Page 23 of Kingdom of Feathers

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said the first nobleman. “And please allow me to offer my condolences again on the great loss you’ve suffered—the loss we’ve all suffered.”

“I appreciate your condolences,” said Basil steadily. “But I wasn’t speaking out of sentiment. I don’t wish to discuss any proposal for a march on Myst. We will not be invading Mistra. I intend to negotiate a ceasefire with our neighbors.”

There was another moment of silence as a dozen pairs of eyes blinked at him.

“Your Majesty,” said the speaker cautiously. “I think it highly unlikely that the Mistrans will be brought to simply concede their claim and withdraw from the contested land.”

“Yes, thank you, My Lord,” said Basil, with what patience he could muster. “I naturally don’t expect to reach an armistice by way of total concession by our adversaries. That’s why I used the word negotiate.”

“But Your Majesty!” gasped a mid-level military commander who was seated two chairs down from Basil. “Surely you’re not suggestingwecede our claim? King Thorn would never have countenanced such a thing! Almost his last orders were to win the war!”

“I believe he saidendthe war, which is precisely what I intend to do,” said Basil dryly. “But in any event, it is immaterial.” He paused, taking a deep breath and once again reminding himself that he needed to think carefully before speaking. It was a tiresome aspect of being royal. “While I have the greatest respect for my father’s memory, I would not be fulfilling the oath I took if I were to just blindly continue on whatever course he set before I was crowned. It is my duty and my privilege to take whatever action I believe is best for our kingdom. And I want it understood from the start, My Lords, that my first priority is disentangling us from this ill-advised war with Mistra.”

In spite of the weight of the moment, Basil couldn’t help but find the looks on the lords’ faces humorous. The military commander in particular looked like Basil had slapped him across the face with a limp fish.

“Now,” said Basil, his voice turning businesslike. But he wasn’t given the opportunity to continue.

“Your Highness,” cut in the slightly oily voice of one of the council’s oldest members. “You have come very suddenly into your position. It is natural that you would still be finding your way. Inheriting a crown at your age, and when the kingdom is in the grip of an invasion, would be daunting for anyone. Naturally, you will wish to be led by those who have the experience you lack. We are here to guide and assist you, and you can trust our judgment where your own is as yet…undeveloped.”

Basil didn’t know if the lord’s failure to use his new title was intentional or not, but he honestly didn’t care. And he was entirely unimpressed by the solicitous speech.

“Let me speak plainly, My Lord,” he said in crisp tones. “First, my ascension to the throne was anything but sudden. My father’s final illness may have been brief, but we all know I’ve been expecting to be thrust into this role at any time since I was twelve years old.” His voice turned wry. “However insufficient you feel my experience to be, at least we can all be thankful the situation isn’t as drastic as that.”

“Your Majesty,” said the nobleman quickly, getting the title right this time. “I didn’t mean to suggest an insufficiency in your—”

“No, don’t ruin it now by trying to take it back,” Basil cut him off impatiently. “I want you to say what you mean, and stand by it. Otherwise what use can your counsel be to me? I understand your concerns. I know I’m young, and I know I have a great deal to learn.” He leaned forward in his chair. “But there are some other things I know. One is that we arenotin the grip of an invasion. In six years of fighting, Mistra has made no attempt to claim territory beyond the disputed ore fields. And, in spite of their claim that we murdered all six of their princes, they have made no further attempt to retaliate.”

“That claim is a blatant fabrication,” said the military officer dismissively. “There’s no evidence to support it, and they don’t truly believe it.”

“Perhaps,” said Basil. “That’s a matter I intend to clear up as part of my negotiations.” His eyes scanned the room at large. “I’ve formed the intention of traveling to Myst myself, to open negotiations with King Lloyd. I anticipate leaving within the week, and I wanted to give any council member the chance to volunteer for a place on the delegation.”

Predictably, his words produced an uproar. Half the people in the room were suddenly on their feet, and everyone seemed to be talking at full volume. Basil remained in his seat, waiting patiently for one voice to rise above the others, which it inevitably did.

“Prince—I mean King Basil! You cannot be serious!”

The speaker was once again the oldest nobleman in the room, the one with the oily manner. Interesting. Basil didn’t remember him being so outspoken when King Thorn was running the council. Apparently he was emerging as a new figure of dominance now that the young king had taken charge. Basil locked the information away for later. He knew the dynamics of the court would change dramatically with his ascension, and he would have to pay close attention to make sure he had a handle on what was happening. It didn’t help that as yet he had no sense of whom—if anyone—he could trust to keep an ear to the ground and provide him with insights free of their own agendas.

Slowly, Basil rose to his feet. Every face remained turned to him, with expressions ranging from fury to horror, and the room quietened enough for him to be heard without shouting. He faced the nobleman who had exclaimed.

“I have my faults, My Lord, but I don’t believe I’ve often been accused of failing to take my duties seriously.” The silence was suddenly absolute. “I assure you, I am very serious. As I said, ending the war is my first priority. I intend to send a message to King Lloyd this afternoon, proposing a state visit to discuss the conflict.”

“Prince Basil!” cut in another nobleman, slipping back into Basil’s old title in his outrage. “Your father is barely sealed in his tomb, and your first act is to go against all he worked for all these years? His own son—he would be horrified!”

An image of a dying man’s face rose before the young king’s eyes—his father’s familiar features strained in anger and bitterness as he demanded that Basil win the war to avenge him. For the first time during the council meeting, Basil’s calm deserted him, and he felt a surge of hot anger. Who were these men to cast his father’s resentment-fueled expectations in his face? What did they know of their former king’s bitterness, and its impact not only on his kingdom, but on his family?

His eyes kindled as he turned to the one who had spoken. “Do not presume to tell me what my father expected of me.” His voice was even enough, but he couldn’t quite keep the anger from his eyes. A little rattled by the absoluteness of the hush that had fallen over the room, Basil pulled himself together, adding more mildly, “Or to tell me what I expect of myself.”

“King Basil,” said the older nobleman, his voice resolute, and his expression forbidding. “I’m afraid we simply cannot allow you to walk willingly into the den of our enemies.”

Basil fought the desire to laugh, wishing momentarily that Zinnia was in the room to appreciate the absurdity of it all. Not that he would ever really wish this mess on her, despite what he’d said to his mother.

“Den?” he repeated humorously. “I know none of us have a high opinion of the Mistrans, but are we referring to them as animals now?”

“Your Majesty, I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Basil cut the nobleman off mercilessly. “And I wasn’t seeking your permission, My Lord.” He once again glanced around the group. “Do I take it, then, that no one wishes to volunteer for the delegation?”

A cleared throat made Basil turn toward the far end of the table, where a nobleman no more than fifteen years his senior sat. The man hadn’t spoken before now, and Basil struggled for a moment to remember his name.

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