Young Writers Society

The Rye be down, the Rye be up, and dead when covered with snow. And when sun rise, be into the skies, the dead begin to show

-An Albanese folk tune

The Duchess

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The carriage ride to Lordium was utterly exhausting. Yes, it was beautiful – the snow falling, the laughing of children as they hurdled snowballs at one another, and the wreaths and garlands being hung about the hamlets and homes. But the bickering. Oh the bickering. Wyl and his father never used to be like this. As a matter of fact, they got along quite nicely in the years before Gregor came along. But now things were different. She was expected to go to breakfast, as always, and she did so, as always, but she always went prepared for the worst. It pained her to see little Greg and young Bas, as everyone seemed to call Stallwick, witness such impropriety every morning. She always felt as if she had to say something, but she only knew that it would make things worse. And so, she had learned to keep her mouth shut.

She did not dislike Char. As a matter of fact, she owed a lot to him. It was he who gave his blessing and allowed her to wed Wyl. Old Queen Lisbet was against the idea, but Char convinced her otherwise, out of the love he bore for his eldest son. She was only the daughter of a minor lord from Westvale, not a highborn lady. But Char knew what love was, as he had kindly, and implicitly, expressed in the days leading up to the royal wedding. He did not love his wife, as demonstrated in their mutual infidelity, although she knew that he was secretly hurt after her death in that fatal accident aboard the White Barque. That was before she had met Wyl.

She and the prince had made acquaintance while attending the Universities at Barrow. Albion had a far more liberal stance than many countries, as more and more women began pursuing careers of their own, particularly in certain areas of the government. Katrice had wished to pursue something involving finance. It was once her dream to settle down and live in Gaeland, with its rolling hills and highlands, but once she had met Wyl, a few years her junior, she had become instantly smitten. It would have been hard for her to refuse his proposal, which would have meant leaving the land she had hoped to make a life for herself in and live in a castle with servants. After five years, it was still hard for her to get used to, but at least she was with Wyl. At least his father had approved.

It took only an hour for the carriage to travel the twenty miles from Windstorm to Lordium, in spite of the snow. By the time the procession, which included not only Prince Char’s carriage, but also various servants, ministers, and guards, crossed over the river and through the gates of Lordium, Katrice was shivering. Her son did not seem to mind the cold, being a typical Leego. Gregor had his face pressed up against the window of the carriage, entranced by either the bustle of the city or the beauty of what lay outside.

While Char absolutely despised visiting Tudor Palace, Greg loved it. Castle Windstorm, while far more comfortable and, even to some degree, casual, did not possess the same charm as the royal palace did. As opposed to the somber nature of the family residence, the latter was lively and colourful, something that Katrice knew her son appreciated.

The ride was silent. Wyl had read most of the way, something about something; Harold had slept; Char had simply sat there, a disturbed look in his eyes, contemplating something of importance. Katrice had occupied herself with Greg, who, in turn, occupied Greg as well.

By the time they had reached Tudor Palace, the snow had ceased falling. Wordsworth opened the door for the family and, following Char’s lead, the members piled out of the coach. The biting chill of winter was even more pungent outside of the vehicle. Katrice pulled her cloak around her and strode quickly to keep up with her husband and the prince. Bloodcloaks roamed courtyards that led up to the main gates, focused and emotionless, as always. The Tudor bloodcloaks, Katrice thought, were far stodgier than those at Castle Windstorm. Perhaps it was a result of the far more laid back atmosphere. Syr Walter encouraged fraternity amongst his men and, while some could potentially see it as coddling, it seemed to optimize efficiency in terms of the castle’s overall security. She always felt as if she had to be more careful at the Queen’s residence. She would not want Wyl’s grandmother to resent her in any way, or, even worse, embarrass either him or his father. Like the bloodcloaks, Katrice remained stoic.

The palace was unfortified, unlike Castle Windstorm, but the city was well guarded, as large cities such as Lordium were largely unthreatened by enemies. Aside from attritions committed by Adder Harod’s bombardiers that infiltrated the city and caused massive damage during the Second Continental War, true conflict had not plagued Albion in nearly four hundred years.

The bloodcloaks bowed as Char and Wyl walked through the already opened doors of the palace, but they stood back to attention by the time Katrice and Gregor crossed the threshold. Perhaps they don’t recognize me as a royal.

Tudor Palace was far more ornate than the much older castle, the décor more modern and the atmosphere one of excessive opulence. But it was stuffier. The servants. The guards. The non-parliamentary advisors. It was not so much that they acted superior or elitist, but more so that they had an air of inhumanness. So formal and proper, without a single display of true emotion.

The palace itself was massive, but not so much in the same way that Castle Windstorm was. It was taller, and wider, having more rooms than the home of her husband’s ancestors. Her adopted home ran rampant with various corridors and spires, which, while possessing an almost gothic vibe, made her feel more at home. She felt out of place at Tudor Palace.

Wyl, she knew, had spent much of his childhood here, back when his mother was still alive, and was used to the environment, but she knew that she would never become used to the stodgy atmosphere. It was superficial. Very few people referred to one another by name and, instead, by title. To the castle, she was not Katrice, but was “Lady Dutchess of Lycaster”.

Syr Walter and his contingent of guards dispersed once Katrice and the other royals had reached the grand stairwells, which connected nearly the entire complex. Char, the patriarch, hands clasped behind his back, led the way up the staircase. Katrice held her son’s hand as they climbed. She could see the excitement in his eyes as he hopped up the stairs, pulling her along, almost causing her to trip.

The stairwell was winding. Once they reached the top of one of the cases, at least three more protruded from the next level. Katrice had not visited Tudor Palace enough to navigate the place, but Char, standing proud and strong, seemed to know the way. After repeating the process another five or six times, they had reached a wide hall that served as a hub to multiple rooms. They did not divert, but continued straight before taking a left, upon which they reached an antechamber containing a large set of double doors. Char stopped. “Now, I expect everyone to be on their best behaviour.” He turned to Harold. “You especially.”

The young man smiled. “Why me, Father?”

“You know.”

“It’s just Grandmother,” Wyl intervened. “Not the Lyght.”

Char took a deep breath. He pushed open the doors and strode into the chamber. Wyl and Harold followed behind. Katrice waited a few seconds before taking a hold of little Greg’s hand and trailed behind her husband and brother-in-law.

The throne room was prodigious. Gargantuan windows lined the end of the room, providing a view that could allow for Katrice to see the myriad of snow-covered rooftops. The colours were a hybrid of rich reds and royal purples. The walls were all gilded, making it look brighter than it otherwise would have been. Katrice did not like it. She was neither used to nor attracted to gaudiness.

A long, red carpet spread across the floor, leading up to an elevated throne. There, in the ornate seat, sat her majesty.

Char quickened his pace and approached his mother, who sat emotionless. In one hand she held a scepter, and in the other a globus cruciger. Now isn’t she formal today, Katrice thought, as always.

Char dropped to one knee. “My queen.”

The queen nodded her head and motioned for her son to rise with her scepter. She glared at him. “You’ve gotten old.”

Char chuckled through his nose. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

“Yes, and I know that I’m decrepit.”

“What makes you think that I do not know that I am?”

“Because, my dear Char, you’ve always been an oblivious boy. You’re still a boy, but you look like an old man.”

She sure has a sense of humour today.

“Yes, of course,” Char responded, a half smile on his lips. “It is so very good to see you today, Mother.”

“No it isn’t.”

Katrice’s father-in-law nodded. “You’re right.”

The queen just shook her head. “Now, are you going to continue with your unwanted adulation or are you going to shut your mouth and allow this meeting to commence? I do not think that any of want to be here.”

“Yes, Mother.” He quickly climbed the few steps and stood next to the throne. Wyl and Harold did the same in suit, as did Katrice. Gregor and Bas stood silently in the corner of the room with Wordsworth, which she did not feel all too comfortable with. Like most of the court at Tudor palace, Wordsworth was extremely stodgy and excessively arrogant. But he was polite and harmless. Either way, she, like Char, wished that this meeting would end soon enough.

Her majesty beckoned for Katrice to approach. Upon arriving at the foot of the throne, the monarch rose and slowly revealed her wrinkled hand. Honouring the gesture, Katrice dropped to one knee and kissed it. She turned her head up to look at the queen and gave a curt smile. It was not returned.

“How do you do today, Katrice?” her majesty asked, pulling her hand back.

“I am doing well, your majesty.” Katrice curtseyed and smiled again.

“I trust that you are being good to my grandson?” The queen had a stern look in her eyes, which, Katrice thought, seemed rather uncalled for in this situation.

“I’d like to think so, your grace.”

Wyl intervened. “She has been, Grandmamma.”

“I know,” the queen said, giving a half smile. “She proved that after she bore you a fine son.” She turned towards the corner where Greg and Bas were standing with Wordsworth. “Butler!” she called out. “Bring me my grandsons!”

Wordsworth did as he was asked and grabbed both boys by the hand. Bas looked reluctant, but Greg was just the opposite. So optimistic. So full of life.

“You are getting big,” the queen professed to her great-grandson. “Are you treating your father well?” Greg turned to Katrice, a confused look on his innocent face. Katrice nodded with a smile, and her son looked back at her majesty.

“Yes, Grandmamma.”

Her majesty rarely smiled, or, at least, in a sincere fashion, but Katrice gathered that the smile that she gave Greg was one of honesty. She had a dry sense of humour, yes, but it came less from a place of wanting to make people laugh and more towards wanting to spite her eldest son. Char was demanding, but Katrice found it funny that the queen always put him in his place. He was a direct heir, after all, and the key to preserving her legacy was to keep her kin in line, even her sixty-year old son. Bas approached the queen next, far more reluctant than his “cousin.” Katrice did not know what to think of Bas. She knew that he was the illegitimate child of Wyl’s aunt, late queen of Boraelgrasp, and some red-haired man, but other than that she had no detail on the situation itself. The boy was shy, but polite, and he did provide a good playmate for Greg. That was enough for her to hold him in regard. Would she ever raise him as her own? Probably not. Would she honour him as a member of the family? Of course. He was as much a Windstorm as her Wyl. Char was more than harsh on the lad – more than he should have any right to be – but it came from a place of shame, that being of the fact that Bas was the seed of his younger sister’s adultery. He seemed to take out his spite towards the situation on the poor lad himself. Katrice did not believe it to be appropriate on his part, but she dared not confront him about it. She had been welcomed as a member of the family, and did not want to risk her good standing with the prince.

The young boy stood there and shyly waved at his grandmother. The queen, in turn, nodded and motioned for him to stand with the rest of the family.

Once all formalities were exchanged, the queen finally rose.

Queen Lisbet Windstorm was, without a doubt, the most venerable leader in Albion, if not all of Caenterin. Now over eighty, she had reigned for over half a century. Throughout most of her reign, she was simply a figurehead. Whether it was voluntary, or that the ministers forced it to be so, she had, early in her reign, legislated most of her powers to parliament. While Katrice knew that Wyl’s father still had deep regard for his mother, the fact that the crown had no real power anymore was one of the many things that he constantly complained about. It was well-known that the queen herself grew tired of her son’s almost inappropriate ambitions, and so such had given rise to the popular rumour that she was going to name Wylfred her heir instead of Char. While Katrice did not mind the idea of being queen, occasionally even imagining herself in a jeweled tiara, she knew that, in the case that the line of succession skipped over Char, the prince’s anger would become unleashed upon the realm, and, even more serious, amongst her own family. Luckily, the woman would probably die before her son would have a chance to set her off to a point where she would resort to that.

The queen rose from her throne at last. Here we go.

“Dear family,” she said at once, clasping her hands behind her back. “I have received two bits of urgent news this morning.”

Char sighed. “I have important duties to attend to mother. What is it?”

“They can wait for now,” she replied, “You will want to hear this. Both are equal in importance.”

Katrice looked over and saw a grimace of impatient annoyance form on her father in law’s face. “Somebody better be dead.”

The emperor was dead. An owl had arrived at the palace early that morning, and the queen had been busy deciding how she would go about relaying the news. As of now, the only people who had been told the news were the Windstorms, the Prime Minister, and several other trusted men of court and parliament. But it was startling nonetheless, Katrice thought. The emperor had been emperor when she was still a child! She had seen him speak twice in her life during his bi-decade circuits. Yet he was old, she knew; maybe a year younger than Queen Lisbet. The man was aging when the princess herself was a young girl.

It had happened only three days prior, quietly, at his residence in Paletine. A funeral ceremony was to be held on the first day of the New Year at the Chantry of Light, honouring all that he had done for the world. The Lord-Presidor of Occidea would be attending, according to the letter, and was allegedly in the city for diplomatic reasons. To Katrice, this seemed unlikely to be the true reason. They already knew that the emperor of the Alliance was on his deathbed.

Queen Lisbet had not yet decided how she would handle the situation, which is why she had summoned her family in such haste. Suffice it to say, Prince Char’s opinion did matter, as did her husband’s.

“I say we tell the populace,” Wylfred had said in response to his grandmother’s request for counsel. “Beginning with Lordium.”

Char stroked his chin. “I agree with Wylfred, Mother, but should we not do so with caution? I am sure that Paletine was in quite an uproar once the news was announced.”

“The letter was sent only an hour after his demise,” the queen said as a matter of fact. “But assumption can be helpful at times. Caution may be necessary. However, this matter affects not only the people of the Alliance. It concerns us as a family as well.”

“How do you mean, Grandmother?” Wyl asked, scrunching his eyes in confusion.

“The Alliance cannot be without an emperor. Without a strong executor to maintain the peace, Caenterin could fall apart within a matter of months. A conference has been called for to select a successor, and the Grand Council in Paletine has nominated a number of contenders. To ensure all fairness, candidates from several nations have been nominated. Albion is one of them.”

Katrice spoke up. “There’s not been an Albanese emperor in over five hundred years. There’s very little chance that such will change. We’re religious separatists. A majority of the councilors follow the Old Dogma.”

“That may not be entirely true,” Char said in a pondering tone. “The liberalization of the Faith may give us a chance to win the Lyght of the West’s favour.”

“Indeed,” the queen agreed with a nod. “And an Albanese candidate may be just what this land needs. It may not restore our colonial empire, but it can assure continental influence.”

“So long as it isn’t Harold contending.”

“Hey!” barked Katrice’s brother-in-law. “I’d like to have you know that I’d be a fine emperor.”

“Yes, of the nitwits!” Char hit him in the back of the head. “Now shut up.”

“Now the first thing we have to do,” continued the queen, “is decide who among us would be the most viably suitable candidate to represent the throne in Paletine. That is the reason that I called you all here today.”

“I nominate Visyryn!” Char blurted out before anyone else had a chance to say anything. “He’s more qualified than any of us.”

“But what if I don’t want to, brother?” a voice proclaimed from across the room. There standing in the doorway, was Visyryn Windstorm, dressed in a vibrant cloak and ceremonial armour, a dress sword at his side. He quickly glided across the floor in the direction of the throne. No one, not even Char said a word. The prince apparent had a look of sudden surprise on his face. Katrice too was perplexed. What on earth is he doing here?

The prince bowed down on one knee once he had reached the steps that approached the throne. “My queen. I apologize for my tardiness. I had some business to take care of in one of the taverns.”

“Arise, son. You’re here, and that is what matters now.”

Char still looked shocked. “Vis…Visyryn! What are you doing in Lordium?”

“Recruiting, my dear brother. More men are needed up on Swan’s Neck.”

More men to die, you mean. You wage an unwinnable conflict because you enjoy the hobby of battle.

“It’s good to see you Vys. It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed it has, Char.” Katrice’s father-in-law approached his brother and embraced him.

In his early fifties, Visyryn looked very much like Char. He had the same black hair, which he kept down past his shoulders and braided in the front. They shared a nose, and their ears were in the same exact place, and that voice. Yes, they shared one voice. If one looked more the other’s age, they could be mistaken for twins, but this is where the similarities ended.

Where Char was awkward, Visyryn was charming and sociable. Where Char was neurotic, Visyryn was calm and patient. While they both had a sense of assertion about them, Char was far more commanding and controlling. Visyryn on the other hand was respectfully stern and direct, as a general should be. But they were close. Visyryn had always been the favourite son, but they were close as children, despite the almost ten year age disparity. The younger of the two had always looked up to his brother, from what she had heard, which seemed strange, given that they couldn’t be any more dissimilar. Now, it seemed almost as if their roles had switched. It was now Char’s turn to look up to a brother. It seemed almost ironic, and sad, but Katrice knew that Visyryn was far more sensible.

He was a great general, a hero of the Noorking Wars. He was at Brandenberg, Northgate, and the Winding Hills, but his finest hour during the Battle of Fjord, where he fought alongside Alexandrios, Delanar Galilia, Mitris Samara, and the Fortman brothers. While the day itself truly belonged to Lord Vanar, Visyryn devised much of the strategy, and he was humble enough not to take the credit. He knew that the much younger Lord Vanar was a far more brilliant strategist than he, so he surrendered what credit that he did have to the magi hero of the war. But still, he represented Albion during the conflict, and Albion saw him as its saviour. Now he had reverted to engaging in a pointless war in the northern part of the country, having nothing better to do with his life. Katrice thought that he would make just as good a politician as he did military commander, but he had said countless times that politics bored him. His mother had urged him to retire many a time before. But he did have the makings of a leader. He was as charismatic as a lion, strong as a dragon, and sly as a snake. Katrice got the sense that he was a slippery one, possibly even manipulative. He was definitely a dangerous person, that is, to those who opposed him.

But politics were not for him.

The brothers broke away from one another, and Char once more gave his brother a quizzical look. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were in town?”

“Why, I was waiting to surprise you when we came for the holiday!” It almost sounded like a slippery, cynical excuse to Katrice, but Char did not seem to care.

“Either way, Vys, it is good to see you.”

“You as well, brother.”

The queen interjected. “This is no time for a reunion, boys. We have important matters to discuss.”

“I agree,” Wyl said with a bow of the head, stepping forward. “If we are to place an Albishman on the throne, we have to work swiftly.” He turned to Char. “Father, you mentioned Uncle Visyryn?”

“Aye,” the prince replied, turning to his younger brother, “he’d be a fine choice.”

Visyryn shook his head. “No, no, Char. Politics are not my forte.”

Katrice courtly addressed her husband’s uncle. “My lord, I think that you would make a fine emperor. You have the skill and influence, and you are a renowned general throughout Caenterin.”

He smiled. “That is very kind of you to say, my dear, but politics bore me. I am not that kind of negotiator.”

“What about Father?” proposed Harold. “I think that he would be a good choice.”

Char hit him in the back of the head again. “Don’t flatter me, boy. I’d make a dreadful emperor.”

“For once, I agree with my son,” the queen said, addressing no one in particular. “He would make a terrible emperor of the Alliance. He’d ruin us all within a year, and we’d be warring within two.”

Char surprisingly shook his head, agreeing entirely with his mother. “Besides, I am too old. My place is here in Albion.”

Queen Lisbet sat herself back down in her throne. “No, we need someone far younger and more charismatic - someone that people can look up to.”

“Well,” Wyl began to ask, “who do you propose?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know exactly how to say this, but I was thinking that maybe you would.”

“Me?” Wyl said, taken aback.

“Him?” Char said, equally, if not more, surprised.

“Correct. Visyryn and I have already discussed the prospect.” Wyl’s uncle too nodded.

Katrice was also surprised. Wyl, an emperor? Never in a hundred years would Katrice ever have imagined that. My husband? A leader of nations? Warden of Caenterin? How could this ever be possible?

Char turned to his brother. “And you agreed to this?”

“I proposed it.”

“You what?”

“It was the most pragmatic decision we had. He’s the only Windstorm that is available to take up the position.”

“Yes, but, he’s far too young. And he is my heir.”

“Then why not name Harold your successor, provided that Wylfred claims the title. Mold him into a ruler worthy of ruling these lands!”

Char shook his head. “I’ve had little time for doing that sort of thing. For example, I had been meaning to spend more time with my grandson, but mother has recently bestowed upon me the title of regent. I’ve been quite busy. I have little time for mentorship.”

“Then send him with me, Char. I am in need of officers on the front.”

Char seemed to like the idea. “Yes. Why didn’t I think of that? It is high time that Harold do his service.”

Wyl’s brother looked startled. “But Father, I-“

“You’ll be going with Visyryn, and I shall hear no argument. If you are to be king, you are to first become a man.”

Wyl finally stepped in, waving his hands. “No one said anything about us actually succeeding in obtaining the imperial title, yet you already treat the situation as if it’ll happen. I’m not even the emperor, and yet you already declare Harold as heir? Nobody even asked for my opinion. As a matter of fact, I am not so sure if I even want to go!”

Char waved a finger at Wyl. “It’s already been decided! We need a strong man heading the Alliance, an Albishman! Who better than the Duke of Worcestshire?”

The queen shushed her son. “Char, let Wylfred speak for himself.” She turned to Wyl. “Say your mind.”

“I honestly do not know where to start. You’ve just declared me as Albion’s Imperial candidate. I do not even know exactly what it all entails. But me? I’ve barely elevated myself into the upper political echelons, and I haven’t the faintest clue of how to actually run a nation, let alone an entire continent!”

You’d do wonderful, love. You just don’t know it yet. “Dear Wyl,” Katrice said aloud, “that does not mean that you cannot gain experience.”

“You best listen to your pretty wife, Wylfred,” the queen said, nodding in Katrice’s direction. “Paletine is a political city. Some interaction with the royalty of the world would do you some good.”

“Who else is running?”

Visyryn pulled a piece of parchment from under his cloak and read from it. “Adolph Weissmark of Teutonia, Wilhuff Marxis of North Gaulia, Katarina Alexopoulos of Grecador, Stewart Fortman of Boraelgrasp, Martina Lexus of Belnus, Eduard Strom of Nethermarsh, and Raxus Bolvar of Espis.”

That’s quite the list, thought Katrice. What legends.

“Uncle Stewart?” Wyl said, sounding surprised. “He was nominated?”

The queen nodded. “A veteran ruler, very popular in the North. That his name is on there comes as no surprised.”

“Our houses were joined once. Would this not make the situation…awkward?”

“From what I know of the king of Boraelgrasp, he is likely to turn down the nomination. He is probably the best suited for the title, but he is far too humble.”

“Either way, Grandmother, the competition is still fierce. I do not know how I feel about the presence of the king of Espis.”

“I think that that’s an appropriate reaction,” her majesty said with a smirk. “He has that way about him. All Espish royals do. But he too is an effective leader in his own realm. It would have been foolish not to consider him for the position.”

“Hmm,” Harold mumbled highly as he shook his head. “I am surprised that Ao̊gar Mauresonn wasn’t considered.”

Char made a face. “Pff. Ao̊gar is nothing but a young greenhorn.”

Wyl looked at his father. “Ao̊gar is around my own age. Is I am what you would call ‘a young greenhorn’.”

“Not necessarily,” Char replied, “but I do not find you much better of a choice.” He sighed heavily. “But still, it is an honour. Better you than a glorified Noorking.”

The queen did not bother to follow up on her son’s comment. “You’re a learned man, Wyl, and you’ve a good heart. As Grand Admiral Gallion once said “Albion expects all to do their duty!”

Katrice put her arm around Wyl. “It’s a surprise that we’ve even been considered, let alone your suggestion that I go to Paletine. Who was it that was initially requested?”

“There was no particular request,” Visyryn answered. “Your grandmother was given leave to appoint her own representative.”

Wyl blew with pursed lips. “I don’t know. I am honoured that you’ve chosen me, but I do not think that I am cut out for this sort of thing. I think I may be too young.”

Visyryn shook his head. “Podrick Lemeroy gained the title fifty-eight years ago, when he was only twenty. Seven hundred years ago, Friedrich Heimlich was crowned at twelve. If anything, you’re too old.”

Wyl stood there for a while, looking as if he were lost in a thought of bitter struggle. Everyone looked at him with wide eyes, and Katrice stroked his head, running her fingers through his blonde hair. He’s a sensible man. He knows what he wants.

“I don’t know,” he finally said aloud. “I do not know if I am ready for this sort of thing.”

Katrice figured that she could offer some words of encouragement. “You will be a fine ruler. It’s just like being a Father, and you are a fine Father.”

Nervousness still painted itself on Wyl’s face, but some of it had been erased. He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ll need some time to think it over.”

“Very well,” replied the queen courtly, but without a hint of emotion. “But do not take too long. We must go about this carefully. Whether it looks like it or not, this is still a delicate matter.”

Visyryn cleared his throat. “Mother, is there not another delicate matter that we must discuss?”

The queen’s eyes widened. “I almost forgot! Thank you for reminding me Visyryn.” She stood back up and approached one of the large windows that overlooked Lordium. “A rider came just after dawn, bearing news from the Westford.”

The Westford? The home of the Rangers. “Your majesty,” Katrice said, squinting her entire face, “the Westford as in the home of the Order of the Green? In the Northwest Forest?”

“The one and only.”

Char looked equally as surprised. “What news could possibly come from that backwash outpost?”

“There’s been an attack…it has been burned.”

Burned? The Westford? Who would ever care enough even to bother with a place as obscure, save to liberate maybe a few petty convicts? The idea itself was almost humourous. Sure, the order was important in principle, but was hardly a threat to any one particular group. While it was jointly funded by the governments of both Albion and Gaulia with both coin and prisoners, it stood apart from any one nation. There was nothing boisterous about it.

The look of confusion was present too on Harold’s face. “Who in the Architect’s name would want to burn the Westford?”

“Tarrans,” Char spat bitterly.

Katrice cleared her throat. “Excuse me, if I may, your majesty, but how could Tarrans have come this far south?”

The queen shook her head. “No, not Tarrans.” She turned her head away from Katrice and her son. “You are correct on that.”

“Indeed,” added Visyryn. “Tarrans have no quarrel with the order, and are far too sensible to even bother attacking from the south. Besides, they lack the ships.”

Harold nodded in an understanding way. “Then if not Tarrans, then who?”

“We do not know. The rider said that it was…something else.”

Char look confused. “What? I’m sorry? ‘Didn’t know?’”

The queen nodded “He said that he was on an excursion that night, and that he could not get a proper look at the details, but he claimed that it was like nothing that he had ever seen in his life.”

“Were there any survivors?” Wyl asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

“Not that we know of as of yet, but the rider said that there were others out on patrol that night. It is highly unlikely that the rangers have been wiped out, but we are still not sure as to what the current state of the Westford or its contingent is.”

“And I assume that you want me to do something about it then, seeing as you’ve already made me ‘emperor’.”

“No, it was merely something that I wished to bring to everyone’s attention. Because of that, we should remain on our guard, especially around our southwestern borders near the forest. If there’s something threatening these lands, we need to have our fringe villages defended.”

“I shall see to it that that happens, Mother,” Visyryn declared reverently. “I’ll try to put together several cavalry units as soon as we are finished here.”

The queen looked onto her younger son with approval. “Good then. And see to it that they are sent to the region at their earliest convenience. It is vital that we get to the bottom of this. Armies don’t just fade away into nothingness!”

“Unless they are not an army at all,” suggested Wyl. “The country is not what it used to be, neither is the world as a whole.”

“You’re right on that one,” said Char with a slow chuckle, “although, it was never exactly sunshine and bunnies.”

Katrice cleared her throat. “If I may add, it is very likely that the attack was carried out by a splinter junta left over from syytheans, or another group of recreant magi.”

“Recreants are a good bet,” Char agreed agreed. “No mere man or dwarf could bring down the Order of the Green overnight!”

The queen’s head shook slowly. “Which makes them all the more dangerous.”

“Then I too agree that something must be done,” Wyl professed with loyal conviction. “If magic was involved, we should address our concerns to the leaders of all Magi enclaves and monasteries in the country.”

The queen nodded in agreement. “A fine idea. I will also send a letter to the Gaulish prime minister requesting that our countries launch a joint investigation, seeing as the Northwest Forest lies upon a mutual border, and that we are heavily involved with the order itself.” She stopped pacing, approaching the lined up family and stopping before them, as a marshall does when addressing his troops. “Both of these matters are important, and both of them should be carried out to the best of our abilities.” She paused, and looked down the line of people that stood before her. “Char, I’ll put you in charge of spreading word of the emperor’s death, but do not mention the other matter. It is best that we keep that under wraps for now. I will also request that the prime minister call an emergency session of parliament, which you will be attending.” She turned to Visyryrn. “As for you, you are to organize the units that will be sent to our southern border. I trust you to use your judgement. We need as many good men as possible. Harold will go with you. It shall be the first stage of his new apprenticeship.” She smiled as she said this. Harold did not.

Finally, she turned to Wyl. “You need to decide what you’re going to do. This land needs an emperor, and the world could look to Albion to lead the way once more. This is all up to you.”

Katrice could see the confusion in her husband’s eyes. He was conflicted, she knew. He was a smart man, capable of making the right decision. But what was the right decision? Going could mean that Greg could experience a life outside of Albion, for the time being at least, but what was best: the sanity of Wyl, the future king, or Greg, their son? What if Wyl became emperor? He could be very unhappy, and an unhappy ruler was not the sort of leader that a nation needed, let alone the Alliance. Char was a good example of such.

Wyl inhaled and exhaled. “Just give me some time, Grandmother. This is all a lot to take in.”

“I give you and the duchess leave to depart. The rest of you, we still have much to discuss.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Wyl said in respect. “Thank you very much.”

Wyl offered Katrice his arm and she took it. The two of them bowed and made their way to the door.

Both duke and duchess sat by the fire in cushioned armchairs, sipping glass goblets of Ithilian Noir. The rest of the day had been quiet and uneventful. Wyl had said very little following the audience, spending most of the day in his chamber. Katrice had checked up on him several times, and they had talked some, but other than that he had kept to himself.

He did not show his face at that evening’s supper, which surprised Katrice. Wyl was not one to usually miss a meal. To him, this must have been a serious matter.

He had showed his face once more when the clock struck nine, when he went to go have a private meeting with his father, who, earlier that day, had dispatched several heralds to relay the word of the emperor’s death throughout Lordium and the surrounding hamlets. The news would then spread throughout the country like wildfire. Surprisingly, however, the people reacted rather calmly. The emperor was well loved, yes, but Albion had always stood more independently than the other nations of Caenterin. Much of it had to do with the kingdom’s religious separatism, as was the same with the nations of Albus, Copenisle, and Boraelgrasp.

Greg was now in bed, tucked in by his nurse, Sally. Katrice and Wyl had requested that a glass of wine be brought up. Wyl needed it. He had had a long and difficult day. Wyl had acknowledged that time in Paletine would be good for Greg to get away. Katrice secretly thought the same, but wanted her husband to make up his own mind. He already seemed to be troubled lately, even waking up in the dead of night in a deep sweat. She had not confronted him on this, but she knew that he had probably begun to experience night terrors. Yes, there was something else that was bothering him too. She knew that the world was beginning to pull at the threads that held it together, but Wyl’s demeanor had changed drastically, and she did not like it. He had been so young and lively just a year ago, but since then, he seemed to have aged five years. It had troubled her as well. Perhaps some time away would actually do him some good, even if he did not secure a bid for emperor. But Wyl was his own man. This was a turning point in his life and probably was what made him so anxious.

“No one is telling you to say yes.”