Book 4, Chapter 5: Restless Night
Staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, I couldn’t help but think it was weird that I’d never been hungover. Sure, I was fifteen. But I’d drunk methanol and then a gallon or two of mead to counter it. Woke up a few hours into the night perfectly sober. That seemed impossible.
Yet I could shoot massive energy blasts from my hands. Not exactly a possible phenomenon. These impossibilities kept me coming back to the game hypothesis. Except it no longer made any sense why that’d be the case. It’d been so long, months and months, since I’d woken up on that battlefield. Well, long for a teenager.
Though, an annoying little voice said, I’m probably just thinking about alcohol tolerance to not think about the wayward Barclay duchy I had to march an army to, the earls who were almost universally angry with me, and the probable civil war erupting from that anger, the archbishop who joined the earls in preventing my becoming queen, the Seclazrin church that basically declared war on my person, the frustrating and likely frustrated suitors, and the crazy behavior of the foxes and ravens since I suddenly developed magical powers.
Magical powers!
I should worry about that more than anything. After all, the holes punched straight through people and tables attested to its worrisomeness. But, Etienne agreed to help me contain it. One problem checked off my list. Probably. Possibly. Assuming other mages didn’t find out and he didn’t change his mind. They’d tell him to hurry up, quick now, get to killing the princess already.
Anyways, it just seemed that for every problem I solved, another deadlier one took its place.
I unwrapped myself from Brin, stuffed a pillow into her arms for her to hug. She seemed good with the exchange. Then I slid off the bed, into my slippers, walked over to the fireplace, tossed a couple more logs on. Winter was cold in a castle. Really cold. I suspect that’s why most people don’t live in castles.
A tapping on the window.
I waved my hand in that direction. Nope, not opening it. Had my fill of ravens paying homage. It’s cool, thanks bird. That’s a holy window, you’re blessed and all that. Leave your offerings on the sill.
I headed out of my room, down my hallway, passing the locked and barred rooms to prevent, or at least slow, future assassins, and opened the barred door to my apartments, exited to the main visitor hall, off of which rooms where Morry, a few other guards, and the ladies in waiting slept.
In the reception area, a large, looming figure sat by the fireplace. I paused, a touch worried about assassins, but it was the big man. He was already looking my direction, “Princess? What are you doing up at this hour?”
“Uh, couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either.”
“You’re strange. Why can’t you sleep?”
“I’m strange?”
“Yeah. For copying me in the no sleep department.”
He blinked and shook his head a bit, “Ah. It’s those damned ravens. Or maybe I didn’t drink enough ale tonight.” He stared at the cup in his hands.
“You come out here for ale halfway through the night?”
“Not especially.”
I sat down across from him. Poured myself a cup. Seeing as how I apparently couldn’t get hangovers, it didn’t matter if I indulged after the midnight hour. “Might as well join you.”
“Is something bothering you?”
“Yeah, but also no. No because the suitors and ambassadors are leaving, most of them gone.”
He nodded, “Winter digging in. They have to mind their own abodes.”
“Exactly and we’ll finally get some peace.”
“And what is bothering you then?”
“The endless arguments with those damned earls. I have to make one of them a duke and I can’t stand any of them. Bastards. They don’t like me either.”
“Well-”
“Yes, Hafthon is the strongest, most capable of them or maybe the most capable with the largest army. And Crygmore is useless. I think that meeting was the first he’d ever spoken at! And Carlisele probably prays for my untimely demise before sleeping, the man can’t stand me. The feeling is quite mutual! Anyways, I don’t know, but everyone keeps telling me Hafthon is going to take it, the duchy, once we leave for the spring campaign.”
Morry swallowed his ale, set the mug down, “But you don’t want to give it to him.”
“Exactly. It seems he’s working behind the scenes to, I don’t know, frustrate my power. My attempts at cementing my position. He’s the one who prevented me from being crowned queen. And Serce – the Laemacian ambassador and prince, yeah, he’s a prince, too – just as well told me, ok, hinted heavily, that Hafthon inquired to him, to Laemacia, about taking over the kingdom. So, yeah, I don’t really want to give that man even more power.”
“Ah. The institution of the knighthood you created is giving him something to rally the other nobles behind, especially the earls.”
“Yeah, very frustrating. I’m not about to go back on my word to the men.”
He poured himself another mug. “Well, the men are pleased with being nobles. Knights. They think Hafthon is an ass for trying to take that away.”
“Huh. How do the soldiers know he’s trying to end the knighthood?”
Morry tilted his head slightly, grim features fighting against their nature to become mirthful, “Your officers like the institution.”
“Ah! So, you spread the word.”
He nodded. I continued, “What about his soldiers? Do they, I mean, would they like to be knighted?”
“I think that if he’s not treating their status very carefully, he’s not half the man everyone thinks he is.”
“You mean like, now he has to pay them more?”
“Princess, we’ve already had men, soldiers from his army, approach us asking to join ours.”
“Oh.”
“That’s a problem.”
“A problem I like having. But Hafthon is going to accuse me of stealing his troops.”
“And dividing the kingdom.”
“Well, he should just get on board then! That’s his fault. God, Morry, all these whiny nobles!” I took a long drink. It was good ale, thick and flavorful, warmed me up going down.
“You could offer the dukedom for his accepting the knighthood.”
“He doesn’t bargain. I tried with the coronation. I could, I guess, I really should try again. Ugh.”
Morry leaned forward, his grim face even more serious. “As you say, there’s always option two. We could take the earldoms.”
“How many soldiers you think would stop supporting Hafthon for a knighthood? I wonder if we could take the earldoms peacefully.”
He shook his head. “Not peacefully-”
“There you are Cayce! You wouldn’t believe what was outside the window! A raven! Tapping on it like a gentleman caller.”
We both jerked up straight, the concentration brought about by scheming broken by Brin, joining us in her bedroom attire, a heavy brown slip reaching down to her ankles. “What’s that? A raven. No kidding. How unusual. Did it bow to you?”
“Bow? Why would it bow? It flew away. What are you guys doing out here?” She put her hand on her hip, head tilted, “Drinking? At this hour?”
“Uh, we couldn’t sleep. Brin, how do you know what a gentleman caller is?”
She rolled her eyes, sat down and poured herself a cup of ale, meeting my eyes while bringing it to her lips, pausing, “Cayce, I’m fifteen,” then drinking.
There was all kind of wrong in the universe I found myself in. But here I was.
“Uh, we were just talking about the duchy and who to give it to.” Morry shot me a glance that read ‘do you really want to tell Brin that?’ Her parents, after all, were in the running.
“Yeah. It’s vile that you have to give it to Hafthon. But it’s that or keep it. Or marry the Barclay duke and move him up here. Or marry the Laemacian emperor and move him down here. So many options!”
“Thanks Brin.”
“You could,” Morry said, with a rare grin, “give it to Crygmore.”
We all laughed. I held my cup up, “To Crygmore! Never before has there ever been a monk as silent as that man.” We three clinked mugs together and drank.
“If silence is holy, Crygmore is an angel,” said Brin.
“Probably his wife runs the earldom. He’s merely along for the ride, the public face of her decisions. Silence often seems like wisdom, but sometimes it’s the only option to revealing weakness.”
“Huh,” I said, “I’ve never met his wife.”
“Of course, Cayce. The earls aren’t going to bring their families here. You’d just take hostages.”
“Damn. Yeah, I’m that kind of awful person, I guess.”
Morry picked up the jug to refill his cup. “Perhaps you should demand them. Hostages. That or half their army.”
“I should. I really should. Also,” holding my cup, I pointed with my forefinger, “the archbishop, Ghevont, is in Hafthon’s pocket. It’s making me rethink, uh, ordaining their . . . order, sorry, don’t know the right words here, as the kingdom’s church.”
“Appointing, Cayce. Just use appointing. You’re not a priest, you can’t ordain anything.”
“You know, being a princess sucks. It’s like, where is all the power? I’m the-”
“-ruling monarch, yes.” Brin made the kind of face you make for babies, voice included, “Yes, you are! Yes, you are. Who’s a good ruling monarch? You are, you are!”
“Brin!” I nearly doubled over laughing, but somehow got out, “Where’d that come from?”
“Sucks?” Morry asked. “What is a princess sucking?”
Sitting up straight, “Uh, it’s a word that means, uhm, like bad. Or let down. Like, ‘being a princess is hard’ and all that.”
“Why the word ‘sucks’ though?”
“No reason. Lemons! It’s like you’re sucking lemons. They’re very sour. That’s where the word comes from.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “being a princess has a sharp and harsh taste to it. All the difficult choices you face.”
“Oh my god, Morry, yes. Can we get off this topic?”
“Cayce, Morry’s right. You use words strangely sometimes. Maybe often. For example, ‘god’ instead of ‘gods.’ Why do you do that?”
“When did this become an intervention?” I grabbed the jug and poured furiously, “Can we talk about something else? How’s the new armor doing? Any word on crossbows?” I then drank furiously.
“We don’t have enough of the armor to really test it. Crossbows are taking their time.”
“Morry, are you smiling again?”
“No, Princess, I don’t smile.”
“I think you are.”
“Cayce, you’re getting drunk.”
“I am not! I don’t get drunk. I’m a princess.”
“Yes, you are.” Smiling, she raised her glass, fluttered her long eyelashes, and said, “And being a princess sucks.”
“Well, that’s it. We are just going to have a party here tonight. I’m getting another jug.”
“Allow me to get it for you, Princess.”
“No, no,” I waved at the big man and jumped out of my chair, “the life of a princess . . . is difficult and fraught with challenges. You stay seated!”
Author's Note
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