lively boy who had always been Roald’s closest companion among his yearmates (not that he allowed himself to show that he had favorites too much since it might have jeaopradized his efforts at creating diplomatic balance in the pages’ wing), was too much of a jovial prankster to be entrusted with the solemn task of sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan.
Neal of Queenscove, who had expressed an interest in becoming a page last spring after his two older brothers were killed in the Immortals War, might have been a suitable candidate if he was present in the pages’ wing. But he was not present. Was enmeshed and entangled in his studies at the Royal Univeristy at this very moment. Had been ordered by his faher to remain at the university until he was eighteen-years-old and a man-in-truth. Had been threatened with disowning if he chose otherwise. Duke Baird was a kind, gentle man, but he was resolved as iron not to lose another son to violence. Roald could understand and empathize with that, but it didn’t help him with the quandary of who should sponsor Keladry of Mindelan.
Roald didn’t doubt and indeed even anticipated that Joren of Stone Mountain would seek to step forward when Lord Wyldon requested a sponsor for Keladry of Mindelan. Joren would see that as a golden opportunity to torture and torment her until she cracked and fled home to her parents. Roald couldn’t let that happen. Had to foil Joren’s plan somehow. Make a countering move on the chessboard. After all, he had promised his mother that he would do everything in his power to aid Keladry of Mindelan in the pages’ wing.
He was a dutiful son. One who strove to keep the promises he made to his mother. Beyond that, he valued justice and felt he had to make some atonement–provide some restitution–for his father placing Keladry on probation. Papa, he thought, had wronged Keladry, so it seemed only fair that he, as his father’s son, would do what he could to right that wrong. To amend what could not be fully fixed.
That was why when the moment of truth came and Wyldon asked who would sponsor Keladry of Mindelan, Roald spoke up in the exact, measured words he had recited in his head in the long hours leading up to this defining instant that seemed to split time, dizzyingly and disconcertingly, into a before and an after. A was and a will be.
He stepped forward. Even sticking a toe out of line was enough to attract attention. To draw all eyes to him. To fill him with that feeling that he was a fish living in a bowl. Confined. His movements constricted by customs and conventions he was afraid to shatter. Always watched through a curved, distorting glass. Never truly free because he would die if he tried to escape the water through which he swam, endlessly, in circles.
He bowed politely and properly to the training master. Whatever else transpired this evening, he was determined to do everything politely and properly. To not break any rules even as he acted in a way that would echo throughout the pages’ wing. Resound throughout the kingdom. Ripple through court politics. Stirring debate. Widening chasms between political factions.
“I would be honored to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan, my lord.” He spoke quietly but firmly. Trying to infuse his tone with some of the unshakeable conviction that laced his father’s when King Jonathan advocated another great reform to a wide-eyed court.
He did not need to be loud to be heard in a suddenly silent corridor. To be heard throughout the palace and the realm. Not when he was heir to the throne. In fact, being loud might be regarded as an excess in a crown prince. A lack of proper proportion and propriety. Betraying a fundamental failure to realize that his every word and gesture were inevitably noted and remarked upon so there was no need to draw extra attention to them for the sake of drama or vanity.
Besides, he told himself, trying to give himself courage, he had every right to be Keladry of Mindelan’s sponsor. Any page in the second year or above could request to be the sponsor of any new page. That was the tradition. Lord Wyldon would know it since he always sought to honor tradition above everything else.
Lord Wyldon glared at him with a look that could have stripped paint and Roald wondered, not for the first time, if the training master had the power to read the minds of rebellious pages. Scratched irritably at the arm in a sling from his tangle with the hurrocks and centaurs that had invaded the royal nursery, imperiling little Lianne, Liam, and Jasson.
Lord Wyldon still bore the scars of saving the three youngest Conte children. Would always bear those scars. Certain things followed from that, Roald realized. Perhaps Papa’s decision to place Keladry of Mindelan on probation hadn’t been so much about a king’s justice as it was about a father’s love. A father’s need to repay the man who had rescued his offspring. Honor demanded that Lord Wyldon be rewarded for the great service he had done the Crown–the sacrifice of his own flesh and blood–but Roald knew he had refused any new granting of lands and titles for doing only what he regarded as his duty.
Maybe agreeing to Lord Wyldon’s request that Keladry of Mindelan be placed on probation was Papa’s way of balancing those scales. Of paying that debt. A probation for one noble girl in exchange for three royal lives saved months ago. Most would not call that a bad deal unless they were the noble girl in question.
There were layers and complexities here Roald didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand because he was twelve. His papa might have been able to explain those layers and complexities if Roald had asked him to do so, but Roald hadn’t asked. He had acted, and, even with a dawning awareness of the layers and complexities that were still a mystery to him, he couldn’t quite believe that he had acted wrongly.
He had acted in the name of justice and a promise made to his mother. That couldn’t be wrong, could it? And, if it wasn’t wrong, it had to be right to some degree, didn’t it?
“Very well, Your Highness.” Lord Wyldon’s thin-lipped pronouncement ripped Roald from his musings. The training master had never gazed at him with such wrath and disapproval. As if Roald had personally insulted him. As if he had been the one wronged. The one dishonored. The victim of a gross injustice instead of the person who had negotiated for it to be inflicted on another. “You shall be Keladry of Mindelan’s sponsor.”
A hissing reminiscent of a hundred serpents filled the hallway as pages pressed their heads together to whisper their thoughts on this development to their neighbors and friends.
Over this outbreak of hissing, Lord Wyldon’s stern voice sounded, “Dinnertime now. Come.”
He turned on his heel and strode briskly down the corridor. A sea of pages eager for food following obediently in his wake. A sea of pages that included Roald until he noticed that Keladry of Mindelan wasn’t walking beside him. That she was still standing beside her door.
“You’ll have to learn to come when Lord Wyldon says,” he advised as he returned to collect her. “It’ll be easier for you if you do.”
She made no response to this. Only stared at him with evaluating hazel eyes. Eyes that seemed to weigh his every action and word. “You’re the Crown Prince. Your father put me on probation. Why would you want to be my sponsor?”
A stunning question from one who had spent a bulk of her childhood in a Yamani court that, rumor had it, was exacting in its etiquette. A court where, Roald had heard it whispered, nobles could be beheaded for failing to abase themselves to the proper degree before their emperor. But perhaps that was only a stereotyped view of the Yamani and their court. Roald knew astonishingly and appallingly little about the Yamani despite the fact that he was now betrothed to one of their princesses.
A betrothal arranged by the father of the girl who stood before him. The girl he was currently accessing. Considering how bold and blunt her comment had been coming from a diplomat’s daughter, but then he supposed he should have expected boldness and bluntness from her. She was trying to change the world. To do something that hadn’t been done for centuries. To train openly as a girl for her knighthood. She would have to be bold and blunt to dream of doing that. To risk the country’s condemnation by attempting such a feat. To court that kind of controversey.
And, it occured to Roald abruptly, she must have a father who loved her very much to allow her to attempt such a thing. To permit her to attract that sort of controversy and backlash. To not forbid her from training as a knight. To not force her into marriage and a lady’s life. Her father must have his own bluntness and boldness if he was willing to have his daughter train as a page.
Did Baron Piers love his daughter more than Papa loved his children? Was that why Keladry was training to be a knight and Kally wasn’t? Was that why Roald was so afraid of courting controversy? Risking condemnation?
A foolish question, Roald childed himself a heartbeat later. Papa was a king. Roald and Kally were a prince and princess. Their lives were not their own. Their lives and every decision they made in them were matters of national and international significance. The standards for royal conduct had to be higher, and the consequences for failing to meet those standards would, of course, be harsher, and felt by many more people. Besides, love could not be compared across families. To do so woud inevitably invite unfairnesses and resentments.
“My father also wrote the proclamation that gave you the opportunity to train as a page in the first place,” Roald reminded her. Trying to balance a son’s loyalty with his own aching awareness of the rankling injustice of Keladry’s situation. “And I am not my father. I make my own choices.”
He let her puzzle over that as they headed down the hallway to dinner. The silence between them didn’t linger too long before he began asking her courteous questions about Yamani culture and her experiences at the Yamani court. Questions that were laced with a genuine curiosity. A desire to rectify his ignorance and reliance on stereotype.
Keladry seemed to enjoy discussing the Yamani and her time in the Islands. From her, he heard about the richness of their poetry that focused on imagry and counted syllables rather than on rhyme. Learned about their beautiful ink and watercolor paintings that celebrated the natural and not the artificial.
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Post by devilinthedetails on Mar 31, 2022 2:24:44 GMT 10
A Private Audience
It was just after dinner in the royal quarters. Jon and Thayet were savoring some leisure time with their children.
As he bounced Vania on his knee (Vania alone of his offspring was still young enough to enjoy being bounced on his knee, which was probably just as well since his knees were starting to ache and age), Jon spun for her an old yarn about a magic lamp that would grant any three wishes when rubbed in precisely the right fashion.
Beside him on the sofa, Lianne sat with Thayet’s arm draped about her. Lips pressed to Lianne’s ear, Thayet sang soft as a rose petal to her a K’miri tune to which Jon couldn’t translate the lyrics. He only knew that they sounded beautiful and sad to his ear, especially when sung to what he could only describe as mournful. All K’miri songs sounded to him beautiful and sad in equal measure. Cleaving his heart in two each time he heard one, but at the same time making his soul rejoice in something transcendent.
By the fireside, Jasson curled in a chair, reading a book by its flickering light. He was the scholar of their family. Always with his nose planted in some volume of literature or other.
On the carpet, Liam played with tin soldiers. Forcing them to march where he chose. Shouting commands at them. Experimenting with strategies. Testing tactics. Re-enacting old battles he had learned about from his tutors. He had a very militaristic mind, and it showed as much in his play as in his training in the practice courts.
Kally was drawing in a sketchbook Roald had given her for her last birthday. Since receiving this present from her older brother, Kally had become quite the budding artist. Jon hadn’t even known that Kally wanted a sketchbook, but somehow Roald had been aware of it. Perhaps the wish had been one of the thousand secrets the two constantly whispered to each other, or maybe it had been a matter of deeper, sibling intuition. A testament to how attuned they were to one another. How they could so often read what was in each other’s hearts and minds without needing to say a word anyone else could hear.
The quiet happiness Jon felt with most of his family (everyone except his eldest son and heir) circled around him was interrupted when one of Jon’s most trusted messengers appeared at his elbow.
“Yes, Arne?” Jon inquired, acknowledging the man who would no doubt drag him back to his more kingly duties and away from his more domestic pleasures.
“I apologize for the intrusion.” Arne bowed. “But Lord Wyldon has requested a private audience with Your Majesties at the earliest possible convenience.”
“I gather from this that Lord Wyldon is waiting in our reception room right now,” remarked Jon dryly. Whenever a great noble requested a private audience at the earliest possible convenience, they were inevitably in the reception room already. Indicating that they truly expected to be seen by their monarchs immediately and that the “earliest possible convenience” phrase was nothing more than polite fiction.
“Yes, sire.” Arne nodded, and then added with a wry twitch of his mouth, “And in quite a lather about something, if you’ll forgive my boldness in saying so.”
In Arne’s years of faithful service to the Crown, Jon had forgiven, ignored, and indeed even been amused by many such bold assessments from Arne. Arne’s knack for striking that fine balance between humor and adherence to proper etiquette was one of the reasons he was such a valued royal messenger.
“I eagerly anticipate discovering which one of our reforms has him gnashing his teeth this week.” Jon stifled an eye roll on the grounds that eye rolls, however satisfying they might be, weren’t kingly, and he must be kingly if nothing else.
Resigned to his duty, Jon gently nudged Vania off his knee. “Run along to bed now, my dear.”
“But you haven’t finished the story yet, Papa.” Vania pouted. As the youngest Conte, her pouting powers were legendary, but this time, they proved ineffective.
“I’ll finish the story tomorrow.” Jon promised, pressing a kiss into his daughter’s black hair. “To bed now.”
As Vania reluctantly disappeared down the hallway and into the bedchamber she shared with Lianne, Arne added, “Lord Wyldon did mention he did want to speak about something Prince Roald had done to offend him.”
That caught Jon’s attention. Made him quirk an eyebrow because it was rare for his oldest son to offend anyone. When there was trouble in the royal household, Roald was seldom the cause of it, and more likely to be a resolver of a conflict than the instigator of it. He was a peacemaker and diplomat, through and through.
Jasson’s sharp terrier ears seemed to perk up as well for he asked keenly even as he flipped to the next page in his tome, “Does that mean Roald is in trouble, Papa?”
Roald was such a respectful, responsible, and obedient child that it was hardly ever necessary to punish him. In fact, any punishment seemed to risk being too harsh. Too excessive. So, naturally, because the occasions where Roald required correction were so sparse, the times when he demanded discipline were of considerable interest to Jasson and Liam, who were far more rambunctious. Roald’s younger brothers appeared to delight in the knowledge that he could mess up and be punished for it as well as them. That he wasn’t actually perfect after all.
“That is none of your business, Jasson,” Thayet said sternly. “Just as it is none of Roald’s business when you might be in trouble.”
Jasson looked as if he might argue this point, so Jon cut him off with a raised hand. “Go to bed, Jasson. You too, Liam and Lianne. Kally, you can stay.”
Jon nursed ambitions of Kally one day marrying to become the Empress of Carthak and wanted her attending as many audiences as possible. Being exposed to all aspects of politics so she would be prepared to rule with wit, courage, and compassion. Besides, he suspected there was no point in trying to keep whatever Roald had done from Kally. No doubt Roald would confide in Kally at the soonest chance anyway.
“But I didn’t do anything wrong, Papa.” Sweet Lianne nuzzled her cheek into Jon’s shoulder, urging him to relent. “Why can’t I stay like Kally?”
“I didn’t say you did anything wrong, my dear.” Jon hugged her then lifted her off the sofa and onto the floor. “I only told you to go to bed.”
“Jasson’s the only one who did anything wrong.” Liam scowled as he cleaned up his toy soldiers. “I don’t know why Lianne and I are being punished too. It’s not fair.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Jasson returned his brother’s glower as he slammed his book shut. “Roald did. Blame him for Papa being in a foul temper with us if you must.”
“I’m not in a foul temper.” Jon fought to reign in his fraying temper. Six children were too many for any man to handle, Mithros bless him. If only he and Thayet hadn’t been quite so fertile. “I will be if you don’t go to bed now, though.”
This statement was sufficiently menacing that it succeeded in clearing the room of Jasson, Liam, and Lianne. Once those three had vanished into their bedchambers, Jon fixed his attention on Arne, who mercifully was accustomed to the chaos that often filled the royal quarters, and ordered, “Please bring Lord Wyldon in to see us now.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Arne bowed again and left.
“What can Roald have said or done to offend Lord Wyldon?” Jon tried to prepare himself for this unexpected private audience with Lord Wyldon. To anticipate what the training master would say so he could respond to it with the appropriate argument or appeasement. To brace himself for the onslaught of Lord Wyldon’s indignation. Yet, it was so hard to prepare–to brace himself–when the cause of Lord Wyldon’s pique was an unknown. A mystery. Jon felt a stab of anger at his eldest son not only for offending Lord Wyldon, but for leaving Jon in the dark as to the nature of that affront.
Before Thayet or Kally could speculate on the subject, Arne reappeared with Lord Wyldon at his heels. As Arne faded into the background, becoming no more obtrusive than a tapestry hung from the wall or a piece of unused furniture, Jon greeted Lord Wyldon with his most charming, disarming smile. “It is a pleasure to see you this evening, my lord.”
“I thank Your Majesties for receiving me on such short notice.” Lord Wyldon gave a stiff bow. “Though I regret that the cause of my visit is not a pleasant one.”
The causes of Lord Wyldon’s visits were seldom pleasant ones, Jon thought as Thayet spoke. “What is the cause of your displeasure, and what might we do to rectify it, my lord?”
Formal words uttered in a mild tone. The contradictions and nuances of which his wife was capable. He hoped his daughter was watching and learning from how Thayet could master and manage a room.
“It is your eldest son. The Crown Prince.” Lord Wyldon scratched at his scar. “He has volunteered to sponsor the Girl.”
“He what?” Jon could hear the rumble of thunder in his own voice. He hadn’t forbidden Roald from sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan. Of course he hadn’t. He hadn’t imagined that such a prohibition would be necessary. Not when Roald was so sensitive to political nuances and aware of diplomatic implications of everything he said and did. Far cleverer about those matters than Jon had been at a comparable age. Much more mature in his reasoning.
Besides, Jon had no intention of being one of those horrible, overbearing fathers who inevitably raised rebellious sons. Sons who underminded their fathers at every opportunity. Though Roald, if Wyldon’s report was accurate (and Jon saw no reason why it wouldn’t be), was doing a magnificent job of publicly undermining Jon’s will and authority in the pages’ wing. Perhaps being an overbearing father was not an essential part of ending up with a rebellious son, after all. If it was possible to disobey without ever receiving orders, Roald had done just that. A disconcerting notion.
“Any page in good standing in the second year and above may volunteer to sponsor any first year.” Thayet’s calm under the circumstances might have been enviable if it wasn’t so infuriating. “I do not see that our son has done anything wrong, my lord. Certainly he has violated no rules as far as I understand them.”
“A mother will naturally defend her son.” Lord Wyldon’s dark gaze was flinty. “And you were never a page, Your Majesty. I wouldn’t expect you to understand all the spoken and unspoken rules of the pages’ wing.”
“The rules seem straightforward enough.” Thayet had a certain smile that sliced like a knife. She fixed it on Lord Wyldon now. “I think I understand them just fine, my lord.”
Lord Wyldon seemed to regard Thayet as a lost cause and focused his entire appeal on Jon. “Sire, I thought we had reached a compromise before the Mindelan girl commenced her training that she would be on a year’s probation and that, at the year’s conclusion, I would be the sole judge of whether she was qualified to continue to train for her knighthood.”
“We had reached such a compromise, my lord.” Jon inclined his head gravely.
“The terms of our agreement, as I understood them, did not grant you the right to interfere with my judgment.” Lord Wyldon’s cheeks were flushed. “I take it as an insult to my honor–my sense of fairness–that you would seek to do so. Frankly, it has me on the brink of resignation once more, Your Majesty.”
Lord Wyldon’s threats of resignation were becoming a bit too commonplace lately, Jon thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was not aware of making an attempt to interfere with your judgment, my lord.”
Mithros guard and protect him, he had more important matters of governance to attend to than undermining Lord Wyldon’s authority in the pages’ wing. Lord Wyldon flattered himself if he envisioned otherwise.
“Your son sponsoring the Girl looks like an attempt to interfere with my judgment and training, sire.” Lord Wyldon arched an eyebrow. “Unless I am to believe that your son was not acting on your orders when he volunteered to sponsor her.”
“My son wasn’t acting on my orders.” Jon’s tone was tight, and whether he was more frustrated at Lord Wyldon or Roald, he didn’t know. “Quite the contrary, he was acting on his own initiative. I will talk with him about it, my lord.”
“Very well, sire.” Lord Wyldn’s lips were white and thin. “Provided you have that talk with your son and there are no further efforts to undermine my judgment or authority in the pages’ wing, I will remain in my post.”
Relieved that they had arrived at some resolution to this unexpected crisis, Jon nodded. “We have an agreement, my lord.”
Once a moderately appeased Lord Wyldon had departed to bestow more joy on other fortuitous individuals, Kally turned an earnest blue gaze on Jon. Immensely and instinctively protective of her elder brother. “Papa, don’t yell at Roald. Not about this.”
“Who said anything about yelling, my dear?” Jon was a man who prided himself on not yelling at his children. Maybe he wasn’t a perfect father, but at least he wasn’t a shouter. He didn’t degrade and berate his offspring like that.
“Talk is a euphemism for yelling. A toddler knows that, Papa.” Kally emanated impatience at having to explain the obvious to her obtuse father. He did not, it turned out, have to worry about her ability to master and manage a room. It seemed to be a strength she had inherited from her mother along with so much else. “And you can’t yell at him about this. He did the right thing. He doesn’t deserve to be scolded for that.”
“The right thing?” Jon sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not such an easy thing to determine.”
“It is for me,” Kally insisted fiercely, chin lifting. “I know what’s in his mind and heart better than anybody. He would’ve sponsored Keladry of Mindelan because there was nobody else he could trust not to bully her, and he would want to protect her as much as he could. He’d want her to have as fair a chance as possible. And if I had decided to train as a page, if I were in Keladry of Mindelan’s shoes, you’d have wanted Roald to step up. To be my sponsor. To protect me. So how can you blame him for doing for Keladry of Mindelan what you would’ve wanted him to do for me?”
“You are his sister.” Jon massaged his throbbing temples. “Of course I would expect him to display more concern for your welfare.”
“He’s going to be a better king and man than you.” Kally snatched up her sketchbook and clutched it close to her chest. Hugging it to her almost as if it were her brother rather than a gift from him. “Fairer. More compassionate. More committed to doing the right thing for the right reasons.”
A retort blazed up Jon’s throat to his tongue. With effort, he bit it back. He would not respond to his daughter’s bitterness with his own. He would maintain his composure. Set a good example for her. Be a model of courtesy and grace under fire.
“I hope he will be,” he answered honestly. Mildly. With a tinge of sorrow embedded in his voice like shattered mosaic in an abandoned chapel. “That’s what I’ve tried to raise him to be.”
Kally made no reply to this. Merely flounced from the room with her nose in the air, pride radiating from her like the burning rays of heat from the summer sun.
“My rebellious children seem to multiply.” Jon twisted to face Thayet with a faint, wry grin, but if he expected sympathy from his wife he was disappointed in the first severe words that fell from her lips.
The most beautiful lips in the world, Jon had thought when he married her, and still thought now. Even when she was about to chew him up like a piece of rough meat at table.
Stubborn Spirit
“You didn’t consult with me again.” Thayet glared at her husband. Flabbergasted that he would look at her for pity when, as far as she was concerned, their daughter was more in the right than he was. “You just reached an agreement with Lord Wyldon as if I wasn’t there. You didn’t even glance at me while you were engaged in your negotiation.”
“It wasn’t much of a negotiation.” Jon waved a dismissive palm. Plainly irked that she was irritated. “Mostly a restatement of terms we had agreed upon before.”
“Terms I didn’t agree to.” Thayet was unable to resist reiterating her grievance. Poking at a sore point again. “Terms you didn’t consult with me before acceding to on our behalf.”
“Yes, I know that upset you. You’ve made that clear.” Jon’s jaw clenched, and she wouldn’t be surprised if she could hear his teeth grinding soon. “What would you have me do? Break my word to Lord Wyldon? Have him resign in flagrant protest?”
“Not have you cave into more of Lord Wyldon’s demands,” retorted Thayet. “Not promise to speak to our son when he hasn’t done anything wrong as far as I can see.”
“Not done anything wrong?” echoed Jon, gaping at Thayet as if she were blind not to see things from his perspective. “He’s insulted the training master. Undermined his authority in the pages’ wing. Not to mention gone against my political decisions. All in one fell swoop, might I add. It’s hard to think of what more he could’ve done wrong.”
“He broke no rules,” Thayet reminded her husband. Repeating an argument she had made to Lord Wyldon. “There were no rules prohibiting him from sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan, and you know Roald is someone who follows the letter of the law.”
“Breaking the rules isn’t the only way to do wrong, Thayet.” Jon was unwavering in his conviction. Unswerving in his determination. His strength of will was one of the traits she admired most about him. A reason she had married him. Unfortunately, it could also be one of his most frustrating and ugly qualities. “I can’t let Roald undermine my negotiations and policies thoughtlessly like this. I have to talk with him about this. I wouldn’t be doing my duty as a king and father otherwise.”
“I doubt Roald acted thoughtlessly, Jon.” Thayet sighed. So little of what their eldest son did could be regarded as thoughtless. Almost everything Roald undertook, he did so with careful, measured consideration. His approach rarely anything other than judicious.
“Then that’s even worse.” Jon scowled. “He deliberately defied me and flouted my will. How can I do anything but chide him for that?”
“Defying you and flouting your will.” Thayet’s lips pursed. “Rather dramatic words given that one of the hallmarks of your reign has been increasing opportunities for female warriors. Isn’t that what Roald was supporting when he volunteered to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan?”
“He was going against a compromise I made.” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “He was publicly contradicting Lord Wyldon and me. Of course certain consequences must follow for him from that.”
“Don’t be too hard on him.” Thayet reached out to pat her husband’s arm.
“I have to be hard on him sometimes.” Jon stiffened instead of softening beneath her touch. "If I am not, the realm will be left with a spoiled brat to inherit the throne when I’m gone to the gods.”
“Roald’s not a spoiled brat.” Thayet could not–would not–stop advocating for her child. For all her children. The children she had carried and given birth to in some of the best and most painful moments of her life. Moments saturated with blood and tears but also transcendent bliss and release. Euphoria mingled with agony. There could be no more accurate summation of motherhood than that. “I am charitable enough to understand that all you’re trying to be is a good father, but you might have some empathy for Roald and entertain the idea that maybe all he is trying to be is a good son.”
“If he is trying to be a good son, then he is all the more in need of a stern reminder that publicly undermining my agreements and policies is not how to be a good son.” Jon’s brow knotted. “I intend to give him that reminder.”
“He’s not only a son to you.” Thayet folded her arms over her abdomen. Drawing a shielding circle around the space where Roald had grown, gentle and warm, in her womb before he had entered a world where she couldn’t keep him safe or innocent forever. Where she could not truly protect any of her precious children. “He’s a son to me, too, and he promised me he would do everything in his power to help Keladry of Mindelan in the pages’ wing. Being Keladry of Mindelan’s sponsor is certainly in his power.”
“You made him promise that?” Jon’s expression suggested she was guilty of the vilest treachery. That she had stabbed him in the back with his heir as the knife.
“I didn’t make him promise any such thing,” Thayet snapped. “He promised it of his own free will.”
“Then he is responsible for the consequences of his promise.” Jon’s face was closed like a drawbridge. Designed to be impervious to any assault. Meant to be unbreachable. “He must learn that I cannot be crossed so easily.”
“You sound like my father.” Thayet hated when Jon stood on his pride like this. Pride, in her experience, too often motivated men to engage in their most shameful rather than most honorable deeds. Spurred them to do great evil rather than good. The wrath of a man whose dignity had been trodden on could destory a family. Leaving ruined lives in the wake of its fury. “He was always very determined to prove that he couldn’t be crossed. Resolved to demonstrate at all costs that he was in charge. That he couldn’t be challenged. In the end, I don’t think it made him happy. It certainly didn’t make anyone around him–especially those unfortunate enough to be under his authority–happy.”
“I wish you wouldn’t compare me to your father, my love. It savors of passion.” Jon leaned over. Kissed her cheek, and she felt her heart race like a wild horse on the steppes of Sarain. Even after all these years of marriage and six children, he still had the power to make her pulse pound. Her skin flush. Her breath catch in her throat. “I’m going to talk to Roald. Not skin him alive. I’m not an ogre hungry for human flesh.”
“I know.” Her anger spent, Thayet collapsed against Jon’s chest. Feeling his breath and heartbeat ripple through her body. Letting those steady rhythms soothe her. “You are much too handsome to be an orge.”
Jon chuckled. Combed his fingers through her hair. “I love you and the children more than anything in the world. More than my kingdom, I sometimes think. I’ll try not to be too hard on Roald, but I must conquer his stubborn, rebellious spirit. Gods have mercy on us all, he isn’t even thirteen. His teenage years will be a living nightmare if I allow his stubborn, rebellious spirit to flourish.”
“His stubborn, rebellious spirit.” Thayet laughed dryly. Never imagining that she would hear placid, mild-mannered Roald described in such a fashion. “He is the least stubborn and rebellious of our children.”
“A meaningless distinction.” Jon smirked. “Rather like being the least stubborn and rebellious mule.”
“You sired all these stubborn and rebellious mules.” Thayet gave his beard a teasing tug. “Never forget that.”
“I won’t.” Jon pressed a kiss into her forehead and then sobered. “I remember too that I promised Lord Wyldon I would speak to Roald.”
Before Thayet could wryly remind him that she had been present when that promise was made, Jon summoned Arne to his side.
“Please find Prince Roald and inform him I wish to speak with him at once,” Jon ordered the messenger.
At once. A seemingly simple phrase that held a heavy weight and import. That reverberated with power. Hinted at an undercurrent of anger. Transformed a wish into a command. Contained a thousand nuances Roald would understand.
He would, she thought as Arne disappeared to deliver the unambiguous message, be coming to see Jon soon. As soon as Arne passed along the message, surely.
Perhaps Jon had similar thoughts for he rose from the sofa. Striding toward his study, he said over his shoulder, “I will talk to Roald in here. Privately.”
Roald did indeed arrive swiftly. Having the sense not to dally when he received his father’s summons from Arne. Understanding that a delay would only make the impending lecture more severe. Not less so.
He was pale. Grimly resigned to his fate like a condemned prisoner mounting the wooden steps to the gallows when he came into the royal quarters.
Spotting her still sitting on the couch, he bowed to her, and she could feel remorse emanating from him in waves like the turbulent Emerald Ocean during an autumn storm. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
“For what, son?” she asked as he emerged from his bow. Tenderly cupping his chin.
“I distressed and disappointed Papa.” Roald’s chin trembled beneath her fingers. He bit his lip. A nervous gesture he hadn’t been able to leave in the nursery. “I didn’t mean to, but I did. I apologize for that.”
Thayet’s love for this dutiful son swelled even more deeply inside her, but she only answered, firmly but not harshly, “You must apologize to your father for that, not me.”
“But you were the one who ordered me not to distress and disappoint Papa.” Roald’s forehead furrowed, and Thayet noted, not for the first time, that he possessed some odd notions about justice. “Surely, I owe you an apology, Mama.”
Roald, she sensed, would rather apologize to her for any transgression than to his father even if his father was the one who perceived himself as the primary victim of Roald’s behavior. She supposed it was a manifestation of some strange masculine pride or adolescent ego. The kind that had divided generations of fathers and sons.
Thayet had no intention of indulging such folly in her eldest child. Her heir as much as Jon’s.
“So you will apologize to me for distressing and disappointing your father but you won’t apologize to him for distressing and disappointing him?” Thayet arched an eyebrow. Tone sharpening.
“I disobeyed you, Mama,” Roald mumbled, ducking his head at the reprimand. “I didn’t disobey him.”
“I assure you that your father feels as if you disobeyed him.” The severity in Thayet’s voice rose with her desire to see her husband and oldest son reconciled. Even if Roald had to humble himself and apologize to accomplish that. Their being at odds with each other was already making her head and heart ache in equal measure.
Before Thayet could continue her reproach, Jon, who must have heard Roald’s arrival, called from behind the shut door of his study, “Come in, Roald, and close the door after you.”
Arguments and Lectures
Roald hadn’t been able to contain a grimace when Arne had approached him as he was returning to the pages’ wing with Keladry of Mindelan after showing her some of his favorite, quiet parts of the palace gardens. Places that he hoped might become refuges for her in the difficult days she would doubtlessly face ahead. Hidden nooks and crannies where she could slip through the cracks of speculation and gossip. Listen to birdsong. Soak in the music of softly flowing fountains.
Keladry had glanced at him with an expression of sympathy on her face when he received that summons. Almost certainly understanding the trouble it portended for him. One didn’t need to be a diplomat’s daughter to predict the discipline imminent in his future, he had thought then. Even as he struggled to maintain his polite dignity and poise. Suggesting she should retire to her rooms to rest for the evening and that they could meet at the first bell tomorrow to esure she collected everything necessary to begin page training.
Now he found himself flinching again as he stepped into his father’s study, which currently felt menacing as a spidren’s shadowy lair, and closed the door behind him. Every nerve inside him on edge because he knew that his father would only have ordered him to shut the door if he didn’t want anyone else to overhear the tongue-lashing Roald was about to receive. Intended to spare everyone that embarrassment. Avoid that awkwardness.
He could withstand a tongue-lashing, he told himself, trying to pretend that he couldn’t feel his knees trembling like pudding. He could be brave. He was brave every day in page training, wasn’t he? That was what learning to be a knight was all about, wasn’t it?
“You volunteered to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan.” Papa’s voice was precise and firm. Establishing fact before offering an accusation. Reaching an inevitable verdict of guilt.
“Yes, Papa.” Roald wasn’t about to argue against the blatant truth. It would be a foolish waste of energy he would surely need later on in this discussion.
“There wasn’t anyone else you could’ve volunteered to sponsor?” Papa fixed piercing blue eyes on Roald. “Isn’t there a half Bazhir beginning page training–”
“Seaver of Tasride,” Roald supplied softly.
“Yes.” Papa made an impatient gesture. “Couldn’t you have sponsored him instead of Keladry of Mindelan?”
“I could’ve.” Roald forced his chin not to drop. His resolve not to lower though it was hard to remain firm in his convictions in the face of his strong-willed father. A man he still wanted to please more than he wished to admit. “But he didn’t need me to sponsor him as much as Keladry of Mindelan did. If I hadn’t volunteered to sponsor her, Papa, the only boys who would’ve stepped forward would’ve been bullies who would do everything they could to break her will. Force her to leave before the year is done.”
“Be that as it may,” Papa answered, unmoved as stone. As if Keladry of Mindelan and her fate didn’t matter next to larger considerations, and, in the realm, there were always larger considerations than individual destinies and desires. A bigger picture to be concerned with than the dreams of little girls. “I had reached an agreement with Lord Wyldon. A compromise that she would have a year’s probation. A year to prove to Lord Wyldon that she is worthy to train as a knight. In exchange, he promised not to resign his post. You jeopradized that agreement.”
“I did not.” Roald shook his head stubbornly. “Keladry of Mindelan still has her year of probation.”
“I will be the judge of that. Not you. For your information, Lord Wyldon believes I have insulted and undermined him because you volunteered to sponsor Keladry.” Papa’s arms folded across his chest. He was implacable as a boulder. Forbidding as a snowy mountain pass in a northern winter. “He imagines I am interfering with his authority in the pages’ wing. Reneging on a promise I made to him. Violating the terms of our agreement. Questioning his honor and capacity for fair judgment.”
“You didn’t do any of that, Papa.” Roald scuffed his shoes through the carpet imported from Maren at great expense. Aware that he was prevaricating. “I’m the one sponsoring Keladry, not you.”
“You are my son and heir. As such, you are an extension of me. Everything you say and do is a reflection on me and my reign.” Papa was sterner than Roald could ever recall seeing him, and Roald felt a tightening twist in his gut as this observation lanced through him. “You know this. You have been raised since birth to know this. Do not feign ignorance. It’s unbecoming, Roald.”
“How can you lecture me about this?” Roald’s temper flared along with his sense of injustice. His sense that his father was wronging him. Demanding a higher standard of behavior than his father had ever been able to maintain as Crown Prince. “Do you think it’s fair to scold me for undermining your policies when you did far worse to your own father? When you disobeyed him in war time to sneak behind enemy lines to rescue a friend?”
Roald remembered his history. It came in useful on occasions when he wanted to hurl it in someone’s face. Accuse them of rank hypocrisy. The lowest and most vulgar vice in Roald’s opinion.
“Be silent, Roald,” Papa snapped. Eyes icy blue rivers that froze Roald’s heartbeat in his chest. His breath in his lungs. Papa had never taken that particular tone with him before, but then he had never dared to challenge his father so openly before. Had never been that bold. Or that impudent. He didn’t know if his mother would be proud of his backbone or appalled at his disrespect. She had been so adamant earlier about him apologizing to Papa for distressing and disappointing him, after all, and since entering the study, Roald had only added to that distress and disappointment. The prospect of honoring her wish that he apologize to Papa felt impossible now. His pride prohibited it. It seemed too much like a shameful surrender when he was reluctant to give an inch of ground to the man who had sired him. With whom he was now locked in a battle of iron wills. “I do not have to listen to such insolence from you.”
“I won’t be silent.” Roald’s jaw clenched in an unconscious imitation of his father from whom he had inherited so much without being cognizant of it. Or appreciative of it. “It’s the truth. You expect me to be the perfect son to you that you never were to your own father, and it’s not fair.”
Roald half-expected to be slapped across the face for the sheer audacity of this insubordination because sons did not contradict their fathers in such a fashion. To feel a searing sting on his cheek or taste the tang of blood on his tongue that followed a thundering hand crack.
Papa had never backhanded him or any of his siblings like that, but Roald would almost have welcomed the blow as justice. The price and penalty he had to pay for his impudence. The evening of the ledger. The balancing of the scales.
Papa didn’t strike him. Just clasped his shoulder firmly and spoke with unsheathed steel in his voice, “I do not demand perfection of you, son. Only a modicum of respect and obedience, which you will start showing this instant.”
“Yes, Papa.” Roald swallowed. Knowing he deserved to be punished. Waiting to hear what the sentence would be. Anticipating the swing of the ax.
“As to me disobeying my own father during the Tusaine War–” Papa’s eyes flashed like the hottest, most dangerous parts of a flame– “I assure you I was justly disciplined for that. I was confined to my quarters for weeks as punishment. Is that what I must do with you, Roald, to prevent you from undermining me?”
Roald felt the resistance inside him shattering like glass. It would be shameful–like a miniature exile–to be confined to his quarters. A painfully public punishment. A clear chastisement. A decisive effort to bring him to heel that not even the most oblivious courtier could fail to notice.
The thought of being thus disgraced–of being that publicly held in his father’s contempt–made his cheeks burn. His heart ache.
Papa had never humiliated him like that before. Never even threatened him with that sort of overwhelming shame. That kind of banishment from favor.
Papa had always saved his reprimands and punishments for private. Given his praise and affection in public.
Roald had tried to repay that generosity–that love–by being a good, obedient son. One who did his duty. Fulfilled his responsibilites without argument or question. Who did not invite controversy. Did not bring any embarrassment or shame to his parents. Did not undermine their wills with his own.
Until he had volunteered to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. Publicly going against the compromise Papa had achieved with Lord Wyldon.
He would have to apologize, Roald realized, remembering his mother’s earlier exhortation. Happy that he could oblige her request without lying. Without claiming a remorse he didn’t feel.
A son could no more rise against his father than a river could climb above the high point from whence it sprang. There was a Mithran precept to that effect. Another about not chopping off the branch of the family tree on which one perched. He had been made to memorize both not long after he had learned to read and write. Now he was living the truth of those aphorisms.
Reconciliation
Jon’s threat had finally penetrated his son’s shield of obstinacy. He could see that breaking–that crumbling resistance–in the boy before Roald spoke softly, shaking his head swiftly, “No, Papa. You don’t have to do that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown your actions back in your face. That was disrespectful.”
So the lad did understand what had prickled Jon’s spine–drawn the lightning bolt of his fury–more than anything else. The sort of backtalk he was convinced no decent father could tolerate from a son.
Of course Roald hadn’t been entirely wrong to accuse Jon of what amounted to hypocrisy, but was it a crime for a man to learn from his mistakes? To want to raise his son to be better than him? How could a man be a good father and not be a hypocrite?
The knowledge that Roald was not completely in the wrong had only hardened his anger. Sharpened his tongue. Made him more defensive. Stricter and sterner than he perhaps needed to be.
Still, despite Roald’s remorse he wasn’t quite prepared to relent yet. To risk being too lenient and indulgent.
“It was very–” Jon infused the word with iron emphasis– “disrespectful, and it will never happen again. Understood?”
“Yes, Papa.” Roald nodded without hesitation.
His stubborn, rebellious son was laying down his weapons. Hurling off his armor. Surrendering unconditionally.
Jon should have felt triumphant or at least vindicated. A good father was supposed to conquer the rebellious, stubborn spirits of his children. At least that was what the Mithran priests taught. Mithran priests who were sworn to celibacy and so by their vows forbidden to father children of their own.
Jon was tempted to believe that the Mithran priests didn’t know the first thing about fatherhood as he studied his oldest son. Saw the almost fearful expression in the twelve-year-old’s wide gaze. An almost fear that made Jon’s stomach curl and coil in on itself. Made him feel more like a petty, cruel tyrant who terrorized his own household than a benign patriarch to six children he loved more than words could ever explain.
Then he saw his son master that almost fear. Glimpsed a returning, unbanked courage and determination kindling in Roald’s eyes, and he realized as the lad went on, quietly but resolutely, that this wasn’t an unconditional surrender after all. That Roald had his terms. “I am sorry, too, that you feel I undermined you publicly, Papa, but I felt I had to do the right thing, the just thing, by sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan.”
“Ah, so we come to that impasse again.” Jon sighed. “The right and just thing is not so easy to determine for kings and princes. When Keladry of Mindelan is put on probation, she believes she is not being treated fairly, but if she was not placed on probation, Lord Wyldon would be quick to contend that he wasn’t being treated justly. That his concerns were being summarily dismissed and his long, faithful service to the Crown was being discounted as nothing. The same way he felt when you stepped forward to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. So, you see, whatever we decide–however just we believe we are being–there will always be those who feel wronged by us. Those who are convinced that we have perpetrated a serious injustice against them.”
“Yes, Papa.” Roald didn’t argue the point so much as he acknowledged and then deftly dodged it. “Respectfully, I’d be more concerned about treating Keladry of Mindelan fairly in this matter than Lord Wyldon.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” Jon’s answer was arch. “I suppose it is natural for a lad to want to trouble his training master as much as possible.”
Especially when that training master was as severe a taskmaster as Lord Wyldon, Jon added inwardly.
“I promised Mama I’d do everything I could to help Keladry of Mindelan in the pages’ wing, and I broke no rules when I volunteered to sponsor her.” Roald’s chin lifted. “I made a public commitment to Keladry when I volunteered to be her sponsor. I can’t just renege on it because it’s inconvenient to you. That wouldn’t be fair or right.”
“It wouldn’t,” Jon agreed gravely, feeling a faint surge of amusement at the bafflement that mounted Roald’s face. He rapped his son’s head with his knuckles. Lightly. Not hard enough to hurt. Never hard enough to hurt. “It would reflect poorly on you to break a promise you made publicly. We cannot renege on our oaths and commitments easily. Without consequences. That is what I am trying to impress on you so you might not be so swift to enter into promises of your own or undermine compromises I’ve made in the future.”
“Oh.” Roald bit his lip. Took a shuddering breath. He hated to feel adrift in negotiations, uncertain of what to offer to appease the other party, Jon knew. He preferred to understand what everyone wanted at all times. “If you don’t expect me to stop sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan, I don’t know what you want from me, Papa. What restitution you expect me to make.”
“Nothing too awful, I assure you.” Jon allowed himself a slight smile at his son’s confusion. “I want your solemn oath that you will not publicly undermine me again. As you become a man, I expect you will have disagreements with my policies and me. You will share them with me privately, I will listen to you, and we will reach what resolutions we can, but we will not fight our battles in public. Before the entire court and country to make a mockery and spectacle of ourselves. That I cannot abide.”
“That seems fair.” Roald shot Jon a skeptical glance. As if wary of a hidden trick or trap. “Is that truly all you want from me, Papa?”
“That respect and public obedience.” Jon nodded. “Yes.”
“Then you have my word.” Roald inclined his head somberly. “I won’t publicly undermine you again. I’ll keep our disagreements private as possible when we have them.”
“Good boy.” Jon patted his son’s cheek affectionately. He was sensitive to what it would have cost his pride to make such a promise when he was Roald’s age. When he had started to dig in his heels. Assert his will. Chomp at the bit. Chage under his father’s authority. Seek his independence. “Thank you.”
Roald leaned into his touch. Cheek warm against Jon’s palm. “Thank you, Papa,” he murmured. “For not striking me across the face for my disrespect earlier.”
Jon felt his mouth go desert dry as he stared at his son. Drinking in the eyes that were ocean blue like his own but shaped like Thayet’s. The lips that could curve into frowns and grins that reminded him so much of his own. That mirrored so much of himself–his expressions carved into another’s face– back at him even if the image wasn’t always flattering. The K’miri nose that was all Thayet’s.
Thayet hated her nose. Thought it was ugly because her father had told her, over and over, it was hideous. A marring of her otherwise gorgeous features.
The poison a father could slip into a child’s brain. The lies a child could be persuaded to believe were true if they were repeated often and loudly enough. The terrible authority a father could wield over his offspring. An authority the offspring could never fully escape. Would always remember and be influenced by.
No, Jon would never smack any of his children across the face. Couldn’t imagine hurting and humiliating them so. Hitting those he loved. Was astonished and appalled that Roald might think him capable of such violent brutality, however angry at a child’s defiance he might be.
“You were very pert earlier.” Jon pulled his son into an embrace. Hugging the boy against his chest. Using his uncle’s favored, pet term for impudence. Recalling wryly how many times that accusation of pertness had been thrown at him during his youth. He had been lucky that his uncle was his training master. Not Lord Wyldon. “But not so pert that I would smack you across the face for it. In fact, you have my word that I’ll never strike you or any of your siblings across the face. I can’t imagine a more disrespectful gesture, so it doesn’t seem a very wise way to teach any of you respect.”
“I love you, Papa.” Roald wrapped his arms around Jon’s neck. A rare reciprocation, golden and treasured as sunlight, of affection from a lad who was always so stiff in his demeanor. Rigid in his carriage. “You are a good king and father. I respect you very much.”
“I know you do.” Jon ruffled his son’s hair. “You’re going to be a good king one day, and a good father too, I hope.”
“Thank you.” Roald flushed and shuffled his feet awkwardly. Discomfited by the praise. Then posed a completely unrelated and unexpected question. “Do you remember Gyasi’s comet?”
“Yes.” Jon nodded, even though he had forgotten that spectacular astronomical phenomenon until Roald mentioned it. “I took you and Kally up to Balor’s Needle to watch it fly over Corus and the Olorun.”
His children’s eyes had shone silver with starlight and flamed red with the reflected fire of the comet as they gaped at the sky, Jon recalled. It had been a beautiful sight. A once in a lifetime sight for Jon, though Roald might, if the Black God was generous, survive to see another orbit of Gyasi’s comet. If he did, he would be an old man himself. Not just a father but a grandfather.
It was hard to think of that boy he had carried down from Balor’s Needle as a grandfather. He still recalled lifting the exhausted Roald and Kally into his arms after Gyasi’s comet had finished its cycle through the heavens. Kally had draped her arms around his neck, seeking comfort in the external as she drifted off to sleep. In his slumber, Roald’s thumb had slid between his parted lips as he found solace tucked within himself as always. The more outgoing Kally balanced by the more reserved Roald. Two siblings who got along but could not have been more different in disposition if they tried.
“It seems so long ago now,” remarked Roald in a hushed, almost reverent voice. As if he were in some sacred chapel.
“It was six years ago.” Jon chuckled because it didn’t seem so long ago to him. “It only seems like a long time ago to you because you are twelve. Six years does not feel very long to a grown man.”
“Oh.” Roald considered this. “What does six years feel like to a grown man?”
“It feels like an eye blink. Your son is a babe in arms. Then you blink, and he is a six-year-old curious about everything. You blink again, and he is a twelve-year-old who thinks he knows it all.” Jon clapped Roald on the shoulder. Feeling how they had broadened under the weights Lord Wyldon made the pages wear in training. “Blink again, and he’ll be a brave knight. A man in truth.”
“Hmm.” Roald smirked as he suggested, “Perhaps you should blink less if time passes so fast for you, Papa?”
“As I said–” Jon snorted– “your son is a twelve-year-old who thinks he knows it all.”
“Well, Papa.” Roald smiled. Unrepentant. “You did rather walk into that one, didn’t you?”
“I suppose I did.” Jon laughed. It sounded like reconciliation. Like happiness. Like peace and resolution.
Unbroken and Unconquered
Thayet sat on the parlor sofa. Listening to the voices in her husband’s study.
Surprisingly, it was Roald who shouted first. Whose composure cracked. Who yelled at Jon, demanding to know how his father could scold him for sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan when his father had done far worse as a prince–sneaking across a border in war time to rescue a friend? How his father thought that was fair?
Her son had obviously chosen to ignore her injunction to apologize to Jon, Thayet observed with a rueful headshake. Rueful because she knew how her husband would respond to having his own youthful actions flung disrespectfully back in his face. Would answer this accusation of hypocrisy.
Jon, predictably, snapped back. Ordering Roald to be silent. Asserting adamantly that he did not have to listen to such insolence from Roald.
Hearing this, Thayet sighed. Pressed palms to her temples. She hated it when Jon raised his voice at any of their children, but at the same time, she couldn’t fault her husband for snapping in this instance. Progressive as she was, she didn’t believe that children should be allowed to shout at and defy their fathers. Not unless their fathers were abusive as hers had been, in which case rebellion was justified. But Jon had never been an abusive father. Would never be an abusive father. That was why she had married him. Had made him the father of her children.
Roald should have been more respectful, she thought. Roald apparently didn’t agree for he insisted at what was for him top volume that he wouldn’t be silent. That he was speaking the truth. That his father was being unfair, expecting him to be the perfect son his father never had been. Inflammatory words. Words not calculated to placate an angry father. Roald, it seemed, was not in a placating mood. Was instead filled with the rebellious, stubborn spirit Jon had described earlier.
She could hear Jon, cold as the frozen Olorun in winter, threatening to confine Roald to his quarters. Considered whether she ought to intervene to inject some calm into the proceedings before Roald’s obstinacy resulted in him being confined to his quarters for weeks. Was on the cusp of rising from her chair and crossing to the study when the words on the other side of the door became too quiet for her to hear them.
Returning to her perch on the sofa, she concluded that Jon’s threat must have cut through the heart of Roald’s rebellion. Her eldest son must have decided that prudence was the better part of valor and finally taken her advice about apologizing to Jon.
To Thayet’s relief, no more raised voices emerged from behind the shut study door. Roald’s apology and Jon’s acceptance of it had managed to steer the conversation away from the cliff it had been on the verge of plummeting over into oblivion.
Moments later, she heard an unexpected sound. A sound that could always bring a smile to her face. A sparkle to her eyes. Kindle a reciprocal amusement in her own soul even if she didn’t know the joke.
The cause of her husband’s laughter. Her husband’s laughter at something Roald had said. Something she couldn’t hear the way she could Jon’s laughter echoing from the next room, but her husband’s laughter was enough for her to rejoice in the knowledge that Jon and Roald were reconciled. That they could share a joke and a laugh between them. That something between them hadn’t been broken after all.
Roald was the first to leave the study. He looked a bit shaken after the confrontation with his father, but he did smile at her when he saw her sitting on the coach.
He hadn’t smiled at her when he first entered the royal chambers, she recalled as he bowed to her. He had been too nervous for that.
“Mama.” His tone was very formal despite his smile. Her polite, proper son was restored to her as if the disrespectful, stubborn interval in the study had never transpired.A fleeting instant. A fading memory to be replaced by more pleasant ones. “You’ll be happy to know I did apologize to Papa.”
“I am glad.” She stood. Brushed the black hair away from his forehead. Kissed the exposed ivory skin. Pleased when he didn’t protest or pull away from her. Wondered how many more of those maternal kisses she had left before he would start rejecting such displays of affection. Before he would decide that he didn’t need a mother’s love, or at least not a love shown that openly. Before he found that love more embarrassing than comforting. “It was wise of you to apologize.”
“Wisdom that came from you, Mama.” Roald fixed her with an earnest, blue gaze. “Is Kally about? I thought I might visit with her before returning to the pages’ wing.”
“A good idea.” Thayet rumpled his hair. “Kally is in her bedroom, but I do not believe that she has gone to sleep for the night. I’m sure she would be happy to see her big brother.”
No need to tell Roald that Kally had exiled herself to her bedchamber in boycott of Jon’s determination to chide Roald for sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan. If Kally wanted to share that information with Roald, she certainly would. There were few secrets between Kally and Roald, she knew, despite the fact that Roald now lived in the pages’ wing for much of the year.
“Good night, Mama.” Roald planted a soft kiss on her cheek. Then bowed again. “I love you.”
Before Thayet could hug him to her–could wish him good night and assure him that she loved him too–he had disappeared down the hallway. Was knocking on the door to Kally’s room. Seeking out the sister who, of all the people in the world, seemed to be the greatest comfort to him. His deepest, most trusted confidant. The person he truly wanted to talk to, regardless of any courteous, dutiful words to Thayet. He was a devoted son to her, but a loving brother to Kally, and love was stronger than duty. Even for people like Roald who seemed to define their lives by their duties. Love was a far more instinctual compulsion than duty, after all.
As if her thought of love had summoned him, Jon emerged from his study. Wrapped his arms about her waist. Tugged her against his chest. Whispered in her ear as if it were some scandalous secret. Something that could stir a revolt if broadly known. “I didn’t conquer Roald’s stubborn, rebellious spirit after all. He even made a joke at the close of our conversation.”
“A joke?” Thayet repeated. Laughter in her voice. In her eyes. “From our serious Roald?”
“Yes, a joke.” The laughter in her husband’s tone mirrored Thayet’s. “Our serious Roald likes to indulge in one or two of those a year. It just so happens that he chose to indulge in one to end our discussion.”
“You sound very proud of that fact.” Thayet draped her arms around Jon’s neck. Drawing him closer to her so that she could feel his pulse against hers. “That he shared a joke with you. That his stubborn, rebellious spirit wasn’t conquered.”
“I am.” Jon bent his head to kiss her throat, lips traveling from beneath her earlobe to the curve where her shoulder sloped into her neck. “If I conquered his stubborn, rebellious spirit, I’d be breaking him, and I didn’t want to become the sort of father who breaks his children.”
A father like hers had been, Thayet reflected. Though her father hadn’t been able to break her. She had been too tough–too resilient–for that. But no child should have to be that tough–that resilient. It was a tragedy to have to be so tough–so resilient–at such a young age. An age when a father should have been a relied upon protector, not an abuser.
“So I made a compromise with him,” Jon went on, mouth and words gentle against her skin. “We agreed that he would not undermine me in public again, but that he would come to me in private with any disagreements he has with me or my policies. That I would listen to him, and we would arrive at what resolutions we could.”
“I’m glad you reached a compromise with Roald. That you’ve reconciled with him.” Thayet turned in Jon’s embrace. Brought her own lips to his for a kiss. “I’m happy too that he apologized to you.”
“He told you he apologized to me?” Jon arched an eyebrow. Apparently surprised by their son’s humility.
“Of course he did.” Thayet grinned. Well aware that her reply would only serve to shock Jon further. Catching her husband off-guard was one of her guilty pleasures in life. It always provided a thrill. A glimmer of amusement like a perfectly timed jest. “He wanted me to know that I took his advice in the end.”
“You advised him to apologize to me?” Jon gaped at her, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a fish out of water. “But you were pleading with me to see things from Roald’s perspective and not to be too hard on him.”
“Naturally, I did. What else would a loving, concerned mother do?” Thayet traced the bewildered outline, the confused contours, of his face with her fingers. “With you, I had to remind you of what a good, rule-abiding son our Roald can be, and with Roald, I had to urge him to apologize to you like a dutiful, obedient child should. I had to say whatever was necessary to push the two of you closer together. Express whatever idea would convince two stubborn, proud souls to find reconciliation and compromise.”
“Oh, that was your strategy, was it?” Jon chuckled. She could feel it in his chest. In his neck. Rippling through her like ocean waves kissing the ragged shoreline.
“Yes.” Thayet permitted herself a smug smile that hovered on the brink of being a smirk. “And I must say it worked like a charm. No Gift required. Just cunning and diplomacy.”
Then her face sobered as she added, “You’re a good father, Jon, and Roald is a good son, but I am resolved to make you the best father you can be, and him the best son he can be.”
For a moment, Jon contemplated this. Staring down at her as if she were a star fallen to the ground. Then he commented wryly, “I don’t suppose Roald and I can complain too much about that.”
“Doesn’t matter if you do,” Thayet educated him, tart as an unsweetened Maren lemon. “Your consent is not necessary. I am going to do it anyway.”
“My dear, you are a very stubborn, prideful woman.” Jon’s eyes sparkling at her had the power to make her breathless. Make her forget what it meant to inhale and exhale. That breathless feeling, she thought, was love. Was romance. “More stubborn and prideful than Roald and I combined.”
“No doubt I am.” Thayet was utterly unapologetic and eminently satisfied with herself. A queen content and secure in her majesty. “Surely that is why you married me.”
“I married you for many reasons, my love.” Jon beamed down at her. Gaze alight with mischief. Soul alight with mischief. Spirit very much unbroken. Like Thayet’s. Like the stubborn, rebellious spirits of the children they had created together. Offspring of their love and passion for each other. “I am much too complicated a man to do anything for just one reason.”
Caricatures and Portraits
Roald knocked on the door to his sister’s bedchamber.
“Who is it?” Kally shouted warily from within. Evidently she was on her guard against visitors this evening and intended to be selective about the company she kept.
“Roald,” he called back.
Her list of acceptable guests must not have been so narrow as to exclude him because she proclaimed as if it were a most magnamious concession, “Then you may enter.”
Roald did so, shutting the door softly behind him, and saw that she was seated at her purple-cushioned windowseat with its unparalleled views of the gardens and training yards, now dark and lit only by flickering torches spaced at irregular intervals, sloping down to the banks of the Olorun. A winding balck river speckled silver with stars and radiant with moonlight.
The sketchbook Roald had given her for her last birthday–a blank canvas for all her intense emotions, wild imaginings, and impossible daydreams–lay open on her lap as she drew in it, charcoal scraping sharply against parchment.
“What are you drawing?” he asked, slipping into the windowseat beside her. Tilting his head nearer. The better to view the artistic endeavor in which she was so passionately engaged.
“A caricature.” She didn’t need to elaborate on whom the caricature depicted.
The subjeet’s identity was clear in the scarred visage. The flinty glare. The resolate, square jaw. The tight, glowering lips that looked as if they had never cracked a joke or shared a smile with anyone. Kally’s keen gaze and deft fingers had ruthlessly rendered Lord Wyldon in charcoal. Gutting him on the parchment as if he were a dead fish to be sold in market.
“A fair illustration of the man.” Roald laughed at his sister’s irreppressible wit and spirit as well as out of his own desperate desire for an easing of tension after a too-long day. A day in which he had volunteered to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. Inviting stares and speculation. Courting controversy. Inciting Lord Wyldon’s ire. Drawing his father’s stern disapproval. All of which was very draining and surely gave him the right to some small, private amusement at the training master’s expense. Especially since the training master didn’t have to know of this discourtesy. It would be best, in fact, if the training master remained blessedly ignorant of it. “Though not a flattering one.”
“It’s a caricature.” Kally giggled, nudging him with her elbow. “It’s not meant to be flattering. The opposite, in fact. It’s meant to be as unflattering and insulting as possible. That’s the point of a caricature. To mock.”
“You should burn it before Mama and Papa see.” Roald forced himself to sober. To quiet his laughter as if it had never been. To control any potential damage and negative ramifications of Kally’s caricature. To avoid any more trouble since the day had already been filled with so much of it. “They’d scold if they saw it.”
“It was only ever meant for your eyes and mine anyway.” Briskly, Kally tore the sheet from the sketchbook and tossed it onto the cackling flames in her well-tended fireplace. Watch the blaze char the parchment, reducing her artwork to ashy illegibility. Saw the fire swallow the parchment entirely, eating her clever caricature as if it had never existed. As if it had never provoked laughter. As if she had never put charcoal to parchment and dared to draw something incendiary.
It would be cinders for the maids to sweep out of the hearth the next morning, Roald thought, but she seemed indifferent to her handiwork’s fate as she went on in a crisp tone, providing an insight into why her sketching had been so furious, “It’s served it’s purpose. It’s made you laugh and been some tiny revenge on the insufferable Lord Wyldon. He came by tonight in a towering temper, you know. Incensed that you had volunteered to sponsor Keladry. Insisting that it was some monumental insult to his honor and a violation of the agreement Papa reached with him about Keladry’s probation. It was a load of stuffy nonsense, but Papa took it very seriously indeed. Especially when Lord Wyldon threatened to resign–”
“Lord Wyldon threatened to resign because of me?” Roald gaped at his sister. Aghast. Appalled that something he had done could have such dire repercussions. Repercussions he hadn’t predicted.
He had known that Lord Wyldon would be offended by his offer to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan, but he hadn’t guessed or envisioned that he would provoke the training master to such a wrath that the man would threaten to resign over it. No wonder Papa had been furious. Angrier than he had ever been at Roald. Finding a new training master that would satisfy the always prickly conservative faction at court would be a royal headache.
Roald hadn’t thought things through thoroughly. Had failed to consider all the potential consequences of his action. How large the ripples the stone he threw into the pond could produce. How much of a disturbance to a delicate political environment he could create. Of course Papa had been so adamant about impressing upon him the importance of caution and discretion. Of thinking before he acted. How could Papa have done otherwise? How could any king or father not have done the same?
“No, not because of you.” Kally’s curt clarity cut through Roald’s self-recriminations like a blade. “Because of his own stiff pride and petty inability to accept change. Because he isn’t knight enough to be fair and honorable about Keladry of Mindelan so he gets his breeches in a twist at anyone who happens to have more chivalry than him. You can’t blame the tantrums of others on yourself, Roald. It’ll only drive you to stark, raving madness.”
“Papa blamed me.” Roald bit his lip. Papa’s reprimand a raw wound unscabbed in his mind. The sterness and severity etched into his memory though he supposed that was the point. The lesson wasn’t meant to be easily forgotten. He knew his mind would circle back–like a hawk hunting prey–to it over the coming days and weeks. Revisiting what he should or could have done differently.
“Papa promised Lord Wyldon he would talk to you about sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan to appease Lord Wyldon so he wouldn’t resign.” Kally’s scowl was disconcertingly reminiscent of their father’s, Roald noted inwardly, and not for the first time. His favorite sister and Papa were very akin in temperament and expression, which made it so strange that he was so close to the one while often feeling so distant from the other. “You were his sacrificial lamb. His scapegoat. Like Keladry of Mindelan was when he consented to her probation.”
“Papa has a right to chide me when I displease him or publicly undermine him.” Roald flushed. He could see Keladry of Mindelan as a victim of injustice but not himself. That would be too indulgent. Too near to self-pity. Besides, he had come to accept that he had deserved his father’s harsh words earlier. Recalling and echoing his mother’s statement from when he had first vowed to help Keladry of Mindelan in whatever manner he could in the pages’ wing, he concluded succinctly, “I owe him a proper obedience.”
“He did yell at you.” Kally’s eyes snapped and sparked like blue lightning. “Even though I told him that he shouldn’t. That he couldn’t. Not about this.”
“You told him that he couldn’t?” Roald stared at his sister. Stunned at her boldness. Her unshakeable assurance. Her cool confidence that she could dictate to her father, the king, what he could and couldn’t do. Her outraged indignation when he defied her orders. An unfathomable role reversal. As if Papa were the rebellious child who needed to be brought to heel. Made to obey. “Did Papa send you here as punishment?”
He didn’t want to think of her landing in a mountain of trouble on his behalf, but Mama hadn’t said Kally was being disciplined when Roald expressed a wish to see her. Surely, if Kally had been banished to her room in disgrace, he wouldn’t have been permitted to visit her. Everything in his life seemed baffling and far too complicated at the moment. Probably a sign that he was too exhausted for thought. For anything but sleeping really.
“No.” Kally shook her head. “I stalked out of the parlor and exiled myself here of my own free will because I couldn’t bear being around Papa’s stubborn stupidity for a heartbeat longer. I don’t plan on talking to him again until he removes his head from his hindquarters and apologizes to you for yelling at you because you did the right thing.”
“You’re punishing Papa by not speaking to him?” Roald mulled over what was to him an incomprehensible notion. Massaging his tender, aching temples. He was quite certain that even Neal of Queenscove with his sometimes seditious ideas wouldn’t have dared to flip family structure completely upside-down, so that a bold child became the one punishing the parent.
“Not punishing exactly. What’s that phrase Mama and Papa say so often when they’re scolding us?” Kally tapped meditately at her chin. “Oh, that’s it. I remember now. Holding us accountable for our actions because they love us. That’s what they like to say. Well, I’m holding Papa accountable for his actions because I love him, and if I don’t hold him accountable for his actions, who will?”
“It’s a revolutionary notion.” Roald smiled wryly at his sister. “But I’m not sure Mama and Papa are ready for it. I’m not sure the world is ready for it either.”
“Mama and Papa have devoted their entire reigns to changing the world.” Kally shrugged. “They can hardly complain when their children seek to do the same without being horrible hypocrites.”
“You’re so brave.” Roald’s words were infused with the admiration he had long held for his little sister. The little sister he had often thought should have been born first. Should have been his parents’ heir. The one earmarked to rule Tortall in the future. The one with the courage and boldness to do such a thing. The one who had inherited their parents’ charisma and charm. The one who wasn’t shy and afraid to court controversy like him. “You should’ve been born first. Born to rule. Not me.”
An idea he had often considered and never voiced–never shared, even with her–until now.
“No, the gods knew what they were doing when they had you born first.” Kally reached out to him. Squeezed his fingers between her own charcoal-stained ones.
Roald didn’t know how to respond to this, so he said nothing.
After a moment, Kally asked into the silence between them, “Do you know what else I said to Papa tonight?”
“No.” Roald couldn’t even begin to imagine what other brave words might have emerged from her mouth that night. “I suspect you’ll tell me though.”
“You suspect right.” Kally leaned her head so that it rested against his shoulder. Curling comfortably into him. “I told him that you were going to be a better king and man than him. Fairer. More compassionate. More committed to doing the right thing for the right reasons.”
A better king than his father. Kally’s comment reverberated in Roald’s skull. The very notion was like a daunting mountain he couldn’t even dream of climbing. Papa was a good king. Possibly even a great king–though that tended to be left for historians of the future and not princes of the present to determine. One who could leave rooms breathless in his wake. Who could push through reforms by the sheer strength of his will. Who could unite northerners and Bazhir, knitting them into a single realm. Who was often called the Magnificent.
Roald found it hard to imagine living up to that legacy. Much less surpassing it. Yet if he didn’t have that vision, how could he hope to rule?
“Thanks.” Roald spoke tartly. Shoulders slumping under the weight of heavy expectation that she and so many others had placed on him since he was born. Ever since his first breath, he hadn’t been a prince or even a person so much as a dumping ground for all the ambitions, hopes, and dreams of others. It left him with very little room to manuever. Scant space to build his own ambitions, hopes, and dreams. “That doesn’t put any pressure on me at all.”
“It was meant to put pressure on you.” Kally tugged gently on his hair. A gesture passed on to her from their mother. “Pressure isn’t a bad thing, Roald. It can create the most beautiful diamonds.”
“I’ll be sure to let you know next time I want to be turned into a beautiful diamond.” Roald rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t sustain any frustration or bitterness toward his most ardent, faithful supporter for longer than that. More mildly, he added, “I just hope I don’t disappoint you, or anyone else.”
“You won’t.” Kally gave another gentle tug on his hair. “Don’t be foolish.”
“You’ve been my best advisor since I can remember.” Roald’s grin was tinged by sorrow. A knowledge that things would have to change. That they would grow up and be separated. That they would lose each other. That this closeness between them couldn’t endure forever. An awareness of an inevitable grief. “I wish you could be beside me forever. That you could be there for me when I rule.”
A foolishness. Papa, Roald knew, nursed thinly veiled ambitions of marrying her to Emperor Kaddar. She would be empress in Carthak. Arguably the most powerful woman in the world. That was her destiny, and who was he to keep her from that? What sort of loving brother would even try to hold her back for his own selfish sake? Because he cherished her presence and advice?
“I’ll write to you from wherever I am in the world.” Kally smiled at him, and he remembered all the times she had smiled at him as they played together in the nursery. Back then, they had been so eager to outgrow the nursery. They hadn’t realized that once they outgrew the nursery, the world would start pulling them inexorably apart. Him to knighthood training and kingship. Her to an imperial marriage across the ocean in glittering, golden Carthak. That wasn’t something one thought about until one had outgrown the nursery, Roald thought, nostalgia tainted with sarcasm. “Then it’ll be like we’re together no matter how far apart we are. Words on the page have that transporting power, don’t they?”
“They have that power, yes.” He kissed her cheek. Aware that the bell signaling lights-out for the pages would ring soon. That he had to hurry back to the pages’ wing if he didn’t want to give Lord Wyldon an excellent excuse to assign him punishment duty.
He rose. Hating the bell that dictated how he spent so much of his time with its uncaring, oblivious chiming. That measured and encapsulated every moment of his life between its tolls. That made him accountable for every second he breathed. Made him feel that even his free time wasn’t his own. Kissing her other cheek, he added, “I’ve got to run or I won’t make it back to my bed before curfew, and Lord Wyldon would be delighted to have a reason to punish me.”
“Off you dash then!” Kally made a shooing motion with her hands, breezily dismissing him from her presence. “And be sure to tell Keladry of Mindelan that some of us do support her and want her to succeed.”
The next morning, Roald greeted Keladry as she emerged from her bedroom, intending to walk with her to the mess hall to ensure she didn’t get lost in the palace’s many twisting corridors.
“Good morning.” He smiled at her pleasantly and inclined his head. As if the embarrassment of the previous night had never happened. As if he hadn’t been summoned to his father for a scolding. As if everything would be right in the world if he just valiantly soldiered on with pretending it was.
If he were present and not studying at the Royal University, Neal might have grumbled something about it not being a good morning, and there being no such thing as a good morning that didn’t entail sleeping through the noon bell.
Keladry, it transpired, was cut from a more agreeable cloth. She merely returned the nod with a smile of her own and a polite, “Good morning, Your Highness.”
As they proceeded down the hallways filled with the reluctant steps of beary-eyed pages who would’ve preferred to remain in their beds, Roald commented, “I spoke to my sister Princess Kalasin last night. She wanted me to tell you that she wishes you well. Supports you and wants to see you succeed.”
“That was kind of her,” Keladry replied. As if she didn’t expect kindness or support. At least not from anyone in the palace. Perhaps not from anyone outside the protective circle of her immediate family.
Roald wondered if he should share with her that Kally had dreamed of becoming a knight herself until she was nine. Then Papa had persuaded her that she couldn’t pursue page training. That it would make her unmarriageable.
Decided, on a balance, to bite his tongue. It would be betraying a confidence of Kally’s, wouldn’t be particularly encouraging to Keladry, and wouldn’t show Papa in a very flattering light. Better to stay silent than to regret foolish, ill-considered words. Words hastily spoken that could not be taken back once they left his lips.
He was spared the necessity of inventing something else to say to keep up the flow of conversation between them by their arrival in the mess hall. They joined the line of pages heaping breakfast on trays before claiming seats at the long wood tables.
As he moved through the line, placing an apple, spiced sausage, and a bowl of porridge spangled with the last of the late summer strawberries on his tray, he watched Keladry out of the corner of his eyes.
One could, he believed, learn a lot about a person by observing how that person approached putting food on their tray in the mess hall. There were those who filled their plates with everything sweet and nothing healthy. Those, like Garvey of Runnerspring and Vinson of Genlith, who piled food onto their trays without the faintest regard for the appetites of anyone who followed them in the line.
Worst of all, there were those like Joren of Stone Mountain who believed themselves to be entitled to the best slice of meat or pie and would invariably elbow or jostle others out of the way to obtain those best slices. Keladry took a moderate amount of food–not too much, not too little–and made an apparent effort to balance what was on her plate. Roald noticed all this because he did observe. Did watch. So much so that sometimes it felt like all he did was observe, watch, and never act.
He and Keladry claimed spots opposite each other on the long benches at the nearest table. Roald was about to ask her another question about the Yamani Islands–his greatest curiosity and the safest topic of discussion between them–when Cleon of Kennan plopped down beside him. The freckled Esmond of Nicoline, the boy Cleon had chosen to sponsor last night, slid onto the bench next to Cleon. Sticking beside his sponsor as expected.
“Good morning, Cleon.” Roald grinned a welcome. He had rather hoped that Cleon might join him and Keladry for breakfast even though he hadn’t for dinner. Conversation seemed easier and merrier with the mischievous, fun-loving Cleon present.
“A very fine morning to you too, my prince.” Cleon, wolfing down his buttered toast with enthusiasm, was blithe as ever in his mockery of Roald’s rank. He hadn’t courteously acknowledged Keladry but he hadn’t said anything rude to her either. Roald tried to regard that as a positive. As progress.
Esmond of Nicoline didn’t say anything. Roald hoped that was because the boy was shy–many first years were, at least in the beginning–and not because he was hostile to Keladry’s presence in the pages’ wing.
With many wisecracks and punctatued by the crunching of the bacon he was devouring, Cleon updated Roald on everything that had happened to him during the summer holidays. All that had gone on at the fief his mother governed in his name until he came of age. His father having been dead for years now.
Having finished his story, toast, and bacon, Cleon turned a ravenous gaze on the scrambled eggs Esmond seemed more interested in flicking about his plate with his fork than with eating. “You going to eat those eggs or can I have them?”
Cleon had never been one to take Master Oakbridge’s orders and exhortations to learn the distinction between “can” and “may” seriously. The prankster took few things seriously, in truth. Preferring to see everything as a joke either made by himself or played on himself by a world that might have to be viewed as humorless otherwise.
“You can have them.” Esmond scraped the eggs onto his sponsor’s plate. Plainly not the sort who was hungry or loqacious in the morning.
“A word to the wise, youngster.” Cleon clapped Esmond on the back. Embellishing the term “youngster” with a grandeur and gravity that implied he wasn’t one himself. “Eat lots of food to build your energy in the morning before the practice courts sap all the strength from your muscles and bones. Turning them into sad, limp noodles.”
Cleon had just enough time to scarf down the eggs he had begged off Esmond before the bell that ruled their lives more than any king rang. The pages scattered to their diffuse destinations, Roald taking Keladry to gather everything she would need to begin her page training in earnest the next day.
After a day spent in preparation and a dinner–again eaten with Cleon and Esmond–in the mess hall, Roald led Keladry to the royal portrait gallery. Visitors to the palace often wished to gawk at the painted images of his ancestors, and he figured that she might enjoy doing the same.
He shared with her a fact about each king and queen pictured resplendent in fashions that came and went like ebbing ocean tides on the walls. He was good at history. It was a favorite subject of his. A way in which he was different from his father. Who had always hated history. Been much more interested in the future than the past.
Keladry seemed interested in everything he told her, or at least had the social grace–the diplomatic upbringing–to feign such polite interest.
They came to the last portraits in the gallery. Roald never knew what to say to sum up his parents. Their not-yet-ended lives and reigns. Yet he always felt he had to offer something, however inadequate, when he had remarked on every other monarch.
“My mother, Queen Thayet.” His mother was less complicated to talk about, so he started with her. Waving his hand up at her painting that couldn’t quite capture her beauty. Her wit. Her intelligence. That sparkle in her hazel eyes that made everyone and everything around her glow with its reflected light. “She came from Sarain. Founded the Queen’s Riders, which she led into battle for many years, and numerous schools throughout the realm. Spearheaded educational reforms to increase reading and writing among the common people.”
It felt strange to try to encapsulate his mother and everything she had accomplished in a handful of sentences. Wondered if that was how history would do it, or if history would be even more cursory in its analysis and overview. If people of the future walking through this gallery would pause to admire her beauty, call her the Peerless for that beauty, and then move on to examine the next face in that line of portraits that seemed to stretch into infinity. It was a disquieting thought. One that revealed how little anyone, even kings and queens, could expect to be remembered after they were gone from the world.
“My father, King Jonathan the Fourth.” Roald turned his attention to his father’s painting. Took the risk of saying something personal rather than academic and objective when perhaps he shouldn’t have. When it might have been a presumption since he and Keladry weren’t friends yet, and who was he really to speak on his father’s behalf? “He is very determined. Charming. Charismatic. He can read people like nobody else can. He knows that Lord Wyldon will force himself to do the fair and honorable thing. Will allow you to stay when you satisfy the terms of your probation. And that’s why, I think, he allowed you to be put on probation in the first place.”
When, not if, he’d said. Keladry noticed that. Responded to it. Asked, “You believe I’ll pass my probation then? That Lord Wyldon will allow me to stay?”
If she were a boy, he would have patted her on the back. She wasn’t a boy. Was very publicly a girl. That was why she had been subjected to the indignity and injustice of a probationary period in the first place. Since she was a girl, it seemed to be improper to touch her. To roll the dice with their reputations in that way. So he pressed his palms together as he replied, “You’ve told me about the training you received at the Yamani court. Why wouldn’t I believe you can pass your probation?”
She made no answer to this but she did look faintly pleased. Happy and grateful that some page other than herself believed in her.
He felt vaguely honored to have been that first page other than herself to believe in her. That didn’t stop him from pushing, however. He was a Conte, after all, and when had Contes ever respected the boundaries and borders of others?
“You might think my father is an unfair man, Keladry,” he said. Studying her. Trying to read a face that had suddenly gone blank. “But it’s not that simple. His definition of justice is just a bit more complicated than ours.”
It was the justice of kings, Roald thought. Not meant to be understood by those who were not kings. Indeed, impossible for those who weren’t kings to comprehend.
“It’s not my duty to judge my king.” Keladry’s voice was flat. Devoid of all emotion and expression. Mirroring her face in that way. “It’s my duty to serve him–to fight and die on his behalf–without questioning.”
Roald cracked a crooked grin at this dutiful response. Grimly amused at the similarities between Keladry of Mindelan and Wyldon of Cavall. A twisted sense of humor no doubt inherited from his father. He shared the jest with her as was only polite. “If you were a boy, you’d become a quick favorite of Lord Wyldon’s.”
“But I am not a boy,” she reminded him almost defiantly. As if he could have forgotten. As if anyone in the palace could have forgotten.
“No, you are not a boy.” Roald echoed her thought quietly. Turning away from the portrait of his father. “You are a girl. So Lord Wyldon put you on probation and will have to wrestle with his honor and sense of fairness until he finally does the right thing and allows you to stay once you’ve satisfied the conditions of your probation.”
If she were a boy, Roald noted inwardly, she would have been spared that song and dance. Yet, even though he had met her only a day ago, he suspected that she would not have wanted to be a boy. To be spared that song and dance. He supposed that was what made her Keladry of Mindelan. The first girl in centuries to openly pursue her knighthood.
Tethers of Love
“Kally still won’t talk to me.” There was a sorrow in Jon’s voice Thayet could hear echoing in his chest as she curled against him in their bed late at night with only a last candle to provide inconstant illumination. It hurt him, Thayet knew, for there to be any distance between him and his daughters.
He had always been closer to his daughters than his sons. Understood Kally’s outgoing, charismatic demeanor more than Roald’s reserved, rule-following disposition. Found Lianne’s sweetness more manageable than Jasson’s perennial sharp-tongued sarcasm. Preferred Vania’s petulant pouting to Liam’s fiery temper. The temper Thayet was certain must have come from Jon because it hadn’t been inherited from her.
“She’s angry you yelled at Roald for sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan.” Thayet could easily translate her oldest daughter’s emotions and motivations to her husband. After all, there had been a time, not too long ago, when Kally’s heart had beat inside her. A mother could never forget that or lose that connection. “She’s very protective of her big brother.”
“That was four nights ago now.” Jon’s jaw clenched. Even by the light of a single candle, Thayet was near enough to him to see that. “She should have stopped sulking by now.”
“Sulking?” Thayet bristled at this description of their daughter’s behavior. “She is following her conscience. Staunchly standing up for what she believes is right.”
“Yes, but to not talk to me for so long–” Jon scowled and shook his head– “there seems to be more behind it than that.”
“Keladry of Mindelan being put on probation was always going to stir up painful, bitter memories for Kally.” Thayet sometimes marveled at how obtuse her otherwise very cunning and strategic husband could be. How much of family politics and pain she had to explain to him. Guiding him with a firm, patient hand through each discovery. “Memories that were barely a year old–still raw and bleeding–of her not being allowed to train for her own shield.”
“She was allowed to train for her shield.” Jon’s squirm caused the mattress to shift uncomfortably beneath Thayet. “I only persuaded her it would be impolitic for her to do so.”
Her husband’s capacity for flattering self-delusion could be vexing, Thayet thought as she continued with a snap in her tone, “Very well. It’s been less than a year since you, the progressive king who was supposed to champion the cause of female warriors, persuaded her it would be impolitic to train for her shield. Then, before that wound can properly heal, you are agreeing to Lord Wyldon’s demand that Keladry of Mindelan be placed on probation, which has to feel like another betrayal and disappointment to Kally. Then you reprimanding Roald for sponsoring Keladry–for supporting a female page–had to be the straw that broke the camel’s back as our good friends the Bazhir would say.”
“Betrayal. Disappointment.” Jon scrubbed at his cheeks as though washing them with an invisible towel. “You still think I was wrong to compromise with Lord Wyldon about this? To agree to Keladry of Mindelan’s probation?”
“I do,” Thayet answered coolly. Crisply. “But we are speaking of our daughter now. Not me.”
“One of our daughters.” Jon glared at her. A defensive glow in his sapphire eyes. “Lord Wyldon saved another one of our daughters and two of our sons this past summer. He never asked for any other reward. If he had, we could have refused him this compromise–this probation–but he hadn’t. We couldn’t refuse his request. Not without declaring three royal lives–the lives of three of our precious children–were less important than Keladry of Mindelan’s right to train as a page without probation. We wouldn’t devalue our beloved children like that.”
“If it was for the sake of our children–” Thayet rested her hands over the womb where Jasson, Liam, and Lianne had grown and lived inside her for nine months– “I can forgive you for that.”
A mother, Thayet believed in her blood and bones, could forgive anything done in the name of her children. Any crime committed for their sake. It was the fiercest, most irrational form of love.
She pressed a kiss to her husband’s knotted forehead before adding, “But you can’t expect our children–especially Kally and Roald–to forgive you quite so easily. Not when you’ve hurt them in this.”
“I hurt a lot of people I love with Keladry of Mindelan’s probation and everything that followed.” Jon sighed. “You. Alanna. Kally. Roald. Perhaps I was wrong to agree to Keladry of Mindelan’s probation even though I thought I was doing the right thing at the time.”
The right thing or the most politically expedient thing? Thayet wondered. Because they were so rarely the same thing.
Aloud, she merely murmured, pressing her mouth against Jon’s ear, “From now on, talk to me before coming to a major compromise with a conservative. We’ll decide together if it’s the right, just, and necessary thing to do. We’ll be a united front. Twice as strong when we work as one instead of apart.”
“I will try to do better consulting you in the future.” Jon twisted to kiss her lips with his. “When and if I fail at that, you may scold me for the insensitive idiot I am.”
“When have I ever needed your permission to do that?” Thayet grinned at him. Trailing a teasing finger along his collarbone.
“Never.” Jon’s chuckle rippled through his throat. “Neither has Kally. I will apologize to her tomorrow. Tell her she was right. That I shouldn’t have yelled at Roald when he was trying to do the just, chivalrous thing.”
“He did shout at you first,” Thayet pointed out. Remembering whose raised voice she had heard first from behind the door to Jon’s study when her husband had confronted their eldest about sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan. “That was disrespectful.”
“Yes.” Jon wrapped tendrils of her black hair around his finger. Seeming to admire its sheen and shine in the candlelight. “But I did provoke him to anger, and a father shouldn’t provoke his son to anger. Especially not if his son is as mild-mannered as our Roald. That’s not a fair thing to do, and Roald wants to be treated fairly above all else. I was too harsh on him, Thayet.”
“So was I.” Thayet couldn’t let her husband take all the blame on himself. Not when she knew she was guilty as well in her own way.
“How?” Jon arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t yell at him.”
“No.” Thayet took comfort in the warmth of her husband’s body. His breath on her neck. His skin against hers. “I didn’t yell at him, but I did put too much pressure on him. Ask him to negotiate an almost impossible situation when I ordered him to support Keladry of Mindelan without distressing or disappointing you. It was a command very difficult for anyone to obey. Especially someone who is only twelve. It wasn’t a very fair order for me to give a son who places a high priority on obedience.”
“He is a natural diplomat.” Jon cupped her breast gently. “We come to expect that he can negotiate complicated political situations with aplomb.”
“Yes.” Thayet relaxed into her husband’s touch as he began softly stroking her nipple. “That doesn’t mean we can’t expect too much of him.”
“He is our firstborn and our heir.” Jon kissed the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. A place where his attentions always aroused her. “He is our legacy. Our hope for the future, and also the one who can destroy our dreamed of future more effectively than any other. We want him to be the best that he can be for his sake and the sake of the realm. So we are hard on him for love of him and the realm.”
It was on the tip of Thayet’s tongue to ask if they could be too hard on Roald. If they could kill his quiet courage. Stifle his desire for justice. Ruin his urge to do the right thing.
Jon silenced her before she could speak by revealing the depth of his own parental uncertainty. Making it clear he was adrift far from shore in the same roiling ocean in which she swam with all her doubts. “I’m almost always the one who comes down harder on him. I know that, my love. I can only hope that he doesn’t hate me for it.”
“He doesn’t hate you.” Thayet could offer this reassurance at least. He had lived, nourished by her strength, in her womb for nine months. A cord that could not truly be cut at birth. A tether that lingered forever. Binding them together. Allowing her to have a deeper understanding of Roald than Jon ever could. “He could never hate you. It’s not in his nature to do anything so disrespectful as hate the man who sired him. His very being would revolt against that.”
She paused. Traced Jon’s ribs with her fingers. Then went on, “He loves you. Yearns for your approval and affection.”
“He told you all this?” Jon sounded skeptical.
“Of course not.” Thayet tossed her unbound hair. A gesture she knew Jon found more intoxicating than red wine from the luscious valley vineyards of Tusaine. “No son would ever risk losing face enough to admit that he wants to make his father proud. Roald is no different than any other boy in that regard, but I carried him inside me for nine months. Had his small feet kicking against the walls of my womb. Had his little heart beating with its own music inside me. Had him pushing bloodily out of me into the world. That means I know some things without him having to tell me. Things only a mother would know.”
“Well, if that’s the price of motherly intuition, thank the Goddess I never had to pay it.” Jon was wryly irreverent. “Pregnancy and childbirth sounds like a most unpleasant experience. A dreadful ordeal.”
“Only a stone-hearted father would say that.” Thayet clucked her tongue admonishingly. Reflecting that was the difference between a mother’s love and a father’s. A mother’s love was unconditional and self-sacrificing. A father’s was condition with stern and sometimes stark limits placed on it. Children could sense such distinctions, she was certain, because they had intuitions of their own. To them, a mother’s love was eternal and all-encompassing. The first place of warm refuge and nourishment they experienced. A comforting presence enveloping them from their first heartbeat. Their first breath. Whereas a father’s love had to be earned–fought for–and what was earned could always be lost. Could never be taken for granted. “A mother would do anything for her child and not count the cost to herself.”
That was what she was laid bare. When every other identity was stripped away from her. A mother. Not a daughter. Not a wife. Not a warrior. Not even a queen. A mother to six children she loved more than her life and would protect as long as she could.
“You are a perfect mother.” Jon’s voice had gone husky, and she knew, without him having to say anything, that he wanted to make love to her. He was always most extravagant in his praise when he was on the cusp of making love to her. Almost as if he would worship her. It was one of his most attractive and charming traits. One that never failed to soften her heart toward him. To melt her body into his like butter on freshly baked bread. “A perfect wife. A perfect queen. A perfect woman.”
Thayet was on the verge of reminding him that nobody could be perfect in one much less all of those identities, but she got distracted by his tongue flicking between her legs. Stoking flames of ardor deep within her. Stealing her breath from her lungs. Exciting her. Making her arch her back in an invitation for him to enter her. An invitation he eagerly accepted but she had expected no less. Ached and longed for no less. Desired only him in that moment.
Middle Age Regrets
They had just finished a light Sunday breakfast of fruit and porridge in the royal quarters. A breakfast in which Kally had been happy to speak with everyone except him. If Jon did venture to address her directly, she pressed her lips together and responded only with terse nods or shakes of her head as the question or comment required. Much as she had at every meal since he’d scolded Roald for sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan.
The children had off from lessons on Sundays. Lianne and Vania took advantage of their freedom to play in the gardens. Liam grabbed his bow and quiver before heading down to the training yards to practice his archery.
Jasson disappeared to the libraries. No doubt to return with a mountain of new books to be devoured. It was an understatement, after all, to describe Jasson as merely having a voracious appetite for books.
Kally, however, remained in the royal quarters. Pulling out a piece of embroidery and sitting on the parlor sofa to work on it. Her stitches sharp, neat, and perfect. Her spine stiff and straight. Every inch the properly comported young lady her governess and nursemaids had despaired of her ever being.
The sight of his daughter should have filled him with pride in how she had matured and grown. Instead sorrow flooded him. Once Kally would’ve eagerly raced down to the training yards to practice her archery and riding, but now she probably didn’t see the point of doing so–of honing her fighting skills–when she hadn’t been permitted to train as a knight. As a warrior.
He tried to tell himself that an arranged marriage–preferrably to Kaddar and Carthak–was what was best for her and the realm. Yet, seeing the dull flatness in the blue eyes that should have been sparkling and vivacious made him doubt himself. Question his wisdom as a parent.
Sighing, he lowered himself onto the sofa beside her. “We need to talk, Kally.”
She shifted on her cushion. Subtly creating more distance between them. Carving out her own space apart from his. Marking her territory. Trying to establish a boundary beyond which he couldn’t cross.
He remembered how she had regarded talk as a euphemism for yelling when he had promised Lord Wyldon that he would speak with Roald about volunteering to sponsor Keladry. Wondered if all his offspring imagined only a potential lecture whenever he sat down to talk with them. He liked to believe otherwise. That his children knew he was capable of laughing and joking with them. Giving them gentle guidance. That they didn’t view him as some fearsome, eternally angry figure.
Curse it all. Was his every little word choice going to make him doubt his parenting practices today?
Trying to regain the lost thread of the conversation and to ease her tension if she did suspect she was about to be yelled at, he added, “When I say talk, I really mean that. Not a euphemism for yelling.”
Kally glanced up from her embroidery. The cool look in her eyes stating in no uncertain terms that he was welcome to talk all he wanted but she wasn’t about to speak herself. Kally was capable of voicing quite a lot without the need to open her mouth. A dramatic gift.
“I thought we might go for a ride together,” he offered. Reaching out to her through an activity they had both always enjoyed engaging in together. A shared passion.
Kally’s gaze didn’t soften. Hardened in fact.
“Why would I want to go riding with you?” she asked. The first words–cutting as a knife’s edge–she had spoken to him since stalking out of this same room after he had made it plain that he did intend to chide Roald for sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan. Words meant to hurt him, but he could hear the pain–the betrayal and bafflement–behind them.
It was that pain–that betrayal and bafflement–he responded to tenderly, “Because I am your father, and I love you, and you love me.”
“So I must obey you no matter how wrong your orders are?” Kally’s needle stabbed her embroidery. A depiction of a tournament scene complete with jousting knights in silver armor and fair maidens with ribbons in their hair. He wondered, briefly, if she pictured herself as a valiant knight or a beautiful lady in the scene she created. “So I must honor your wishes even when you hurt me?”
If Roald had addressed him thus, Jon knew he would have provided a stern reproach. Icily ordered the boy to be silent. Snapped that he didn’t have to listen to such insolence from his own son. It was easier to be gentle and understanding with a daughter than a son.
“I don’t think going for a ride is wrong, and you know I would never hurt you or any of my other children, my dear.” Jon reached out to gather her to his chest in a hug. To stroke a soothing hand through her hair.
“You’ve hurt me already.” Kally twisted away from him, and, with a stab of remorse, he was somehow prompted to recall how Roald had thanked him for not slapping him in the face. His two oldest children, in their own ways, each seemed to think he had or would hurt them. When he had never set out to be the sort of father who caused his children pain. Made them live in fear of him. “You believe you’re a great and gentle father just because you don’t beat your children, but there are other ways to hurt people, Papa. Some that hurt more than beating.”
“How have I hurt you, my dear?” Jon suspected that he already knew what her answer would be but posed the question anyway because she seemed to need to say the words. To release the bitterness inside her. To give vent to her rage, sorrow, and pain. He longed to clasp her shoulder but refrained from doing so. Sensed that she did not want and would not welcome his touch at the moment. He would not impose such contact on her now. To do so would be selfish. Not loving.
“You told me that I shouldn’t train as a page even though you’d signed a proclamation allowing girls to openly earn their shields.” Tears trickled down Kally’s cheeks. She had stopped embroidering now. “That made me feel worthless. Like the only value I had to you was the marriage I could make for the good of the realm.”
“I’m sorry I ever made you feel worthless.” Jon found it difficult to speak through numb lips. In his middle age–what should be the vibrant summertime of his life–he discovered himself badgered and beleaguered by regrets.
Regrets at the inevitable unfairnesses he was guilty of as king, where one injured party or other would always perceive him as the embodiment of all injustice. Regrets at how he mismanaged his relationships with his wife and friends, ignoring or neglecting to seek their advice when he predicted it would run counter to whatever course on which he wished to embark. Regrets at the pain he had inflicted on his children. All he had ever wanted to be was a good king, husband, friend, and father. Now he was dogged as if by a pack of howling, hunting hounds by the doubt that he was good at fulfilling any of these roles.
Did those who had remained bachelors into middle age–chosen to be single rather than have a wife and a flock of children—have similar regrets as they aged? Or were their regrets different? Perhaps he could ask Raoul, delicately, about that when Raoul returned to the palace with the Own. On second thought, no, he couldn’t engage in such a mutually vulnerable conversation with Raoul. Not while Raoul was siding with Alanna on the issue of Keladry of Mindelan’s probation and giving Jon the cold shoulder. Obeying orders and filing official reports but not offering any of his usual teasing advice. A teasing advice that often irked Jon when it was forthcoming and that he didn’t miss until it was gone. Gone along with Alanna’s sharp tongue.
Kally continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Then you hurt me again when you agreed to Keladry of Mindelan’s probation. Politics or not, that wasn’t right or fair. But when Roald did the right and just thing in sponsoring her so the bullies wouldn’t, you yelled at him. Even though I told you that you shouldn’t. Even though you should’ve known what it would’ve cost him to stand up to you and Lord Wyldon. The courage it would’ve taken for him to do that.”
Jon stared at his daughter. Until that moment, he hadn’t thought of his son’s rebellion in terms of courage. Only in terms of disobedience, disrespect, and Conte stubborness. Hadn’t considered the bravery it would have required from quiet, compliant Roald to defy himself and Lord Wyldon publicly.
“You made him feel worthless too,” Kally concluded. Sniffling. Apparently trying without much success to reign in her tears. “You hurt him, and you hurt me.”
“I’m sorry that I hurt you and Roald. Neither of you are worthless to me. My family is worth everything to me.” He drew her into his arms then. Took the risk of embracing her. Discovered that she seemed to find comfort in his hug. Burrowing against him in a manner that made him feel very protective of her. “I apologize to you, and I’m going to apologize to Roald too.”
“Truly?” Kally studied him with wide, watery eyes. His eyes in color and shape on someone else. Reflected back at him like a blue sky mirror.
“Truly,” he affirmed soberly, kissing her forehead. “You were right, Kally. I shouldn’t have yelled at him. Not about sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan.”
“You don’t need to tell me I’m right, Papa.” Kally’s chin lifted. She might have been crying a moment ago, but her fierceness remained undiminished. The fire inside her undampened by her tears. “I knew I was right all along. I never doubted it.”
“You are your mother’s daughter.” Jon chuckled, tapping her stubborn chin lightly. Amused and delighted by this bold, fearless child he and Thayet had raised together. “Willful to the bone and never doubting anything, both of you.”
“And my father’s,” Kally replied as if he needed reminding. Acknowledging and claiming him in that way. Absolving and forgiving him in those words. That breath.
She leaned her head against his shoulder for a couple of precious, treasured heartbeats. Then asked, “Does the invitation to go riding with you still stand, Papa?”
“Always, my dear.” Gravely, he gave her forehead another kiss.
“Ah. Excellent.” Kally beamed up at him, bright as sunshine on a spring day after a long, cold winter. “I’d better change into my riding clothes then.”
“You do that.” Jon patted her shoulder. Unable to shake the feeling that, for all Kally’s temper, she would be the easier of the two apologies and reconciliations to make. After all, he understood Kally’s temper. It was, in essence, an echo of his own. It was Roald, much quieter and more of a traditionalist than him or Thayet would ever be, that was so often a mystery to him. His efforts to connect with Roald so often came up woefully short. Left him feeling more hopelessly distant from his heir than ever. “I’ll do the same, and we’ll meet back here when we’re ready.”
Hanged as a Wolf or a Sheep
Roald spent his Sunday morning attending the dawn service to worship Mithros with the other pages per Lord Wyldon’s orders. That service was followed by a diligent cleaning of his weapons and tack for the training master’s exacting before lunch inspection of every page’s equipment.
Despite his best efforts to be thorough, an eagle-eyed Lord Wyldon had still found fault with the state of his weapons and tack. Lord Wyldon seemed even more critical than usual, and Roald, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, suspected the training master was out for blood. Seeking vengeance for Roald daring to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. Defending his honor. Restoring his pride. Reasserting his authority and control lest anyone question it.
Roald could understand that–especially after his father’s stern lecture on the subject–even if it did make him want to roll his eyes.
He resisted that temptation to roll his eyes as he bowed in silent, obedient acceptance of the sentence Lord Wyldon laid on him. Four bells in the armory polishing swords that afternoon. There was never any profit in arguing with Lord Wyldon. As even the most dim-witted pages (Garvey and Vinson immediately sprang to mind) knew, the training master would only respond to any debate with more punishment work.
So Roald had polished swords for four eternity-spanning bells, his father’s words about Lord Wyldon believing Papa had insulted and undermined him–reneged on a promise–echoing in his ears because there wasn’t much else to think about while he toiled. Nothing else to consume his focus.
Conversation beyond what was absolutely necessary to ensure the completion of a task was forbidden during punishment work although many pages took the chance of violating that rule while they labored in atonement for their transgressions. On this occasion, Roald decided that he wouldn’t risk getting caught in idle chatter. Especially when it was clear he was not in the training master’s good books.
When the bell that ended his punishment duty rang, Roald hurried back to his room for the hour before dinner. He supposed that it was only responsible to start on his reading assignment for the next day. With more resignation than excitement, he grabbed a lengthy volumes of courtly love sonnets from the top of a stack of course books on his desk and collapsed on his bed to read in comfort.
The sonnets of Sylvain, a poet from Tusaine who had been deceased for three centuries, were considered foundational classics in courtly love poetry. Thus, the pages were compelled to study his verses until their eyes bled.
Roald flipped the book open to the last sonnet he hadn’t read and instantly found his vision glazing over as he was subjected to a rapturous recounting of how the poet envied the sun that kissed his lady’s cheeks, sparkled in her eyes, and made her sweat. The unnamed lady–unnamed ladies being a convention of courtly love poetry–Sylvain addressed in his thousands of poems hadn’t even been his wife but another man’s, Roald recalled from the reading master’s lesson. Sylvain had conflated and confused courtly love with adultery. Generations of corutly love poets following in his stead had persisted in doing the same.
Roald was losing his focus. Allowing his attention to wander and dwell on extraneous details. He should be keeping his mind on Sylvain’s sonnets. A prince was supposed to be cultured. Have sophisticated tastes in poetry, music, and the arts.
Though what was so cultured and sophisticated about verses glorifying adultery, he couldn’t fathom. A question for his parents? No, probably not, given that it involved adultery. Best to let them go on believing that he was a little lamb innocent to the idea of adultery. That he didn’t have a vulgar bone in his body.
A knock on the door saved him from having to truly buckle down and study Sylvain’s aduterous sonnets. His manservant, Bennet, answered the door with a bow that only deepened when Papa was revealed in the doorway.
As Papa–dressed in riding clothes that spoke to a day spent more pleasurably than Roald’s–entered, Roald started to rise to offer his own bow but stopped when Papa gestured for him to remain seated.
Papa claimed a spot on Roald’s bed as Bennet shut the door after him.
“The sonnets of Sylvain,” Papa remarked. Glancing at the tome in Roald’s hands. “I remember reading that for class when I was a page.”
“Generations of pages have.” Roald put aside the book. “No doubt generations more will in the future.”
“I thought we might have a talk.” Papa’s eyes flicked to Bennet, tucked unobtrusively in a corner by the fireplace. “Alone.”
Roald hid a wince because the only reason he could imagine Papa wanting to speak with him alone was to reprimand him in private. Schooled his face into calm courtesy. The trained, polite mask of a boy raised at court.
“You may go, Bennet.” Roald dismissed his servant. Figuring that at least one of them should be allowed to enjoy their Sunday evening, added, “Take the rest of the night off. I won’t need you until morning.”
“Thank you kindly, Your Highness.” Bennet vanished with a bow. What marvelously discreet people, servants were.
Roald turned back to his father. Swallowed. Then gathered the scattered remnants of his courage to ask, “What did you want to talk about, Papa?”
“Not Sylvain’s sonnets, I confess.” Papa smiled. That smile that could dazzle a ballroom full of courtiers.
That was much less effective at soothing a son who strongly suspected he was about to be scolded. Roald couldn’t muster an answering grin. Felt suddenly too tired to even try.
Papa’s smile faded. Face becoming serious. Roald seemed to have that sobering effect on people.
“About Keladry of Mindelan being put on probation, and you sponsoring her.” Papa’s words would have been enough to erase any grin from Roald’s features.
“I thought you had already scolded me for that.” Roald bit his lip. It didn’t seem fair that he should be lectured twice for the same transgression. Even criminals rarely had to stand trial and face punishment twice for the same offense. “That you had forgiven me.”
“I have.” Papa clasped his shoulder. “The question is if you have forgiven me, son?”
“I know of nothing to forgive you for, Papa.” Roald blinked. Baffled. Surely it would be a presumption for a son to even think of forgiving his father. Fathers forgave sons. Not the other way around. Never the other way around.
“We could start with me agreeing to Keladry of Mindelan’s probation.” Papa’s tone was soft. Understated. No less powerful or compelling for that. “Have you forgiven me for that?”
“I can’t forgive you for that because I wasn’t the one you wronged, Papa.” Roald spoke swiftly. Perhaps too swiftly. “Keladry of Mindelan was. I can’t forgive an offense that wasn’t against me.”
“Kings do that all the time.” Papa arched an eyebrow. “What do you think a royal pardon is under most circumstances, Roald?”
“I’m not a king. Just a prince. You recently reminded me of that, Papa.” Roald ducked his head. Taking an abrupt, intense interest in the patterns of his blanket as his cheeks flushed with the memory of the rebuke his father had delivered less than a week ago. A rebuke that hadn’t, he realized, just been about the affront to Lord Wyldon’s honor and pride, but also to his father’s. About putting Roald in his place after he had gotten too big for his breeches. Papa might have been a magnificent king, but he wasn’t a particularly humble man. Perhaps no king could be. Maybe it demanded a large ego to rule a realm.
“Touche.” Papa lifted Roald’s chin. Forcing Roald’s gaze up until their eyes met. “As to me chiding you for sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan, have you forgiven me for that?”
“You were right to chide me.” Roald frowned. Forehead furrowing. He didn’t relish being scolded–he supposed only the stupidest and most rotten lads would–but that didn’t mean he would refuse to acknowledge when he deserved to be reprimanded. Especially after the fact. Once his anger had cooled and his pride was no longer bristling. When his rationality was restored. “I publicly went against an agreement you made. Undermined your authority and made it look like you had reneged on your promise Then, when you pointed this out to me, I snapped at you. Disrespected and disobeyed you when you told me to be silent. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was lucky you didn’t hit me.”
That was, he thought, the traditional penalty for a stubborn son who defied a father’s order to be silent. A thick, bloody lip or a swollen, stinging cheek. A sharp discouragement to further argument.
“I did many things wrong, Roald.” Papa sighed. Shook his head. “I provoked you to anger. A father shouldn’t provoke his son to anger. It’s not fair. It also took bravery for you to volunteer to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. To stand up for what you believed was right, just, and chivalrous. I failed to acknowledge that. To take pride in that. For all of that, I apologize.”
Unexpectedly, Roald felt tears stab at his eyes like the blades he had spent the afternoon polishing in the armory. It had hurt to be chastised by his father for doing what he was convinced was the right, just, and honorable thing. To face his father’s strict disapproval and harsh disappointment when, deep down, he longed for the warm approval and gentle affection of the man who had sired him. He had tried to block out that pain. Ignore it as irrelevant and self-indulgent. Unworthy of a prince or a boy growing into manhood. Now it all came flooding back to him in a rush like the Vassa swelled by snowmelt in spring.
“Of course I forgive you, Papa.” Roald was ashamed of how his voice cracked. Betraying his vulnerability and pain.
“Good boy.” Papa pulled him into a hug. “Thank you.”
Roald relaxed into his father’s embrace. Cherishing the tender moment between them before he murmured, “May I ask a question?”
“Certainly.” Papa held Roald at arm’s length. Fixing him with a keen glance.
“You explained how Lord Wyldon would perceive my volunteering to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan as an insult to his honor and challenge to his authority in the pages’ wing.” Roald hesitated. Forced himself to continue through a tight throat. “Do you think he’ll be more likely to deny Keladry the chance to remain after her first year because of me? Because of what I did?”
“Lord Wyldon is a fair man.” Papa stroked his beard. “An honorable man.”
“A fair and honorable man whose pride and sense of justice I just insulted,” Roald pointed out.
“He has a year to recover from the slight.” There was a glimmer of himor in Papa’s eyes that reminded Roald how much he valued moments like this with his father. When Papa answered his questions with patience and dry wit. Without sternness and scolding. This was the father he wanted to emulate. “A bruised honor can be painful, but it doesn’t usually take a year to heal.”
“But it could.” Roald pinched the bridge of his nose. A gesture of stress inherited from his father.
“It could.” Papa’s tone was grave now. Matching and mirroring Roald’s. He was a master of those transitions in mood. “Lord Wyldon could believe his back is to a wall because you volunteered to sponsor Keladry, but Keladry is definitely going to feel her back is against the wall for her whole probationary year. What happens when a person’s back is to the wall, son?”
“They fight as hard as they can because they don’t have an inch to give. No ground to retreat to.” Roald recalled reading in King Jasson’s war journals that no enemy was as dangerous as one with nothing left to lose. It was the foes with something that could still be lost who would fear to fight. Who might flee from a battle or surrender before it began. War and ruling had been synomous to Jasson the Conqueror.
“Exactly.” Papa nodded. “When a person’s back is to the wall, they are at their most courageous and creative. Under that pressure, they will reveal who they truly are, and who they truly are might surprise you. A person’s true self hasn’t been shown until they’ve been pushed into a corner.”
Toying with his earlobe, Roald contemplated this. He hadn’t known Keladry of Mindelan for long, but even his short acquaintance with her inclined him to predict that she would fight with cool determination when pressed into a corner. As for Lord Wyldon, the training master was a hero of the realm with the scars on his face to prove that he was fearless and unflinching when his back was to the wall.
“Politics and people are so complicated.” Roald massaged his temples. Feeling a headache coming on as it often did when he overthought things. “I appreciate when you explain them, Papa.”
“You have a knack for understanding politics and people.” Papa squeezed his shoulder. “You are a natural diplomat, Roald. Much more astute about such nuances than I was at your age. That was part of why I was so harsh with you about volunteering to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. I was shocked that you had done anything so undiplomatic as that.”
“Even if I am a natural diplomat–” Roald couldn’t quite believe he was– “I’m still going to make mistakes and not understand things. I’m not going to be perfect, Papa.”
Papa frowned at him, and Roald felt a stone forming in his stomach. Perfect. That was a word in dispute–conjuring tension and disharmony–between him and his father. From Roald’s perspective, Papa could be unfair, expecting Roald to be the perfect prince and son Papa had never been himself. To his father, no doubt Roald sounded like a petulant brat still sulking over a scolding. In desperate need of another stern correction. This was how the rifts that inevitably seemed to grow between them always developed. The misunderstandings and hurt feelings that divided them. Fractured their relationship. Tore them asunder.
Such misunderstandings didn’t arise with his mother. She read him better than Papa. Empathized with him more. Felt less of an apparent compulsion to reprimand him for everything.
Taking advantage of the fact that his father had not yet spoken to reproach him on this occasion, Roald went on hastily, “I know you said that you don’t expect perfection from me. Just a modicum of respect and obedience but–”
Roald trailed off. Deciding that contradicting Papa–telling Papa that he often felt a pressure to be perfect and as if he was disappointing his parents whenever he fell short of that–was probably a surefire way to earn another scolding.
“But you feel as if I expect perfection from you? That I want you to be the perfect prince and son I never was?” Papa’s eyes were piercing. Penetrating. His tone surprisingly soft.
Roald didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. Softness could mask a deeper, more dangerous wrath than shouting sometimes. Especially in a king. He fiddled with his blanket. Found a fraying thread. Tugged on it quite mercilessly. Feeling it unravel beneath his anxious fingers. “Yes, Papa.”
Papa rested a stilling palm over Roald’s fingers before they could complete their quest to destroy his blanket. “You said as much last time we talked. You weren’t entirely wrong.”
“But I was very disrespectful.” Roald gaped at his father. Remembering the tone of unsheathed steel that had made him shiver.
“You were, and, as I warned you, such disrespect will never happen again.” Papa gave Roald’s knee a light swat. “Morally, you were wrong to speak to me in such a manner. That is beyond dispute. Logically, you had a point and were not entirely in the wrong.”
“I wasn’t?” Roald couldn’t prevent himself from grasping at this straw. This hint and hope that his father might understand him after all. At least a little.
“I am harder on you than my father was on me. That is true, and it may seem unfair to you.” Papa was firm. Unapologetic. “However, every man must bring up his son how he judges best. That is his right and responsibility. I will explain to you why I raise you the way I do.”
“Yes, Papa.” Suppressing a sigh, Roald supposed this explanation was the best he could hope for. The closest Papa would come to trying to understand him. See things from his point of view.
“I was an only child.” Papa had started with himself. A strange way to begin his explanation, Roald thought. “I didn’t have any younger siblings for whom I was expected to set a good example and for whom I had to take responsibility.”
“Or to love,” Roald observed in an almost whisper. That had always seemed the saddest thing to him about his parents not having siblings. Though he supposed that his godsmother Buri and godsfather Gary counted as the nearest to sister and brother that his parents had. Still, that wasn’t the same as having five little brothers and sisters to love. A childhood marked by a new member of the family what seemed like every year.
“Or to love,” Papa agreed. Ruffling Roald’s hair in a gesture of affection and approval. “I was by no means starved for affection, however. It was very difficult for my mother to bring a child into the world at all. She suffered many miscarriages and stillbirths before I was born, and my birth was rough enough the healers advised against her attempting to have any more children. Since she could have no more children, my mother doted on me. Thought the sun rose and set in my eyes. My father was a mild, gentle man. He could never bear to be severe or strict with me for long. Even when I engaged in my wildest behaviors.”
Roald couldn’t resist defending himself. “I don’t engage in wild behaviors.”
“Because you know I will curtail them.” Papa shot Roald a speculative glance with a trace of amusement behind it. “In my youth, you could say I was a little like Joren of Stone Mountain.”
“You were like Joren of Stone Mountain?” Roald repeated. Astounded and appalled by the notion that his father might have resembled one of his least favorite boys in the pages’ wing.
“Arrogant. Reylong on my charm. A bit of a troublemaker and bully to those I disliked.” Papa shrugged. “I’m not proud of it, but that’s the truth.”
“I don’t want to be like Joren of Stone Mountain.” Roald could imagine few people he wanted to be like less than Joren of Stone Mountain.
“I know and that makes me very proud. Believe me.” Papa grinned. Then went on more somberly, “Nor do I want you to be like Joren of Stone Mountain. That is why I’m so hard on you sometimes. Why I’m so determined not to spoil you.”
Roald stared at his father. Wondered if Joren’s father also had explanations for being hard on Joren. For leaving the scars Roald was certain could only come from a rod on Joren’s back. Scars he had seen–everyone had seen–when the pages bathed together.
Scars he had averted his eyes from. Pretending that he didn’t seem. Joining everybody else in looking the other way. Remaining silent as was the code that governed every aspect of life in the pages’ wing with the force of law. Scars that hadn’t turned Joren into a good person. Had just molded him into a bully, Transforming a handsome lad into a monster.
“I don’t expect you to understand. Young as you are.” Papa sighed. Clapped Roald’s shoulder. Then reached into his pocket. Tossed a bag onto Roald’s lap. “As I said, I don’t intend to spoil you, but I brought you a bit of a treat.”
To supplement his apology, Roald thought as he opened the bag to discover it brimming with sugared almonds. One of his favorite desserts.
“Thank you, Papa.” Clutching the bag of sugared almonds in his hands like a pirate clinging to stolen gold, Roald wrapped his arms around his father. “You know I love sugared almonds.”
“I do.” Papa chuckled. Patted Roald on the back. “Don’t eat them before dinner or you’ll ruin your appetite. And don’t devour them all at once or you’ll make yourself sick.”
Roald stifled a sarcastic statement about no longer being a toddler. Strove to regard the admonishment as proof of how resolved his father was to raise him properly. A testament to his father’s love of him. Settled for an obliging, “Yes, Papa. I won’t eat them all myself. I’ll share them with my friends.”
Including Keladry. Maybe she would soften her stance toward his father if she received enough secondhand treats passed along by Roald.
“Very generous.” Papa rumpled Roald’s hair again. Roald would have to brush it before dinner if he didn’t want to look like a slob with lamentably low standards of personal grooming.
“Well.” Roald smiled. “It was very generous of you to give me the almonds first, so I’m really just passing the generosity along, Papa.”
“True.” Papa nodded. Then added in the serious, formal tone he reserved for issuing his most important commands, “We would have you support Keladry of Mindelan however you can in the pages’ wing.”
“We who?” Roald felt excitement mingled with disbelief and caution bubbling in a confused mix inside him.
“Your mother.” Papa paused before concluding momentously, “And I.”
“I am happy to obey.” Roald bowed his head. He truly was gald to obey. He would have gone on supporting Keladry however he could, but his father ordering it simplified the situation. Made it more straightforward. Less of a conundrum. Meant he didn’t have to experience the inner conflict and turmoil that came from defying his father every time he assisted Keladry. Attempted to guide her safely through the spidren’s web of page training. Still, he had to point out the gray storm cloud looming on the horizon. “Lord Wyldon will be furious, Papa. He’ll see it as continued interference in Keladry’s probation.”
“He would see continued royal interference no matter what since you volunteered to sponsor Keladry.” Papa made a dismissive gesture. “Better to be hanged as a wolf than a sheep as they sing in the bandit ballads, son.”
Roald’s mouth twitched. Fighting a rueful grin. “Better still to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing evading suspicion and not getting hanged at all, Papa.”
“Yes, if you are clever enough to pull off such a disguise.” Papa chuckled. “Are you that clever, Roald?”
“I will try to be,” said Roald gravely. His being so quiet was probably an advantage in masquerading as a sheep, he thought.
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