The king made his way with as much grace and as steadily as he could while using his crutches to navigate the path from the Grand Portal, down the center of the Great Hall of the Throne Room, to the stairs of the dais on which the Royal Throne of the Kingdom of Rhiada sat. With a slight sigh, Myrl reached his throne, and turned to face those who had come to petition the crown today. His hair was still damp from his quick bath, and he thought there may still inexplicably be sand stuck to tender skin. He sat and looked out on the throne room, lit with the golden light of late afternoon slanting through the high windows nested far above in the domed ceiling.

  The two very different sets of emissary missions stood opposite each other along the path marking the center aisle of the large room down which he and his retainers had just strode.

  Or, as Myrl considered, the group had slowly and solemnly walked patiently as their lamed king crutched his way forward.

  He had done his best to ignore his surroundings, and the possible looks of pity in the many sets of watching eyes that littered the throne room, any time the king needed to make his way to the throne. And now, seated on his family’s literal seat of power, Myrl saw the faces of those who wanted explanations from him now as though he had been some child skipping his lessons called to the carpet by an angry set of tutors.

  Lord Baison, white goose tabard and matching staff resplendent, stepped forward, and began the litany of invocations and proclamations that began each and every Royal Court. Myrl used the moments available to study the people newly come to Ghlow specifically to talk to him. One party, he knew, would claim insult and sought redress. The others? Myrl did not know.

  To the left stood a contingent of ten men and women from Parthique. Visions of sophistication and style, all of Ocre descent, who dressed in the most impressive rainbow array of silks, accented with golden jewelry and ornaments. Many of that party looked ill at ease in their loose and flowing finery, too much of their sun darkened skin exposed and covered in goosebumps because their lovely clothing was not at all suited to the Rhiadian winter. Their lead ambassador stood in determined disinterest. The man ignored the cold, the damp, and the indignity of being in the presence of the other group of envoys.

  Across from the contingent from Parthique stood a distinctly different set of petitioners to the Crown.

  An Orc woman dressed in well made leathers lined with furs. Greenish brown skin, with blue highlights and ruddy brown hair held back from falling into her face by a thick silver band with golden serpents, her face was narrow, high cheeked and dominated by an aquiline hatchet blade of a nose. Close to seven feet in height, she had removed her weapons to be admitted to the throne room, but still wore a scabbard at her hip wider than Myrl’s own hand, and on the opposite hip rode an empty knife sheath that would almost be large enough for a Kingdom short sword.

  Her clothing was well made, and emphasized her practicality of having traveled through the mountains, where her people resided, to the capitol city.

  Behind her stood three other Orcs, all with the traditional coloration of the Cloven Peaks Clan of muddied greens with blue accents. Two women and a man. Like their leader, they had all dressed for traveling in the cold, and all had either surrendered their arms, or they had left them in the rooms they had been given to rest in while Myrl had been otherwise occupied. All three, unlike their mistress, wore heavy boots, the actual emissary having chosen to wear sturdy sandals strapped and buckled on the outside of her pant legs all the way up to her knees.

  Were Myrl to guess, he would suspect that one group sought to intimidate him with their wealth and opulence, while the other group decided to try to intimidate him by being absolutely terrifying.

  The young king may suffer from all of the follies of young men everywhere, he knew he would not be intimidated by either faction. The Parthiqueen could not make him regret his lack of silks and gold, because he had plenty of either commodity, but linen and wool were better choices for the cold, damp Ghlow winters. The Cloven Peaks Clan would not intimidate Myrl because their being bigger than him was not something that gave them any tactical advantage. Myrl had fought Orcs before. They were much larger than the average human, yes.

  Myrl knew for a fact that Orcs died just like anyone else.

  Baison had just finished his announcements.

  “Friends and allies, all, thank you for coming to visit my home, and present yourselves to my Court. I hope We may arrive at common ground and mutual friendship in the days to come.” It was a common, noncommittal way for Myrl to begin and left the petitioners plenty of leeway in how they would address their issues to the Crown.

  Myrl turned his gaze specifically to the Parthiqueen.

  Baison hailed the stern looking man, and began to announce his credentials to the Court. His strong tenor voice shouting out to the furthest reaches of the throne room to let all and sundry assembled know the validity and nobility of their guest.

  “May the Light of Great Mother Rhoona Bless those who have witnessed this Day the Coming of Our Friend and Ally, Master of the Parthiqueen Navy, Prince Nodensey, the Hound of the Summer Isles, third child of Queen…” the man continued on as the ambassador stepped forward and waved a hand to silence the Royal Herald.

  “Yes, Yes, yes..” He said to Myrl, Baison, and the assembled observers of the Court. “I am Nodensey, and I am Oh so Royal, and very handsome, and look how I can stand and walk on my own.”

  Myrl did not flinch at the unfortunate turn of phrase, but he did give the man his fullest attention.

  Like his younger brother, Odilien, who had come with his twin sister months ago to open relations between Parthique and Rhiada, the man was tall, shaved his head, and sported a neatly trimmed little goatee without a mustache. He stood easily a half a foot taller than Myrl mimself, and was long limbed and muscularly lean. The gold in his ears and about his neck contrasted beautifully with his dark complexion, and was set off in vibrancy by his dark blue robes of state.

  “Do we all agree that I am who I say I am so that we may get on with speaking of important matters?”

  Myrl grinned, and he could feel Baison, behind him, standing rigid in affronted anger. The older man was about to speak, and so Myrl took the initiative, cutting off what most likely would have been a well spoken rebuttal. Upbraiding a prince, even one not the first in the direct line of succession, would have just started a fight that would lead to intransigent stands, and all form of metaphorical drawing of lines in the sand. He really didn’t have the patience for this.

  “Prince Nodensey, I welcome you to my Court, and I hope you may find rest, comfort, and friendship here. We hope your Mother in great esteem, and wish your house nothing but prosperity. Your younger brother, Prince Odilien, has been Our guest these last several months, and We have summoned him here as soon as We had learned of your arrival.”

  No sooner had the words left Myrl’s mouth than there was a stirring at the back of the Hall, and Odilien, resplendent in robes of a deep indigo bordered with creamy white, stepped through the slowly parting crowd. He had ordered heavier robes made in a local style for the visiting prince to help ease the worst of this winter’s chill from the poor man. The few times he had been able to visit, Odilien had been afraid to leave his rooms because of the harsh winter chill and razor-like winds that the seasonal storms had brought on.

  Myrl had remembered how cold Jibiril Keep, far to the north of the capital city of Ghlow, had felt to him when he had first been forced to move there by his uncle and knew Odilien and his sister were used to a much warmer kingdom than his own. Though, in its defence, the Rhiadian summers had never gotten hot enough to make Myrl wish for winter so fervently as the summers in Parthique and Lornholdt had.

  Odilien finally reached his older brother, and bowed to him with great solemnity before Prince Nodensey swatted him on the back of his smooth, brown head. He then whispered loud enough for Myrl to hear every word he hissed at his younger brother, while fingering the younger man’s woolen overcoat with obvious disgust.

  “Imbécile, qu'as-tu fait?” He said in Parthiqueen. “La mère est folle de rage.”

  Myrl interpreted for himself. “You fool, what have you done? Mother is beside herself with rage.” The slight of the strike to the back of the head might have made the younger man blush in embarrassed anger, but the words made Odilien visibly cringe.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Myrl pretended not to notice the familial drama playing out before him… in his own court. Surrounded by onlookers. And he certainly kept his face blank, hoping to not let on that he was fluent in Parthiqueen. Myrl himself would have expected it of any other child of Royalty, as being conversant in your trade partners’ tongues just made sense.

  Or in the tongues of your enemies.

  “You have allowed yourself to be made a parrot by this boy king. And we have heard nothing of your sister. Where is Ocelia? Will she join us here in this ice room, or is she sitting in some dank cell? Is she alive? Do you even know?”

  Nodensey was getting more angry by the moment as he berated his younger brother. Odilien remained bowed the entire time, and silent, as his elder brother hissed at him.

  Myrl waved at the waiting servants by the southern entrance, and as they came forward with warmed drinks and light cloaks for the visitors he said to his guest, “Lord Nodensey, please. I offer you the hospitality of my Hall, Hearth, and Home. I hope you and your retinue are able to find comfort as we strive to find common ground here in my Land.”

  Another set of servants silently came forward from the back of the hall carrying well padded, if simple chairs for Lord Nodendsey and Lord Odilien, who even now looked relieved as his older brother was distracted by warmth and drink.

  Once the two men were seated, Nodensey held his cup of fortified wine to his side where it was taken up by one of his servants. Looking directly at Myrl, the man said, “I thank you for this warm welcome, but I am here pursuing rumors that have disturbed my Queen. We have heard rumors that my brother and sister have been slain.”

  He glanced dismissively at Odilien who gladly sipped at his warm cup of wine while ignoring his older brother, possibly in hopes to avoid angering the man further. Myrl thought the older man wasn't being fair to his sibling, but Myrl also knew more than Nodensey about what had transpired here.

  “My Queen will be delighted to hear that one of her children still lives.” his look at his younger brother had the edge of an unvoiced …for now..

  “Prince,” It was a calculated use of one of the many titles the man claimed, placing his rank below Myrl’s own at the forefront for all to see. “Both of your siblings live, and I have made certain that they both are in fine health and being treated as guests…”

  “GUESTS? How can you say they are guests? You have kept prisoners, and We have not had any word from them since they arrived here in your little fiefdom! The ship they came on, We have heard, has been taken by force and the crew all put to the sword, if not just thrown overboard!”

  The man was working himself up to a fit of rage now, and Myrl was feeling his own hackles rising as well. This man has been lied to, or has made assumptions, and now wants a fight… He thought, …and he is trying to goad me into the same mindset…

  Even the other Envoy took sudden notice of the doings of the little humans around them, where feigned indifference had been their tendency up to now. Their leader rolled her eyes at the spectacle.

  “Now my brother looks thin, have you been starving him here in this wet, cold land? You have even dressed him like one of your peasants!” Nodensey was working himself up further. “You have kept him and his sister as your prisoners, IF she even lives! Why have we not heard from them back home? No letters in the diplomatic pouch? What have you hidden here, boy?”

  Silence rained down upon the hall, as those in attendance suddenly ceased all murmuring and stared at the party of Parthique Envoys. Several guards visible to Myrl from his throne who were arrayed about the Great Hall adjusted their grips on the hafts of their spears as Nodensey raised his voice. Myrl felt comforted that his people were, indeed, HIS People. Nodensey’s people, meanwhile, each held a warm cup in one hand, dropping the number of hands available to draw and hold daggers by half for at least a 5 count.

  Though the striking woman in red and orange silks who stood behind his right shoulder held two, and looked like she had finished her own draught and now contemplated also drinking her lord’s warm beverage.

  It was that use of “...boy.” The man had invested so much scorn and deliberate mockery into the word. Myrl knew the man was only four years older than himself, but the derision, contempt, and feeling of ridicule still stung. Myrl gathered his will, and formed the thoughts he wanted to use into the right shape with his Talent and exhaled slowly as he used that gathered will to push.

  “Silence serves you better than lies.” He said it just loud enough for his spell to carry it directly to Nodensey’s ears. “If you want to throw around horseshit, I can have my guards escort you to the stables, Prince Nodensey. You are in MY kingdom. You are in MY city. You are in MY home.”

  Nodensey looked like he was about to shout. To stand up from his chair and yell at the king, but neither would his mouth open, nor could he lift himself from his chair.

  And with that revelation, a look of abject terror crawled over his face.

  Once again speaking to the entire Hall, Myrl continued.

  “He has not been held hostage, though his twin has been kept in a state of magical slumber by Our Talented medical staff, for the safety of Myself and those in my charge, which includes Lord Odilien. Your ship fled from Our docks within minutes of the incident, and was overtaken by one of My own ships who had been given orders to chase it down. No lives were lost in the taking of that pretty little wallowing tub. All of that ship’s crew has survived and is being held in a guarded inn near the docks. You probably walked past the inn on your way here, in fact. They, happily, will be released into your care and allowed to return with you to Parthique. The captain of the Silver Cloud, however” he used the ship's old name, not wanting to inflame the visiting prince more than necessary.

  “...has been held for questioning, and we have sent the results of those interrogations to your Queen. If She has chosen to not share those details with you, that is between you and She who you serve, Prince Nodensey.” Here he drew out the title, because he could.

  “You expect me to believe these silly Mermaid Stories? Then where is Lady Ocelia? Why does she not come to greet me as her brother has? I am...” and here he tried again to rise, but couldn’t break the bonds of force that Myrl had used to hold him to the chair, and the chair to the stone floor.

  “WHAT is this trickery!?” Nodensey yelled.

  “Sixteen people.” Having now had enough, Myrl said, his voice ringing through the Hall. Not yelling, just projecting, and done so with deadly calm.

  Nodensey stopped mid rant, and stared now at Myrl. “What?”

  “Nodensey, your sister killed sixteen people when she arrived in my Court.”

  “WHAT?!” The handsome man looked shocked at the revelation.

  Myrl could no longer look any more irritated at the interruptions. “Your Mother’s ‘Envoy of Peace and Trade’ killed six of my people, and ten more of your own people, from her and her brother’s staff..” He spoke with sharp words, delivered with deliberately controlled diction, and spoken loud enough for every person in the Hall to hear every nuance. The King took a deep breath.

  “I and my advisor, Lord Ashe, used our combined Talents to keep your sister from killing your brother, and the rest of those in attendance. You could ask him about that day, since you might believe him, and not my own word on these matters, and your Queen has not seen fit to share the details with you.” Myrl casually reached out to his right, and a servant who stood inconspicuously behind his throne handed him a small cup filled with tea and a twist of orange. …delicious… He thought, taking a sip before handing the cup back.

  “Some of my more vocal advisors have begged me to ‘put an end to this danger.’ I will continue to listen to their advice without acting upon it. I don’t enjoy the idea of keeping a strong, untrained Talent who wants to kill me here in Ghlow, but I would prefer for you to take your sister home with you, instead.” He let that implication drop gracelessly into Nodensey’s lap.

  At the words “Talent,” “End,” and “Danger,” in reference to Lady Ocelia, Nodensey flinched. He, just like his brother Odilien, apparently hadn’t known his little sister was a Talent.

  “Your Queen was informed of the exact events that transpired here, and the list of those your younger sister slew, both yours and Ours, was included in that list. I do not know what you have been told before your voyage here, though it looks like very little of substance. I do not know why you were not informed of how your sister and brother have been kept and for what reasons. You have come here being told a very little it seems, and assuming a great deal. Maybe this gap is how Parthique distinguishes between a Monarch and an Heir, but that is none of my concern.”

  That last comment was received like a slap. Behind him, Lord Ashe tensed and Myrl could feel the man’s displeasure. Myrl didn’t care.

  “Prince Nodensey, you have seen just the very edges of the decisions I have had to make, and have seen none of the choices with which I was faced. This is, I hope you will take time to ponder, the truth of the differences between being a prince out to sea on his ship, and being the monarch in his own kingdom.”

  The prince stood. Myrl allowed it, having released the prince from the charm that had held him in place. Slowly, testing his freedom, Nodensey rose.

  He turned to the lovely woman who held his cup, and held out his hand. Turning back to Myrl, his face running in the scattered directions of shock, sadness, and uncertainty, he raised his cup to Myrl, and following a bow, drank down the mulled wine he had been given.

  “Your Majesty,” Nodensey said low in a flat voice, “I apologise. I spoke in anger and in haste. I was asea when I had received the Queen’s orders to come here and retrieve my errant siblings.”

  Myrl looked at the man, and then to his younger brother, Odilien looked back with surprise scrawled large across his features.

  “My Lord, Odilien, would you be so kind as to lead your brother and his servants to the suite of rooms beside your own in the North Wing? I will have meals and warmer clothing sent along, and you can all catch up on family matters together before we speak again.” With a gesture, several of the same servants who had brought drinks stepped forward to show the Parthiqueen party to their rooms. Two other servants then scampered forward in their wake to take the chairs from the Hall.

  Turning his head and his attention now to the other party waiting on his Royal notice, Myrl smiled at the large Orc woman who now looked attentively back at the young king, and offered, “Rabda, it’s been too long! Have you finally come to marry me?”