KING ARLON OF HOUSE PIERRAN strode back into the Ivory Castle with a rather distinguished gait. He smiled warmly at the women servants and commented on the guards shiny appearance. It seemed the king was happy. It had everything to do with the fact that he just had a most pleasurable night in the arms of his one true love, another man's wife. The Castle servants and guards didn't know this of course. No one knew. It was a secret that belonged to the Crown and the crown alone.
Arlon glided across the castle grounds to the south wing of the castle keep; the most defended area of the entire castle and the wing of the royal residence. He walked up the stone steps, a satiated smile stretched in his face. The two kingsguards following him stopped at the entrance into his bedchamber. They calmly took their places at the sides of the entryway and then went still as statues. Arlon walked in, and at the sight before him, all his joy seeped away. Only two words matched the source of the abrupt change in his demeanor.
The Queen.
Arlon looked away from her, walking across to the dressing room to the left of the bedchamber. He knew the Queen could see right through him. She could also smell the feminine fragrance on him. Latchlon often joked that she had the nose of a bloodhound.
"So, you won't talk to me. Is that it?" Arlon heard her voice but made no move whatsoever to alert that he did.
"Arlon?" she growled.
He turned around and looked to her.
"Lorraine?" He voiced, in the exact same tone and she spied his lips quivering in a repressed smile. They held each other's gazes for a while. Lorraine could hold their played silence no longer and looked away. Arlon pinned on her emerald eyes. His eyes went misty at her.
He loved his wife, Lorraine the Queen. He truly did. He admired her intelligence when it came to matters of the State and never hesitated to include her in his administrations. Her recognized that her advice was gold. Lorraine could single-handedly run the kingdom. But Syveria operated on old laws. A woman was never allowed to rule. She could advice her husband in such matters but always remained a lady.
Arlon thought the law was archaic. A woman should also have a place in the government, but it would be foolhardy to bring it up among his meetings with the Syverian Overseers. They were old men who cared about nothing but coins to jingle and fresh thighs to warm their beds. Whenever a woman bravely brought up the idea, the men would laugh and joke that it was called a 'KINGDOM' for a reason. Later, they would whisper she lacked for a male's touch that's why she was so antsy.
Arlon never commented on such matters. He believed women were gifted, and should be treated as such. But the Overseers were the Heads of powerful families. They could easily dethrone a King. All they needed was a small coffer, a willing servant, and a vial of atter.
Arlon loved Lorraine as a friend, not as a wife.
Their marriage had been arranged by his family, House Pierran, and hers, House Manderley. It had been a ploy by her father, Lord Trucan Manderley to slip his name into the royal books. House Manderley wasn't as notable as Cranmer or Bathurst, and the cunning man had found a way to revitalize his family name. He knew Arlon loved his daughter's brilliance so he played on it.
Arlon had been friends with Lorraine from when they thought the moon was a piece of white cake. Lorraine excelled at trigonometry and astronomy. The Arts of the Seers. She had applied more than once for acceptance into the Four Seer Towers, but the horn-nosed men also denied her more than once. The Seer system was also biased like the Crown's, if not more.
Lord Trucan saw that Arlon desired a competent queen. He knew his genius daughter lacked not in such matters. Her wits were unparalleled to any man he knew, including his aged friends who were supposedly wise. He knew Lorraine would make an exceptional Queen so he flew the idea past the then Crown Prince. Arlon accepted eagerly. His sights then were not on any maiden. Trucan found it a gimmick to gain in both ways. His daughter got to be queen, and House Manderley got to rise among the noble houses.
Arlon had been married to Lorraine for nineteen summers. She birthed three children to him. Children that were his joy. Unsurprisingly, none of them took their mother's green eyes. Their eyes were all blue like the afternoon sky. All of them. All through the Pierran generations, the eyes held, no matter how far outside the descendants married. They always carried the eyes of Nihila, the Golden One.
Arlon's firstborn was a girl child. The light of his life. She had hair golden as his but wavy like her mother's. At her birth, Lorraine moved to choose a name for her but Arlon would not let her. He stared into her eyes like his and named her Esabel. His two other children were boys. Twin boy children. Rowdy little runts with peach hair he presumed they got from their grandfather. He could not be sure because Lord Trucan was as bald as they came. Lorraine named the boys. She called them after her favorite constellations, Taroth and Tranin.
"You smell of a woman, Arlon," Lorraine said, interrupting his train of thought. "...I can tell she is the same one. Is she?"
"Yes," Arlon muttered, walking to his wife. Lorraine deserved more. He didn't deserve her. He wore on a guilty look as he approached her. She stood brushing her hair in front of the mirror. The locks were shiny and a touch paler than his. It was cropped elegantly to her shoulders, framing her perfect face and highlighting her green eyes. It hung down straight, tickling her chin. Arlon couldn't bear to meet her eyes in the mirror.
"It's alright, love," Lorraine said, "I only ask to ensure you remain discreet. A mistress isn't a good public image for a King, especially one with three children. Besides, if I had found a man that suited my taste, I presume I would be smelling of him too. Considering the sort of men in this kingdom, I assume it would be mostly liquor."
Arlon smiled then at her joke. He had never met a woman like Lorraine Manderley. Now, Queen Lorraine Manderley-Pierran, as she insisted they address her. She wasn't clingy or raucous. She was firm. She knew that there was a fine line between duty and pleasure. She didn't poke Arlon for his affair. She of course pleasured herself in the bath pool.
His wife was pretty, the kind of pretty he knew the Kingsguards liked. He had spotted more than a pair of wandering eyes from the castle officers. Lorraine had that sure grip that when she walked into a room, all heads turned. She had that regal bow that couldn't be trimmed or trained; but was an inherent trait. An inner confidence.
Lorraine was the true definition of a Queen.
"Go on," she voiced, "Go take a dip. Your brother just arrived from some hunt and wants to see you."
Arlon nodded and leaned down. He placed a kiss on her cheek from behind. Their eyes met in the mirror and he smiled. Lorraine smiled too. Arlon walked away more joyful than before. How blessed he was that he had a wife who understood him completely. Lorraine was like the beating of his heart. He needed her to survive. He also needed her to rule.
~. ~. ~.
THE SUN HAD DESCENDED DOWN THE HORIZON, slowly dimming to a somber twilight when Latchlon finally felt preserved again.
The castle cooks had treated him to a special home-cooked roast and a full goblet of the good wine; the kind of ale stored in clay jars, left to brew and grow cold. It had that tangy refreshing taste and Latchlon savored it. He needed the nourishment after such long hours spent in the sun.
As he stood in the massive throne room waiting for the King, his mind went back to past events.
Latchlon had returned with the patrol team to his estate at the soldier's fort. His soldiers flocked around his horse.
"Lord Commander!" They all fired in unison.
One of them stepped forward and lifted off Caelywn from the horse so that Latchlon could safely climb down.
"Is she a runaway child, Commander?" The man asked.
"No," Latchlon growled at him. He looked down to her and the little girl quickly moved to his side. She twined her fingers in his and burrowed close to him. Her eyes reflected worry at the huge armored officers. Latchlon saw this and lifted up his eyes to his men.
"Officers," he began. "This is Caelywn. A ward of mine. From this instant, you will not address her as little girl or runaway or anything of the sort. She will only be addressed as Lady Caelywn. She is a ward of House Pierran. Understand?"
"Yes, Ser!" The men growled in booming voices.
Latchlon turned to the head of the patrol; a Captain of the royal guard.
"Captain, lead a dozen men to the northern hamlets. There are corpses of our men near the east area." The man's eyes narrowed but he asked no questions. He was Captain because he knew to follow orders. "...there are forty of them, Captain. Make sure no body is missing. They must receive a proper burial."
"Yes, Ser!" The man boomed. The bowed briskly, turned and walked away with his men, their thoughts now set on the northern villages.
Latchlon had left Caelywn in the care of Mam Petyr; an elderly woman servant who worked for him as his Chamberlain. He trusted her with his life, and knew that she would treat Caelywn well.
After his delectable meal, he had ridden to the Castle with worry in his eyes, and one could even say fear clouded his mind. It always did when he was to face the king. It didn't matter that Arlon was his blood brother. He was still the ruler of an empire and could chop off his head with a single wave of hand.
Now, as he stood waiting, he prayed Arlon was in a good mood.
The hall's doors swept open and in came his brother, clothed in the finest golden garment and arrayed in rich splendor. The crown of Syveria shone like the sun on his head. Two burly Kingsguards followed him from behind. They were the most trust-worthy of Latchlon's men and he had handpicked them specifically for the King. A few castle servants walked in also and quickly moved across the throne room.
Soon, a glowy brilliance filled the hall from the candles and torches left in their wake. The Kingsguards accosted them out and locked the doors once more. Latchlon heard the abrupt click of the heavy doors and his stomach tightened.
Arlon gave the doors a quick glance before turning to walk to him. His back was rod straight; the gait of a king, and his golden hair complimented his crown. He neared Latchlon and his blue eyes lit on his brother.
"Why was I summoned, Latchlon? Lorraine said it was a discreet matter."
Latchlon looked to him, judging his mood. He wondered if he should tell him about the Wytcher or his dead men, or both.
"Yes, your Majesty. I might have done something..." He stammered.
Arlon narrowed his eyes at him. Latchlon was never one to mince words, right from a young age. He was the bold one. The Lord Commander of the Blue Cloaks. Why now was he suddenly timid?
Arlon knew something was wrong. He moved closer until their shared blue eyes shined into each other's. They were roughly the same height, so Latchlon had nowhere to turn to.
"Tell me, brother," Arlon growled near his face. Latchlon sighed. There was no going around the tale. He had to speak truthfully.
"I found the Wytcher..." He stopped then, and Arlon's expression told him he was getting impatient.
"...he murdered forty of my men."
Arlon didn't scream. He didn't growl. But his eyes spit fire. They went so dark in seconds from a sky blue to a metallic gray. Arlon turned and moved a few metres away. Latchlon watched as his golden robes breezed about him. The man before him was no longer his brother but a fierce King, growing madder with every passing second.
Latchlon waited with a pounding heart for the King to say something. A beat later, Arlon turned swiftly around.
"I told you to do YOUR FUCKING JOB!" Arlon growled. Latchlon in all his great size shrank at the quaking voice. The throne room rang with the deep pitch and the flames high on the walls seemed to flicker, making the shadows move. Arlon was angry, really angry. He moved his feet and in a moment, he was before Latchlon, right in his face.
"You have one fucking job, brother," he growled near, their foreheads almost touching. "Protect the empire. Now, you might have damned us all. I presume you don't have the Wytcher or else you'd be off flaunting him around. Do you know the gravity of what you've done..."
Latchlon moved to interrupt but Arlon's eyes only darkened the more. His lips closed of their own accord.
"...Do you know the situation you've put us in. THE ENTIRE FUCKING KINGDOM!" Arlon shouted, and the candles flickered once more.
"I specifically told you to let the Wytcher be, but you couldn't. You went as far as burning innocent men on the stakes. Now, look what you've done. We have excelled in Adramon, we have grown to possess the wealthiest cities because our past kings knew not to anger the North. Your failed plan to kill him will reach Valkalon. It will enter into the ears of the fucking Ice Emperor. Then what? How can we fight people who disappear. People who turn into bears, serpents and wolves. How can we fight the Faerie Princes, the Icelanders? You are a man of war. Tell me if we have a chance at winning such battle?"
Arlon brought up his forefinger and pushed at Latchlon. His hand poked at his chest. "Tell me?" He barked but Latchlon knew to remain silent. "They are fucking powerful!"
Arlon stopped pushing at his chest and moved away. He turned around. The orange luminance of the torches lit at their robes. They both stood alone in the wide hall of the throne room, debating how to secure Syveria. If the Wytcher returned back to the Ice realms and told his people about Latchlon ordering his death, the Might of the North would swarm the summerlands. It would be a battle bloody as the Night Wars. Thousands would die...
There was only one way out. They had to find the Wytcher before he sent word to his people. They had to find him fast.
Arlon turned once again to his brother.
"Here's what we are going to do, Lord Commander."
Latchlon turned fully to the king, giving him his undivided attention.
"You will keep this news as discreet as possible. No one must know about the dead officers. The ones who already know must not know it was the Wytcher. Tell them it was the Iron Clans or rogue marauders; anything but the Wytcher."
"Yes, your Majesty!" Latchlon bowed. When Arlon said nothing else, he moved for the doors. His hands had grabbed the silver holds when Arlon called from behind.
"Brother?"
"Yes, my King!" Latchlon turned in reply.
"Offer five bags of royal coin to anyone who gives us the Wytcher's true location, or delivers him..." He paused for a while, then added, "...Alive. The sorcerer must be alive."
"Yes, my king!" Latchlon turned. He pushed open the door and glided out into the darkness that had befallen the land.
Arlon the King remained alone in the throne room. He looked to the white throne, then to the great bronze statue of the Golden One, mildly lit by the lamps rays.
"Help me, Nihila," he whispered into the quietness of the hall.
Some seconds later, Arlon could almost swear he heard an answer. What the echo said however, he could not decipher.