Chapter 7: Bad Moon Rising
Fëanor opens the door to the throne room carefully, carrying his cup of morning tea before today’s work. His movements are slow, precise. As if afraid to wake the ghosts that haunt Taranton. The first rays of sunlight peak in through the windows. Today is administrative business, followed by a session of the Rogieran parliament. Delegates will be arriving in short order, representing their boroughs and special interests.
He closes the door softly, turns around, and stops to stare at me. “Your grace? What are you doing up so early?”
My hands have been steepled before my face so long that my elbows are almost locked like that. The candles have burned out over the night, and my eyes have adjusted to the dawn light as I stare at the map.
“Síl na Eán,” I say, voice creaky from a night of disuse. “Kings of Farraneán. Tell me about them.”
Fëanor takes his time sitting down at the war table that dominates the throne room. The business table, only removed when we need to impress special guests with an open throne room. The elf lifts his teacup to his lips, only to stop and offer it to me instead.
My joints pop as I move them, reaching to take the drink. “Thank you.”
He looks out at the map. “They’re an old house. Not as old as the Silmunas. Farraneán was a hard to rule nation, a mix of humans and elves in usually equal populations. On one side of the country was human Adenica. On the other, at the end of the Forlorn Vale, is the Elfrealm of Ibevar.”
“What of its people?” I ask, tapping the map, the sections labeled
Ancardia and
Luciande, newborn adventurer republics. I feel slow and sluggish from a lack of sleep, even though I’m still not tired.
“Still very much alive,” he says. “They lived in isolated, fortified cities. While the Greentide crashed into and destroyed it, it only crushed the authority of house síl na Eán. They survived in a castle in Valefort. The last legitimate king only has a single child, a daughter.”
I take a long sip of the tea. “Did the people love their kings?”
He looks to the side with a shrug. “They were a fair and even-handed dynasty, so yes. As much as people can love a monarch.”
I swirl the sugary tea in my mouth, tasting the way Fëanor prefers his brew. It gives me an excuse to stay silent, to stare at the map, at the endless possibilities. “Farraneán’s lands are a wide open gap in our armor. Like Elikhand, but better organized. A dagger pointed at the heart of Rogieria.”
The elf just nods. “Your orders, your grace?”
I let out a long sigh. “I need your help, Finn.”
Fëanor arches an eyebrow, leaning back. “Anything, King Rogier.”
“When parliament opens today, I want your help as my prime minister to get their blessing,” I say, making and unmaking a fist, playing with my own fingers. “I want a declaration of war on the Republic of Ancardia, to march into the Forlorn Vale and take the lands of Farraneán.”
“You need only speak the orders, your grace. Parliament is merely an advisory group. Local policy makers.”
I swallow and nod. “It is an old tradition. The Damerian Republic had its citizens vote for war. So did the later kingdom and grand duchy.” I let out a tired breath. “I am the heir to the old order. Building a new world from the graves and charnel pits. A synthesis of old and new. I
want them to vote to support me, Finn. To show them I am a Silmuna. And to remind them of why they made me king.”
Fëanor stands. “Your will be done, your grace. We shall make it happen.”
He pauses. “But, please, get some sleep first. Your eye bags have bags.”
It’s a short session. Parliament votes unanimously to support the king, and my war plans.
Right now, I wonder what my father is doing. In Corintar, we didn't vote on matters of state. The knightly order was organized like Corin's Circle, her party of adventurers. People presented her the information, she declared her plans, and then everyone was allowed to offer opinions and advice to perfect it.
More to the point, I wonder what he would say if he could see me now. He's still alive, of course. But the Corintar do not make a habit of taking arms against men. With the exception of the story of Laurens síl Place, the Corintari have only warred with orcs and goblins. Sometimes they kill them all. Sometimes they're happy with converts, defeating orcish warlords and usurping their throne. It's a common enough tactic to defang orcs.
Even Rogier the Exile spent most of his life defeating monsters.
Now here I am, leading the army of my country, in a war against settled peoples. To destroy a Republic of humans, by humans, for humans.
And I have never been more keenly aware of the tusks on my face that no amount of nearly trimmed beard can hide. That despite generations of human blood thick enough that you might not even be able to tell I wasn't one of them, that maybe it isn't enough to truly hide that bit of monster still left.
I sit upon my white-faced Adenican courser, my army beside me, and the Ancardian defense before me. All I can do is remember the ringing in my ears the last time I was in this position against Elikhand. The feeling that I had committed needful things. Actions of cold rationality.
And people had died.
But I think what I feel most of all is…
nothing. And that scares me. This thought that I've internalized the logic and reasoning behind my actions enough that I don't consider the human factor.
“Your majesty?” one of the generals beside me asks.
I close my eyes and take a breath. “We have them surrounded. Order a probing move. I'll personally lead the following hammer and anvil.”
I have done it again. Put theory into practice and led my men to victory.
The Ancardians called themselves a “Soldier’s Republic.” In true adventurer fashion, they chose their own leads from amongst themselves. But where in Rogieria the Damerians formed a kingdom with a radically equal peerage, the Ancardians built a republic like old Dameria.
It makes sense, really. They came from Ancard’s Crossing in Wesdameria. We speak the same language with similar accents.
Where things differ is that I, as king, was more efficient at organizing an army. I had men like Fëanor by my side.
And we had massed artillery.
Ancardia falls before the Silmuna boot.
One for the money. But two to get even.
That makes two nations I have destroyed. Two human realms with dreams of a future or their people that I put under the power of the blue moon. To build my people up, I must destroy others. But hypocrisy is the lubricant which keeps the wheel of society turning.
Fëanor and I draft the treaty once their armies are destroyed. They fought with honor, which is the only leniency I may grant them. They are Wesdamerians and there’s still bad blood there.
In the end, we decide to end the republic altogether, absorbing its land directly into the sphere of Taranton.
Adenica, all of the Taran plain, is now under my purview.
I am a conqueror well and truly. The heartland of Rogieria is safe.
Fëanor hands me a set of documents.
I look up from my thoughts. “What’s this?”
“Petitions,” he says. “Now with all of Adenica controlled, there’s the matter of to whom we grant the land and settling rights.”
“To our people?” I say, confused.
The elf shakes his head. “
Who are our people, your grace? The Damerians who followed Rogier the Exile; or the Adenner returning home, many of whom fought for us.”
I read the petitions, the arguments from either side. “Can we leave this to parliament?”
Fëanor shakes his head, pausing from his tea. “No, your grace. Parliament isn’t in session for a good while. Only you can make this call.”
“What do you recommend?” I ask.
He smiles thinly. “This isn’t the call of a minister. This is a king’s choice. Damerian or Adenner. It wouldn’t be my place to say one way or another.”
“Nice way to dodge the issue, Finn.”
His smile widens. “I do my best to avoid work I don’t want to do.”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “In victory we are faced with the possibility of losing more.” I swallow. “Draft diplomatic overtures to House síl na Eán, please. And have the court pages bring me books.”
“Which, your grace?” he says, taking notes of his tasks in a little journal.
“Any information we have about Adenica,” I say. “I… don’t want to make this choice blind.”
Hey, Dame, goddess of wisdom and maybe my ancestor, a little help here?
Parliament is no assistance. Nor are my ministers. Those I do ask have wildly different takes. The Adenner among them, of course, state that they should be rewarded for their service to Rogieria. While the heirs to the Sons of Dameria make a good argument that it was Damerian steel and wit that reclaimed this land.
It wouldn't do to just abandon any one side. I have a duty to those who swear oaths to me, no matter whence they come. I am a Silmuna; to them, it means something. And I want it to stay meaning
something. Reward loyalty and competence.
I pore over old books late into the night. Sleep is for the week anyhow. The Taran fields, the “fertile land crossed by rivers,” is valued land. But every book just talks of the old kingdom of Adenica; they talk of the land, the rivers, the exports. These books written before the Greentide say very little of the people who lived here.
“And what if they get angry?” I ask Fëanor one evening as the council is closing its daily meeting. I take a long drink of tea to calm my nerves. It’s an acquired taste in its own way.
Packing up his things for the evening, he says, “It is the way of kings.”
“What do you mean?”
He gives me a serious look. “It is, in my opinion, the advantage of kingship and monarchy. Those beholden to the wills of the people may become their slaves. They look towards re-election, keeping power most of all. A king has no such concerns. A good king understands he cannot please everyone, and in fact he should not. He must play the long game, looking to what will benefit his people and demesne in the long term, not what feels
right in the moment.”
“How autocratic of you,” I say dryly.
Fëanor shakes his head. “When I was a boy, it was elections that led to the death of Anbennar. The elector-counts and -dukes elected Vincen’s little sister for her magical power. Until they decided they made a mistake. They killed his sister, and then elected a Lorentish king to be Emperor.
“Vincen was alone in the world. The owl, the grand duke. And when the elected emperor died. The thrones were empty and unknown, and the electors unable to decide what to do. The
people had failed. And it was left to monarchs to make the choice for themselves. So Vincen asked me a question like yours.”
“What did you tell him?”
The old elf smiles wistfully. He leans back, lacing his fingers, lost in his reveries. “I've lost the exact words to the decay of decades, but I remember the spirit. ‘Whatever choice you make, only you can make it; I will stand by you for all time, my brother.’ We clasped elbows, rallied our men, and marched on Lorentainé for the throne that belonged to the Silmunas. It wasn’t popular. Many were terrified of what we were doing. But only a king could do it. There’s a right thing, and there’s a wrong thing, and there’s a
king’s thing. They’re not mutually inclusive nor exclusive.”
“How does that help me here, with the Adenner?”
Fëanor finishes collecting his things. “I told you, I wasn’t going to make this choice. Merely that I have faith whatever choice you make, you will see it through. Goodnight, your grace. In the morning I’m hoping to hear back from House síl na Eán.”
And like that, I am alone. Just a throne room, several petitions, and a map of old Dameria. Words swirling my head like a drain.
Until the words of Rogier in the dream come to me. And I realize that no choice is worse than none at all. I could fight and work out a compromise, but that would only leave people happy.
A king’s choice.
I alone may decide who are Rogierans.
And I have to make the decision with an iron fist, and feign strength and confidence.
I have to, right?
No man rules alone, but a King must stand on the shoulders of his giants and make his own way.
[And here we see the first of several unique mechanics for Rogieria, the “Silmuna Legacy” points. Depending on your choices, you get legacy points for “Absolutist Monarch,” “Beloved of the People,” and “Restorer of the Old Order.” After certain big story missions they will provide a unique bonus. There are 9 bonuses to collect, but only 3 you can acquire in any one playthrough]
There’s unhappy people, but a king cannot please everyone. He must make his choices.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. I’m not happy with it, not all of it. But I need to pretend that I am. I cannot show weakness. I must project strength. The kind of lies that people accept so thoroughly they become true.
Thus, what’s done is done. Rogieria is the New Dameria, founded by her exiled sons. These Damerians are skilled farmers, traders, and soldiers. With their undying loyalty to the Silmuna cause, we can turn Adenica from a land of old-timey knights into a proper state at the forefront of this brave new world we’re building in Escann.
A brave new world built from the graves and charnel pits of the world that was.
I feel a bad moon rising.
Adenica, however, is only one half of the equation. The rest of it lies in the Forlorn Vale, the lands once belonging to the Kingdom of Farraneán.
My council and I work to settle the Damerians throughout Adenica. Until one meeting on the council, one of my cabinet presents the fruits of our overtures to the former Farrani kings.
“Is it good news?” I ask.
The man, síl Seinathíl, looks pensive. “That’s debatable. But Martin did reply.”
“Who?”
He frowns. “Martin síl na Eán, last of the royal line of Farraneán.”
I smack my forehead. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Sorry, I haven’t had my tea this morning; my head isn't running right.”
Fëanor gives me a wry look. “I’ll have some fetched for you. I fear you may need it for this. Please stay sitting, your grace.”
So, I’ve offered to marry a woman I don’t know. Because it’s what kings must.
The game of thrones is a complex affair. One that makes my head hurt. In the Corintar, there was a certain
might makes right approach to the region. There were orcs here, we killed them, and now this is our land. You are being liberated; do not resist. End of argument.
I’ve tried that twice as king. Elikhand and Ancardia, to mixed results. Fantastic on a map, but personally I still have my doubts.
Farraneán is an old kingdom. Its people more tied to the land than the Khetists or the Ancardians. These Farrani are still alive in significant numbers, unlike their Andenner or Blademarcher cousins. Enough of them that their support and faith in me would make securing an entire region a cinch.
That’s how it all works in my head, of course. That’s the plan on paper.
But no plan ever survives contact with the enemy, I’m learning.
I take my tea, look out on the nervous eyes of my council, and open Martin’s letter.
Lord Martin invites me to his “Caseán,” a local Farrani term for the isolated fortress-cities that dot the landscape. He’s willing to parley and agree, on one condition.
That his daughter, only child and heiress, herself consents to the agreement. His human daughter. To me, the half-orc king.
“Do I look good, Finn?” I ask suddenly.
Fëanor squints. “You look rough around the edges, your grace.”
“I haven’t been sleeping, is all!”
“Whaaaat? Not sleeping, youuu?” he asks, putting his hand to his mouth. “How can this be, your grace?”
“Ha-ha,” I say, pushing away at my chair. My legs are sore from a mix of exercise followed by hours of sitting around doing nothing. “But for real, how do I look my best and talk to girls? I need to learn this now. You need to help me.”
Síl Seinathíl raises a hand. “Is it too late to quit my job?”
I point at him. “Yes!”
“Fuck,” he groans. “But on Ryala's honor, your grace, we can have tailors sew you up the finest suit in Escann. After that.” He shrugs. “Talking to women is just another kind of battle. You’ve waged war, led men from the front. Compared to that, what’s the worst she can say?”
One of my councilors says, “She can laugh and say you remind her of her dad?”
I cringe inside. “Okay, maybe no more advice. Just—get me something to wear. I need to see a barber, too. Then we take a carriage to Valefort to meet Margery síl na Eán.”
The Caseán in Valefort is what I imagined. A well-protected little fort nestled against the Godshield mountains. Martin had, apparently, only begrudgingly worked with the Ancardians, who refused to recognize his claims as a noble lord.
Still, I can’t help but worry I’ll fuck it up. I still have tusks. My skin and eyes look human, but I’ve got just enough of an orcish silhouette to remind people that I’m not really human. Not like the Farrani.
To the Corintari, I’m the son of their greatest living hero. To Rogieria, I am the blood of Silmuna and Dameria itself.
To the native Escanni, to the people of Farraneán?
I look just like one of the monsters who destroyed their homes and way of life.
I feel like an
other, and my skin and nerves crawl at the thought.
“Your majesty, welcome to Valefort!” Martin says I arrive, on a red carpet, as the feast’s guest of honor. There are so many eyes on me I almost don’t know what to do. Human, elves, and half-elves. All of them staring at me with mixed expressions of concern, mild worry, and false cheer. The only orc I can see is, of all things, a servant.
I open my mouth to say something, only to fall silent. He’s just a normal man. Brown of hair and blue of eyes, with a slight build. I’d call him on the taller end of things, but I have my father’s blood; I tower over nearly everyone here.
“Thank you, Lord Martin,” I finally say after a long pause.
He touches my arm. “We have looked forward to meeting His Majesty,” Martin says, leading me towards the party. He laughs heartily. “We have the best foods the Farrani have, and wish to show you traditional ballroom dances. I’ve been reading about your family, and so we have provided
Damerian tea, and hope it shall be much to your pleasure.”
Compared to everyone else, I feel like a peacock. Damerian blue, with a crescent moon on my chest as if to really hammer home the point that yes, I am a Silmuna. Everyone else is wearing far more normal, human colors. They’re not as rich as Rogieria, more just surviving from one conqueror to the next.
I follow him to the start of the table, the center of the feast. I look around, at the men and women, and try to figure out which is his daughter. Feeling my heart deeper and deeper in my throat.
“To a long friendship between Farraneán and His Majesty, King Rogier Silmuna,” Martin says, toasting his glass.
I try not to grimace. “That’s my name.”
Because I’m very fucking elegant when people put me on the spot.
“And to my daughter, Margery,” he says, gesturing widely. “Oh, and she had to step out into the garden. She’ll be back presently. Please, make yourself at home.”
That’s a bad omen.
Martin smiles. “Would you like something? Tea, peasant?” He snaps his fingers. “Garçons, feed your king.”
A downcast orc in the corner snaps to action. I can make out his slave branding.
I hold my hand up. “No, no, I’ll get it myself, Martin.”
“A very can-do, do it yourself attitude!” he says. “I commend you on your gusto, your grace. Haha!”
“Riiiiight.”
I go alone to the amenities tables, looking at the food, the wines and teapots. I turn from the crowds, putting my hands over my face, and
exhale long. I can feel them all staring at my back.
The orcish butler standing on the other side gives me a nonplussed look. “Milord, can this one help you?”
I slowly look over the rail-thin greenskin. He quickly averts his eyes, staring at the ground. “How long have you served here?” I ask in Orcish, something I picked up back in Corintar.
He stares at me for a very long, very startled moment. Before replying in Cannorian Common, “Not enough to make up for the sins of my blood. Justice through servitude.” It sounds like a phrase beaten into him.
“Why, because you’re an orc?”
He stares at me like he doesn’t understand the question. His eyes go to my tusks, and then just looks incredibly puzzled. “Milord?”
“Answer me.”
The servant points. “Someone wishes to speak to you.”
I scowl at him.
Until I
hear a woman’s voice behind me. “My oh my, your grace. It seems we are like mind that sometimes the help is more interesting than the lords.”
I whirl around and see
her.
Margery síl na Eán in the flesh.
She doesn’t flinch. She holds her ground, looking up at me with a curious expression. She is, in a word,
gorgeous. Tall and regal, in a fine dress that hugs her form. I almost feel like I should be dancing for her amusement, that look in her eyes. She’s a little older than me, too. A young woman when I was an old boy.
“Margery?” I ask.
She snaps a finger at me, winking. “First name basis already? My, don’t you move fast,
Rogier!”
“What?”
Margery covers her mouth and laughs. It’s a dainty, aristocrat laugh. A laugh I could grow to like. “My oh my, boy, orc got your tongue? Or, my mistake, merely a
quarter of your tongue? Whatever the case, I assure you, your grace, I am a better conversation than the help.”
I look back at the orc, who’s quietly excused himself. Something about that doesn’t sit well with me. And I worry that now isn’t the time, nor is it the place. And that makes my stomach flip.
When I turn back. Margery is watching me curiously, expectantly.
“What’s wrong, your
majesty?” she asks.
Allowing myself a breath, I refocus. I assess the situation. The woman before me and that almost smug little expression she wears.
“Ah,” she breathes. “I understand. The punch bowl is hardly the place to discuss why you, a complete stranger, wants to marry me. Come.”
She makes a single gesture and leaves. I take one last glance where the orc was before following her.
“There’s a good boy,” she says, taking a seat.
I elect to stand, craning my neck to look down at her.
Margery’s eyes glint. “Oooh,” she almost squeaks. “I think I know that look in your eyes. Here comes your well-reasoned argument why I should give my father’s kingdom to you and just go along as the boring wife that history forgets, yes? Or just going to play the part of the half-orc brute and forgo subtlety?” She waves a hand nonchalantly. “Too cliché for my tastes. I’m a lady of
class, after all.” She winks.
I stare at her and sigh. “No, Margery,” I say. “My mind is fairly empty at the moment. If anything, I’m wondering how many people your family owns, and how much it would cost for me to free them.”
“Huh. So he
does speak.” Margery sits up slightly, with a look like she’s slowly reappraising me. “Why would you want to do that, free the help?”
“Because if you were just some kid one day, and the next you had the power to change the world, what would you do with that power?”
She reaches for a glass of wine, taking a sip to give her a reason to be confused, quiet. “I confess, this is not how I imagined this conversation would go, on several levels.”
“How
did you?”
Margery rotates her wine glass. “Honestly? I expected the infamous
young owl, the Last Silmuna, the man with a monster’s orcish blood in his veins, to be more…” She shrugs her free hand. “I expected you to come in like you owned the place. My father is scared of you; have you seen how he’s been acting all night? They all are.”
My father is scared of you.
I just stand there, digesting her words. So casual, so full of meaning. “I was trying to politely ignore it.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You could have fooled me, the way you were acting, all awkwardly casual with my father.”
“I have a lot of experience pretending I don’t realize people hate or fear me. It comes with the territory.”
“Because of what you are?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Used to be that,” I say. “Now, I think it’s because I am a king and I have an army, not merely all of…” I gesture at my face. “
This.”
Margery squints at me, inspecting me. “Is it that hard to hide? Shave those hints of tusks, clip those almost elven ears, and you’d just look like a big Northman instead of half-orc. You’d almost be a real looker, in a rough-and-tumble frontiersman kind of way.”
“I’m glad the only standards you have are that I mutilate myself. I do that and you’ll think I’m hot and worth a ring?”
She sits back, putting her hands together. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Rogier. Not that—please don’t mutilate yourself for me. You don’t look
thaaat bad.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
Margery shakes her head. “No, see, I’m trying to figure out if I
want any part in your schemes for me. Your letters have been clear. You reckon you can use me. Just another piece in the puzzle you’re putting together. In the last year, you have ended two nations by force of arms, subjugated my father, and now come demanding my hand to cement yourself as king of a third.”
I look away. “Are my ambitions so obvious?”
She shrugs. “I pride myself on my deductive reasoning abilities. And now they tell me you want to continue your quest of conquest and tyranny, and my hand and womb are your weapons of choice.”
“Got it in one.”
Margery gives a shameless little smile and winks. “I know.”
Words fail me for a very long time. I feel naked, disarmed. My plans exposed and put through someone else’s eyes, and I feel… more than a little disgusted with myself and why I’m here. My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“What did your world look like when you were little?” I ask.
Margery covers her hand with her mouth, wearing a thoughtful expression. “Black. At the mercy of others. A father trying to save his own ass, while telling me stories of a beautiful country that was ripped from our hands by monsters. A land of peace, culture, and bustling cities. Where the only Damerians were traders. The orcs were just a distant menace in the Serpentspine Mountain. And the people we were entrusted to rule loved us. A birthright stolen from us, a bloodline that used to mean something before stronger powers declared our home was theirs by conquest. What about yours, Rogier?”
I stare into my palm. “In shadows. What do you do when your older brother is a fearsome warrior that women want and men want to be? When your father is the kind of a man a goddess would give her life for? When you’re offered a crown, but everything they give you is built on the shoulders of giants, like Rogier the Exile, who birthed a nation by sweat and blood. What do you do when everything people expect of you, you think anyone could do with the tools you’ve been provided?
“I learned I was Rogier
Silmuna when I was eight years old,” I go on, as if unable to stop myself, “in a backhanded way. My father was
there, but busy. And then suddenly, everyone looks at me like I’m some
return of the king fantasy, and expects the world from me. They tell me stories of men who lived centuries ago and expect it to mean something to me, about a family I only just learned I was a part of.”
“So you feel you need to lash out, act up,” she says.
I shake my head. “I feel I need to do
more than any man should have to just to make ends meet. Because I live in terror of a day when I don’t, when I’m not constantly working on the next plan, the next conquest, the next renovation of an old city—because what if that’s the day they realize I’m a fraud this entire time?
“Truth is, Margery,” I say, and sigh. “Is that everyone I meet can only look backwards, fond memories of times that maybe never existed. They want to rebuild what was lost. And if I returned to that past, they’d see me as a fool, a charlatan. So I think,
I think, that the only way I can build distance from that is to sprint forwards, sword in hand. To build a new world so grand, so spectacular, that they forget a past I should be making, and get lost in the future I create.”
I spread my hands. “So that’s who I am, Margery. That’s why I want to marry you. I do not know you, and you do not know me. You’re right about what I want, but for the wrong reasons. The way I see it, no matter the cost, I will move forward, I will make my dreams a reality, because the past is too terrifying to let catch me. And I want you by my side when I do it.”
Margery regards me for a long, long moment. She looks into her wine glass and finishes it. “Of all the things I expected of the Young Owl, I placed an
honest man at the end of that list. I think it would’ve been easier if you were someone to hate and despise, the half-orc brute I thought you’d be. Not someone I almost pity. You need to perhaps learn when to shut your mouth, and I mean that respectfully.”
She casts her blue eyes to mine. “If I accept this, I will be playing into your schemes. But I want to be more than that.”
I nod once.
“Maybe you fear the past. But maybe you’re right about the past never really existing as we imagined it.” Margery stands up. Her head comes up to my chest; she cranes it to meet my eyes. “I want to build the Farraneán my father told me of, for myself and its people. If its glory never existed, then I want to create it. But I can’t do it alone. Just like how you can’t escape the specters of
what was alone, Rogier.”
She puts a hand on my breast. “I’ll never agree to marry you to be a piece in your toolbox. But if you’ll accept me as your queen and equal, and you help me build my dream, I will build yours. Not as pawns, but as
partners.
“Besides,” she adds with a wink. “You told me all your secrets. At this point I pretty much own your ass with blackmail material. You really need to learn to keep your handsome mouth shut.”
And in that moment, something inside me breaks, and it clicks into place with this little princess.
Martin weeps openly as he walks Margery town the aisle. We exchange our vows. I place my cloak over hers, symbolizing my protection of her. And as we lean forwards to kiss, she smiles like a succubus and mouths
I own you now, boy.
With that, I am King of Rogieria and implied rightful ruler of Farraneán.
But the road to get there must be paved with blood. We’re hardly in Valefort a weekend before I’m back on the road, marching with my royal guard back to Taranton.
She stops by my tent one night, just enters unannounced. I glance up at her, nod, and then go back to my paperwork.
Margery stops behind me. I still tower over her. She reaches a hand out, hesitates, and then more firmly puts it on my shoulder. “What are you doing, Rogier?”
“That’s a complicated question with an unsatisfying answer,” I say, moving a map of Taranton onto my desk. “It’s addictive, though. Maps of Escann. Details of the capital and our plans to expand the city. Official inquiries for future plans from informants as far as the imperial capital of Anbenncóst.”
The woman arches an eyebrow, and
man can that thing climb. “It’s a lot of information.”
“It’s what I need,” I say proudly. “There’s so much to do, so little time. How can I just sit still and go to sleep when there’s all this work I can be doing?”
She sucks on her lips. “Let me help.”
I eye her for a moment, then slide over the paperwork on the desk towards her.
She reaches up to tie her long hair up into a ponytail before hunching over the desk. “Is this a map of Rogieria?”
“More central Escann itself, around Lake Silvermere. Mine was the first true new kingdom, but others are showing up. The Company of the Thorn now calls itself the Republic of Luciande, Pioneer’s Guild as Núrcestir, Order of the Iron Scepter rebrands as Esthíl.”
“Is this map accurate? They all look so small.”
I shake my head. “They’re big. Rogieria is just the
biggest.”
The worst part of the map is I think I can make nicer borders with just a few thousand more deaths…
Margery covers her mouth with the back of her hand. “You took down Ancardia. What’s your next move, Rogier?”
I consider. “Depends on the tools I have. What information. I’m learning, slowly, that the best weapon at my disposal is good information and being extremely predatory.”
She reaches past me to tap on the edge of the map, Luciande. “Them,” she says.
I frown. “Are you just saying that to make me reclaim the rest of your country?”
Margery shrugs. “I used to live in the area. My family would often travel to various Caseáns in the region. Ancardia was okay. But in ‘Luciande,’ people were afraid. Some Farrani still live there, but the nation is ruled by Roilsardi. Their old leader, Lucian, was…”
“Cruel?”
“A creep,” she supplies with a simple shrug.
“Hmm.”
“Their land isn’t very secure. People keep to themselves as best they can. Not much for friendship. You’re likely to vanish in the middle of the night if you leave town.”
“Bandit or monster problems?”
Margery almost hugs herself. “I don’t know. I just never had a good feeling there. No one does. I know the area, however. I know where the forts and towns are. If you march there and take me, I doubt the people will mind. Come as liberators of the Farrani from a foreign republic of the Roilsardi.”
“And very quickly restore your family’s rule over the Forlorn Vale.”
Margery frowns. “I never said I wasn’t trying to manipulate you. Just that this is a good next step.”
I look into her eyes, then back to my maps. “I’ll meet with my general staff and look into it.”
Maybe it’s just me, but I got a bad feeling about the guys with a skull surrounded by snakes on their flag. Just a feeling. I’m sure it’s nothing.
[Luciande is a creepy vampire country, all about orcish slavery and uncovering who the first vampire is.]
In the end, I take Margery with me to the meeting of my generals and commanders. We’re still fresh from the war with Ancardia, high on victory after victory.
We go over the maps of Luciande, of the Forlorn Vale. She ties her hair up and goes over areas she knows. Forts and other isolated homesteads of tactical value. Whenever I am at a loss at one of their questions, Margery steps forwards to answer them like she’s been doing this all her life.
Fëanor elbows me as my wife and queen speaks to the generals, giving orders and commands on where to attack, when to march.
“She’s quite the lady,” he says.
I nod. “Yes, she is.”
“Leading us to war awfully quick,” he adds, producing a cup of tea from seemingly nowhere.
“I made her a promise. And she to me,” I said.
“Yes, wedding vows.”
“More than that,” I say.
Margery turns, meets my eyes, and winks. She looks darkly satisfied with herself. I feel a shiver of fear down my spine, but smile back.
Luciande doesn’t see us coming.
Margery planned this ambush.
If there’s something I’m coming to learn, other than the fact that Margery looks both gorgeous and slightly silly trying to wear armor when she appears by my side on campaign, it’s that these adventurer republics can’t hold a candle to a true kingdom.
They built themselves on the claims of representing their people, but they seem trapped by their own governance. Incapable of making truly unpopular but needed choices. Luciande poorly funded its army during peacetime, whereas I ensure my professional soldiers are fully paid at all times.
The people themselves, if left to rule, cannot be trusted to keep themselves safe.
Only a king can keep his people safe from the wolves, from predatory lords, from the metaphorical vampires.
The campaign looks like it could be long, a slog through the old farmlands to root out the Lucianders. But Margery knows where to go. She knows old roads. And the native Farrani, who know their own rightful queen marches with the Rogierans, are eager to turn coat on the Roilsardi adventurers and side with the Rightful King.
In the end, the republic is no match for the disciplined men who follow me into battle.
Adenica and Farraneán fall under the Silmuna moon.
[I’d be under risk of a major coalition against my aggression at this point, if not for the fact that everyone is already in a coalition against other nations, like Wex and Arbaran. It pays to be an opportunist predator.]
And when it’s over, Farraneán belongs to my kingdom. To my people. To the Damerians and Farrani who call me their king.
Margery just sits there, helping me read the reports, and just… sort of leans back and blinks.
I laugh, putting a hand on her shoulder. “How does it feel to be Queen of Farraneán, Margery?”
She leans back, head upside-down, looking over at me. It’s a funny sight and I laugh again. She reaches out to flick my cheek. “I’m angry. Very angry.”
“Why is that?”
Margery sighs. “Because I was
hoping to nag you about this for at least another decade. I didn’t expect you to be able to do this within the year of our wedding.
Now what am I going to nag you with?”
I grin wide. “See, this was my evil plan this entire time. Find a woman who could kick my ass into gear, defang her, and point her at my enemies when she has nothing else to do.”
She sighs, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible. But you’re my impossible, boy.”
I lean down to kiss her. Everytime our lips touch it feels new, a fresh experience. She is my queen, but… I don’t know. I expected this to be a union of political convenience. Not whatever it’s becoming.
Margery pushes me away before reaching up to let her hair down. She sighs, long and hard. “Alright, fine, fine.
Most of my dreams are done. Now I’m bored. Take me to Taranton so I can find more problems for us to tackle together.”
I nod once, making a fist. “Let’s.”
Our agents in Anbennar work hard to uncover the lost graves of my family.
I told Margery that nothing scared me more than the past. The future is our destiny, not the mythical past.
Even then, the past is full of questions. And from the very start, unbeknown to anyone, Fëanor and I have been working to learn where my ancestors are buried.
Fëanor brings me the reports as Margery and I are taking evening tea. Which mostly consists of her taking sips, loudly gagging, looking pissed when I laugh at her, and angrily finishing her cup as if to prove something to me.
He and I read the letters, the reports from our spies in Anbennar. Make a few quick comments.
“Hey!” Margery shouts, banging her cup on the table. “Another round. And also some beer to wash this piss down!” She points her finger at me. “Get your ass back here,
boy. You’re not going to saddle me with all these diagrams of Taranton and then leave me to play with your elf!”
“Women, am I right?” I ask Fëanor.
Fëanor smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll get you more tea.”
“Thank you,” I say, and look towards my wife and her pouting expression. “Have them bring extras, please.”
A new moon rises over Cannor.
Margery lets her hair down. That’s how I know the work is done.
I hold her hand. She makes a face at me, but doesn’t stop me. She watches as the cranes and masons finish the last touches on the castle in Taranton, in
Rogieria.
“I think you’re on an ego trip, Rogier,” she says. “Taranton was a fine name.”
“Rogieria is the future,” I say. “Also, I suck at naming things. Rogier the Exile, Rogier the me, the city of Rogeria, capital of the Kingdom of Rogieria.”
She reaches out to flick my nose. “E-go, Rogier.” But in the end, she leans her head on my shoulder.
I stroke her hair, and wonder what wonders she and I can accomplish next.
I’m not alone anymore in this world, in my mad quest for tomorrow.
My will shall be made manifest in blood and iron. My word shall be law. My legacy shall be stone and mortar.
And I will build it hand-in-hand with this spiteful human princess who’s got enough emotional blackmail to destroy me.
Sometimes, despite the horror, despite the fear of what my father would say if he saw me now, I can just relax. It’s a rare moment. Tea in one hand, Margery’s head on my shoulder, and the long road paved ahead us through blood and sweat.
