Story #291 - Heavy Head

Heavy Head

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

Jarlen Kincaide had heard the expression time and time again, but he’d never seen a King that embodied the sentiment so well as Pallan V. The young man hadn’t been prepared to rule – at eighteen, he just completing a callow and almost malnourished stage of development. While his father and older brothers had been north of the Kingdom doing war upon the renegade Alturians, young Greyson – his birth name, that could no longer be used by the people – was still learning the basics of the sword and shield. It wasn’t that the prince didn’t make his best effort, but rather that his skills lay elsewhere. Those truly in charge of the city in his father’s absence hoped that diplomacy might be his strong suit, but so far, he’d proven superior in only two areas: crossbowmanship and wooing peasant women. Neither one would assist him as King.

“So as you can see, your Majesty,” the thin merchant in front of the throne said in a strident voice, “a lowering of the tax for those of means would only benefit your rule. Our favor would be boundless.”

Also useless, Jarlen thought as he moved to stand at the King’s elbow. Ostensibly, he was there to ease the transition as Pallan V became used to his throne and his crown, but he would likely remain far longer. Greyson, along with the rest of the Kingdom, was devastated at the loss of the former King and his three older sons in an Alturian ambush. That it had come during negotiations for surrender made it all the worse, and the King’s army had quickly retreated, harried on all sides by not only the Alturians, but the mercenaries they’d hired to fight their battles for them. Greyson had been raised as soon as the generals arrived, but was completely unprepared for the honor.

As one of the new King’s oldest friends, Jarlen had been able to rally the army with Greyson’s tacit approval and keep the enemy outside of their borders. What had been an almost-assured victory quickly became a defensive action leading to an uneasy stalemate, one that neither side was willing to break. Into the void of military conflict came the merchants, the rich, and the opportunistic, willing to invoke the memory of the dead King Pallan IV to forward their aims. Sen Haldoth, First Merchant of the circle, was doing his best to convince Greyson to approve a measure that would benefit only those with massive amounts of gold in their pockets, and help them claw back even more from the crown.

Greyson glanced at his old friend after a light tug on his sleeve, and Jarlen shook his head, then stepped back. No other explanation was necessary, though he’d give one if pressed. By and large, the King had been willing to follow the advice Jarlen offered, much to the chagrin of those who were hoping to press their advantage.

“No, First Merchant,” Greyson said firmly, and Sen’s eyes bugled.

“But, your Majesty –“ he began.

“Sen!” Jarlen cut him off sharply. “Did that sound like a point of argument to you?” He could see Greyson’s face flush; his friend hated confrontation. “The King has spoken, and you would do well to respect that!”

“Of course, Lord Jarlen,” the First Merchant said in a tone dripping with sarcasm, “though I must ask why my most reasonable proposal was not fully considered – for the good of all in the Guild, you understand.”

Greyson’s eyes narrowed. Despite his shortcomings, he was no fool, and Jarlen was confident that with time and patience, he could be molded into a King worthy of the throne. “I have fully evaluated your request, First Merchant, and found it lacking. Do you have anything else to say on the matter?” Greyson’s tone made it clear that further discussion would be without purpose.

“No, your Majesty.” Sen said shortly.

“Excellent. You may withdraw.” The King raised a hand and two guards came forward, ready to drag the First Merchant from the room if he would not comply. With an oily smile and a swift bow, he turned on his heel and left.

The rest of the morning was a parade of nobles and military men, almost all seeking some sort of personal advancement. Out of twenty, only three had anything useful to say, and Jarlen found himself frustrated at their selfish indulgence. By the time the last supplicant arrived, he was exhausted.

“Selmira, Priestess of the Shadows!” The herald at the door announced, and the svelte form of the capital’s only supplicant of the dark gods slipped into the room. White robes clung to her form as though a part of it, and she moved with a grace that caught Jarlen’s breath. She had always been something of a mystery, and even Greyson’s father stepped lightly around Selmira.

“My King,” she said, bowing deeply, and it took all of Jarlen’s considerable willpower to keep his eyes where they belonged. Greyson, he noticed, was not so determined.

“Priestess,” the new King said with a nod of his head. “Speak.”

“I would,” she lowered her voice and moved forward – too much so, as far as Jarlen was concerned, but Greyson smiled broadly, “but I fear unfriendly eyes. May we speak in private?”

Jarlen felt panic rising, and moved toward the throne. He could not permit this.

“Guards!” Greyson called. “Leave us!” The steel-clad men moved quickly forward, closing the double doors to the throne room as they went. “Jarlen will stay, however.”

There was a quick relief at that, though Selmira’s smile gave him pause. What was her purpose?

“Of course, your Majesty. What I have to say is of the utmost –“ She lunged before Jarlen could stop her, a dart flying from her hand. It took Greyson in the throat and he stiffened, then tumbled forward off the throne.

Jarlen was on top of the Priestess in an instant, pinning her to floor. A scream rose in his throat, but she spoke first. “He is poisoned, my Lord, and only I can undo what has been done. He will live on, frozen in a useless shell, unless you do exactly as I say.”


- D