Young Writers Society

Maker guard our gracious lords,

For they are our gracious wards,

Maker guard them all,

May they find Victory,

Go down in History,

They’re glory we will see

Maker guard our lords

-Maker Guard our Lords (Song of Albion)

Wylfred

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Wylfred lingered in the parlour. He was nervous about…something, some premonition that he felt in his gut. The world had felt different as of late, as if something big was about to happen. Whether it involved him, he did not know, but the world was not the same as it was when he was a child. It was so much more innocent back then, or, at least, it seemed that way. But now it was strange, darker. It is not that the world had never been a place devoid of pain and suffering, but chaos was far less subtle ever since the Saracen rebels had launched the attacks. They had spread terror and havoc as far west as the Occidean Republic, crippling infrastructure and militaries. The true Saracen regimes of the Bara and Særkland had mostly fallen to Osiris, the organization that had since established new nations, hell-bent on bringing the western world to its knees. The old nations had since went into exile, fleeing to Caenterin to live amongst the courts of Espis, Porgez, and the city states of Ithil. But the Sarecs were on the move again, leaving the Bara and headed west. Thousands of ordinary citizens were left to suffer from the wrath of Osiris, some of which began forming organized bands of refugees. It seemed that a crisis was imminent and would ultimately damage the Alliance’s economy, which was why refugees, in large numbers, were not welcome in Caenterin. To combat this, the refugees began arming themselves, to aggressively force their way into Caenterin.

As of now, the refugee armies controlled the eastern side of Tyr Constantine, which they had usurped from the Tarkins, already on Grecador’s doorstep. Many predicted that they would begin flooding into Caenterin soon. Some even believed that they had another, more sinister reason for invading, that it was not to destroy, but to find a new home. That they were fleeing from something that lay deep within the sands of the Bara, something far worse than Osiris.

Særkland was a mess, even before Osiris took over. Wylfred and the armies of both the Alliance and Occidea had served alongside the proper Sarecs during the war against Osiris’ predescessor in the Bara. Yes, the governments of the West had went too far, declaring war on Khan as well, a nation not even affiliated with the rebels, due to false intelligence, but peace had been restored for the time being after two years of fighting. After another four, the chaos began. Following the death of its old Sheik, Osiris reemerged, launching an apocalyptic charge throughout the nations of Særkland and the Bara, as well as the rest of the Middlelands during the Great Spring. Now, very few legitimate sultanates controlled by the far more honourable Sarecs existed. A new Sultan now led the nations of Osiris, pushing further and further into the West. If Tyr Constantine fell, all hell would break loose.

But something else bothered Wylfred, which had been on his mind for quite sometime. What would it mean for the country if he were to die? More importantly, what would become of his family? Neither Father nor the queen were getting any younger. If conflict were to arise, be it war or a Game of Chess, he may not last for long. He was no fighter. The kings and princes of Albion had historically served in the military at one point in their lives, but the practice had faded into one of mere tradition, Wylfred himself having only served as an “advisor,” far away from the front.

Yes, something was coming.

But something that wasn’t coming was the presence of his brother. Wylfred had not seen Harold in days, save for the occasional pass in the hall. He had not even showed his face at mealtime. That was partially the reason that the prince lingered in the parlour. The presence of his good-humoured brother could potentially alleviate some of the anxiety, the quiet desperation that had invaded his mind. After about a minute or two, Wylfred muttered a curse and entered the room, closing the doors behind him.

Everyone else was already seated, and they all looked at him as he made his way to his chair. Little Greg especially looked rather curious. His son was an uncannily perceptive lad, and he could not help but feel that the boy could sense his very essence. His intelligence was an obvious factor, yes, but there was a sense of wisdom about his son as well. He had once considered having him evaluated by the local mage representative from the order, but he did not want to risk losing his son if he did in fact display signs of mancy. It was illegal to practice magic of any kind outside of the Magi Order, those who did so being branded as “Recreants.” It was the common law of Caenterin for anyone with even the slightest mancial susceptibility to be sent to the Magi Tower in Paletine to undergo training, to keep them away from unleashing his or her powers for darker purposes. Wylfred did not think, however, that his son was sensitive to mancy, but, just in case, he had decided that it would be best to avoid contact with the order at all costs, or else he could risk losing his son, and a direct heir of the throne of Albion. This prospect would also devastate Father, from a pragmatic perspective mostly. He was a proud man, but also extremely arrogant. He did care about his family, yes, but it was more so a matter of desiring to preserve his own legacy as opposed to deep affection. He was more pleasant in his younger years, but the older he got, the more distant, and irritating, he became. The respect he had for the man that was left over from when Wylfred was a child did remain, but the older prince had a tendency to micromanage everybody, especially the family. Father sat there at the head of the table, looking like a true patriarch. At sixty, Prince Char looked ten years younger than his age. But his youthful nature and almost off-putting pride did elicit a sense of naïve pompousness. Wylfred had taken his seat and took a good look at his father. I wonder what today’s dispute will be? The heir apparent nodded and cleared his throat before speaking.

“Good morning, family,” he greeted formally. “I trust that everyone has slept well?” Wylfred and the others shook their heads in a unanimous answer. “Very good.” The crown prince took a bite out of one of the sticky buns already on his plate.

“How was your night, Father?” Wylfred asked, returning the question as courteously as possible.

His father gave him a glare. “My night was dreadful. I barely slept a wink.”

“I am truly sorry, Father.”

“Don’t be!” he snapped. “It’s not your fault I don’t bloody sleep anymore. It’s those damn ministers, always keeping me up day and night and expecting me to take care of countless stacks of inane documents.”

“Come now. Is that not the requisite of your office?”

“No.” Father pounded his fist on the table. “I should be ruling these lands, not settling petty disputes on paper. Where’s the bloody prime minister?”

Wylfred chuckled. “I dunno. Parliament?”

His father rolled his eyes. “I swear, ever since Mother made me her regent, I’ve done nothing but age. Now I understand why she gave up her official regency. It’s taxing.”

“And how is Grandmother doing?” Wylfred asked in a sarcastic, but ironically sincere tone.

“I don’t bloody know. I haven’t seen her in two fortnights. Probably venerable as ever.”

He does have a point there, Wylfred thought to himself. Eighty is quite the age.

Father continued. “There is a fine line between regency and kingship when the positions are divided. The king eats, and the regent shits! In this case it’s the queen who dines, and she is at a feast. And the more food one eats, the larger and more copious the-“

“Father, please,” Wylfred interrupted. “There are children here.”

The heir did not respond to the words, but answered by not continuing his thought. “If you are ever in my situation, boy, you will understand.”

Father’s point seemed flawed to Wylfred. Does the merit of being king not also come with the responsibilities of being regent, provided that they are not surrendered to another man? He didn’t bother turning this thought into a rebuttal. It would only make things worse. It was best to just let Father talk. “I swear,” Wylfred said, trying to lighten the situation. “That woman will outlive us all.”

Father didn’t smile, but instead only sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I will ever actually ascend to the throne.”

“Oh, come off of it, Father. Old age runs rampant in this family. If mother lives to one-hundred, surely you will too, and I, and Gregor.”

“My dear son,” Father started, putting his fingers together, “there is a substantial difference between living and being alive. If Mother lives as long as you predict, I will not see the crown until my eightieth winter!” He laughed a hardy laugh, and Wylfred humoured him by following in suit. When the laughter had died, Father asked, “Would you consider an eighty year old an able king?”

“If it were you, Father, of course I would.”

He laughed once more. “Don’t you lie to me, Wyl. By that time, I’d be more senile than your grandmother!”

“I would hardly consider the queen senile, my lord,” Wylfred’s wife expressed. Part of him was glad that Katrice had given her own input in regards to, what he assumed, would be a long conversation. “If she were truly senile, she would have abdicated the throne right now.”

Wylfred nodded in agreement, turning back to his lord father, who said,“If she were truly senile, which I am convinced my dear mother is, she would be truly oblivious of the fact that she is not fit to rule!” He sighed before taking a sip of his tea. “ I just wish that we could take her away somewhere. I love her, mind you, but I feel that she would be better off in a palace somewhere with all of the other incurable tyrants and kings of the world.”

“Grandmother is neither a tyrant nor a king,” Wylfred said in a good-humoured, but equally serious tone of voice.

“I was only making a jest, son.” Wylfred knew when his father was joking, given the tone in which he said certain things, but was nothing funny about him or his jokes. He loved, even admired, his father, but times were different now. Ever since Grandmother had given Father the regency, retreating back into her palace in the city, anxiety had swept over him like a storm above a mountain.

He had that look of annoyance in his eyes, which then morphed into a frown. “Where’s Harold?” he asked. “I see three vacant seats this morning.”

“Where’s Uncle?” Greg asked from across the table. “Is he still here?”

Wylfred looked at his son. “Yes, he still is,” he replied with a smile. “But he’s been rather busy as of late.”

“With what?

“I’ll tell you what,” Father obtruded, pointing his finger at no one in particular. “He’s been wasting away his time and responsibility.”

“Were you not young once, Father?”

“I was, yes. But those were different times. Dark days lay ahead, Wyl, and it should be up to Albion to lead the way. The two of you, as well as your son, are the nation’s future. It needs strong rulers to lead after both your grandmother and I leave this world.”

“Don’t we need strong people to keep us safe, Daddy?” asked Greg, looking straight into Wylfred’s eyes.

Before Wylfred could have a chance to respond to his son’s remark, Father made known his own approval. “See? Even Gregor, my only grandson, understands. You have much to learn, my son. Much to learn.”

Yes, and so do you. Wylfred crossed his lips. “Children do have a way about them.”

Father chuckled in subtle agreement. “Especially your son, Wyl. We couldn’t have a better heir.”

Wylfred was proud of Greg. Only five, yet so smart. He took a good look at the lad, with his light brown hair and big blue eyes. So small; so innocent; but yet so smart. I only fear what the world will look like when he is my age.

“Your boy is right though, my son,” a light of approval glimmering in both Father’s voice and eye. “Strong men are needed in this day and age – ones capable of proper leadership. You have a chance, Wyl, but your brother...well, he does not take life seriously. It is not a game, which is something you well better teach your own son. I said the same thing to you and Harold when you were children, but only one of you, suffice it to say, took it to heart.” A bothersome look was present in Father’s eyes. He was clearly disturbed by the absence of Harold. “Where the hell is that man?”

“I don’t know,” Wylfred said with a shrug. “I’m not his keeper.”

“Aye, Harold’s his own man now. It’s probably a girl again. He prefers the common maiden’s touch as opposed to that of a proper highborn lady. I truly hope that he is able to get it out of his system before he marries.”

“Harold has at least another five or six years.”

Father shook his head back and forth and chuckled. “Wylfred, just because you did not wed until you were five-and twenty does not mean that your brother should do the same.”

“I was not born until you were my age. If you ask me, I married rather young.”

“Your mother was always a difficult one. It took some effort to get her to spread her legs.”

Can he go one day without bringing up Mother?

“It was especially so in the early days of our marriage. I tried my hardest to be a gentleman with her.”

“Why must you bring Mother into this?” said Wylfred with a hint of bitter contempt. “Don’t forget that you had your own share of infidelity. Remember Francesca?”

“Your wet-nurse?”

“Yes, Father, my bloody wet-nurse.”

Wylfred absolutely hated when Father brought up anything having to do with his mother, the former princess Eris Windstorm. It was she who truly raised him and Harold, not his father, or his wet-nurse. Where Father was proud and regal, Mother was humble and put on the mask of normality. Perhaps that is why she was so well respected by the populace. Later in their marriage, following respective affairs that they had entangled themselves in, Father considered appealing to the archbishop for an annulment, but Mother died before it could be arranged.

He still remembered the day, over fourteen years ago. It was in a fire in Lordium, at the home of her lover, the Sarec ambassador of the Baran Gulflands. It was unconfirmed how the fire had originated, but people had their theories. Wylfred liked to think that it was only an accident. Nobody would ever want Mother dead. They couldn’t.

He and Harold were schooling in Westvale when it had happened. Father himself had come in person to deliver the news. Interesting enough, there was a deep sadness in his eyes, a sadness that Wylfred had not seen since. The experience had brought the family closer together at the time. But that was many years ago. Father had become cold and distant, especially since the losing of the wife that he claimed “whored around” and took nothing seriously. It was a mask.

“I think,” Greg’s father went on, “you are just jealous that mother was the better parent.”

“Do you mean the woman that took you to the streets of Lordium to frolic amongst all the poor folk? Eris never raised you properly, Wylfred. You must know that.” He took a deep breath. “Your wet nurse and I deserve the praise.”

“Don’t you mean Francesca, you unfaithful bastard?”

Father slammed his fist on the table again, a look on his face that combined fury and anxiety. “How dare you speak to me in that manner! I am your future king!”

Wylfred sneered, but remained calm. “I do not see a crown on your head yet, my liege.”

Wylfred looked over to Greg, who himself seemed both confused and saddened by the bickering. This is not fair to him, he thought. This is not how family should behave. Fortunately, Father had calmed himself down, but his words still reflected a constant negative emotion. “Perhaps we should speak more of this to your grandmother when she arrives, eh? The matter of proper succession? She favours you, you know. Why don’t I just abdicate and move into that so-called home for incurable tyrants and kings?” Father reached across the table and grabbed a vine of grapes and, in one motion, sunk his mouth into it, spilling juice all across his tunic. Before he even had a chance to finish chewing, he said, “Why can’t you be more like your uncle? He’s a respectful man, the paragon of a true Windstorm. You’d learn some true respect if served under him as even a mere foot soldier on the Tarran front.”

“I have military experience. Do not forget that I-“

Father cut him off. “You did nothing. You sat back and observed the conflict in the Bara. You did not engage a single Maker-damned Sarec. You know that there was once a time when royals actually fought in wars, as your uncle Visyryn still does today?”

“Your brother likes the good fight. It is his passion, as horses and gardening are yours and sports are mine.”

“Yes, but I fought in wars. The Koren War. I was younger than you were.”

“Yes, and you were a military advisor, just as I was. You never saw combat.”

“And the Ora’keth invasion. Do not forget. I was on the frontlines with your uncle, keeping the hordes from crossing over the Gateway. Keth are nasty beasts. Good riddance, I say.”

“I do not doubt that,” Wylfred said, raising his finger. “But it was the king of Eastgaard that took up his father’s sword and killed the swarm’s warchief.”

“But at least I fought.”

“So you did, Father. So you did.”

And so the two of them continued to go back and forth, exchanging remarks and the like, and Wylfred grew tired of his father’s stubborn behaviour. Yet he was unable to stop. Part of him, deep down, enjoyed countering Father’s fallacious arguments. But he was no less relieved when the double doors to the dining room slammed open. Standing there, panting like a dog, was Prince Harold, wearing nothing but a white shirt, loose trousers, and a brown vest. He plopped down in the empty seat next to Katrice. “Did I miss anything?” He rested his hands on his knees.

“No,” Father responded, “nothing of importance.”

“I apologize, Father. I was-“

“In bed with the miller’s wife? Or just a whore this time?”

“Actually, no,” Harold replied. “A legitimate lady.”

Wylfred chuckled. “You mean you dressed your right hand in a dress?” The two of them laughed. Father did not.

“Is it impossible for you to pursue any other outlets, Harold?” Father asked rolling his eyes.

Harold gave a look of forced sarcasm and pretend offense. “I have plenty of outlets!”

“Besides vaginas.”

Katrice sat up abruptly. “Please, My Lord,” she said in a near-whisper, “not in front of the children!”

Father smiled. “As you wish, dear lady. But only for Greg’s sake, not little Bastard’s over there. He doesn’t care. Isn’t that right, Bastard?” Wylfred’s younger first cousin looked towards the floor and gave a quick nod. Poor lad. He’s as a Windstorm as any of us. The room quieted down, and, for once, everyone seemed to focus on the meal in front of them. After a while, Father said: “Nothing good has ever come out of winter.”

Greg seemed to perk up. “What about Yuletide, Grandfather!”

He laughed. “The Yuletide, my boy, is the worst part. It means bloody weeks with my mother and her court when they come here. As if summers at Tudor Palace weren’t bad enough. Two more days till’ solstice. Two more days till’ Mother.”

The doors slammed open for the second time in nearly two minutes. Wylfred expected it to be Wordsworth, but was instead surprised to see his father’s messenger, Regan. “Your Grace,” he declared, approaching Father. “A letter.” He handed him a piece of parchment, and he snatched it out of the man’s hand. Regan moved to the corner, tracking more snow across the room. He looked as if he had been riding for a while now. He clasped his hands behind his back while Father opened the letter.

After about a minute, Harold asked, “What is it, Father?”

“It seems that I spoke too soon,” the crowned prince said, stroking his goatee. “Your grandmother has requested our presence at Tudor Palace.”

“When?” retorted Uncle Harold.

“Today. And the letter requests the presence of us all, including Katrice, Gregor, and even little Bastard. Sometimes I forget the little shit’s her own grandson.” Uncle Harold frowned. Wylfred knew that his uncle was very protective of Bas in spite of Father’s becommonfolkt of the boy. “We will leave as soon as possible. I suggest that you all make yourselves look presentable.” He looked at Harold when he said this, who, in turn, smiled wickedly. Father cringed at the smell of his son’s sweat. “And I would suggest a bath as well.”

Once breakfast had ended, the heir apparent had excused himself. The maids of Greg and Bas then came to fetch the lads and take them back to their own part of the palace, and, a few minutes later, Wylfred, his wife, and his brother did the same. Harold split off in the direction of his tower, and Wylfred and Princess Katrice went to their own apartments to ready themselves for the royal visit.

Once Wylfred had finished dressing himself in a handsome red tunic that depicted the Albanese Griffon, he approached the mirror and stared into it, not bothering to even study his own features. He felt his wife creep up behind him and put a soft hand on his shoulder. He reached over and grabbed her hand, pulling it down over his chest.

“I’m sorry that you had to see that, Triss,” Wylfred said to his wife in a soft voice. “None of it was called for. It’s all just so frustrating.”

“It’s alright, love,” she replied. “Anxiety can get the better of us.”

He spun around to face his princess, who was standing there naked, wearing only her stockings. She was not what many would call extraordinarily beautiful, but her face was pretty, a wise serenity and calmness to it as well. It had some creases and wrinkles to it, but nothing that detracted from what pretty features she did have. Her frame was slender and curved, despite being taller than most women, and her breasts were firm. She was older than he, almost four years, nearing her mid-thirties, but there was much appeal to the wisdom and assertiveness that she emitted. Yes, she knew when to switch it off. She appeared to be timid at times when around Father, except, of course, when it reached a point of lewdness, but she was one of the strongest women that Wylfred had ever met. In a way, she reminded him of Mother in terms of the aura that she gave off. He only hoped that it would not end the same way. He wanted them both to live long enough to see their son grow. He wanted to live long enough to see his boy become a man.

He pulled his wife in closer and planted a kiss on her lips. “It’s not just Father. I accept his challenge. I argue just as he does.”

“That you do,” Katrice said, pulling away from him. “And you have your fair share of inappropriate remarks.”

“I apologize, Triss. I will try not to engage him in front of Grandmother.”

“Oh, you better not. Or else you’ll not see me like this for a very long time. You don’t want that now, do you?”

He shook his head no. Now that is just cruel.

“I worry for Greg. This dynamic has affected him. I think that it may be good to get him away from here for a while.”

“Well, we are going to the palace today, and we’ll probably stay for a few days until the entire court departs and comes here.”

Katrice shook her head. “No, love. I mean away. He needs to know what it is like to experience life outside of this bustling world. He’s only five, and five is far too young to be experiencing this sort of thing.”

Wylfred laughed. She was starting to not make any sense. “Then where, Katrice? Where do you suggest we take him? Your sister’s? Gaeland? The bloody Gag Malak?”

“No, no. I mean south. Away from here. Away from the cold. Away from your Father. I know your father means well, but our son needs time away. He will be king one day and shall have plenty of time to live the life.”

“Alright. South then, you say? How about the Northwest Forest? The Order of the Green is always looking for new recruits. Let’s sign Greg off and leave him there for ever.”

Katrice grimaced. “I’m serious, Wylfred! And you need it to. This place is grey, and becomes darker day by day. And you know it.”

“Katrice, I have responsibilities.”

“You can find ‘responsibility’ in the South. Other nations need ambassadors. A princely ambassador would be extremely significant. You’d have more power than you do here.”

“Father would never allow it,” Wylfred said shaking his head. “It’s too base of a position. I’ve regal duties.”

“Why not simply take a holiday? An excursion round’ the continent? We could visit Gaulia, Boraelgrasp, the Fjord, Paletine. Perhaps we could even take a stop at the Beeches of Espis.

“No,” Wylfred retorted with conviction. “Not anything with sand.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like sand.”

“Please, Wylfred. A tour would be good for the family. Especially you.”

He sighed finally. “Very well, Katrice,” he said, a smile slowly forming on his face. “I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Wyl. Some time away will ease the stress that we all feel. Let us pray that your father does not react poorly.”

He looked at her again in her naked beauty before pulling her in again and kissing her. “You best get dressed, love. We have an audience with the queen.”