"I wouldn't grow too eager. Aldric, like most kings and queens, is a man best avoided whenever possible and handled like a crag boar when you cannot."
Garin's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Bran glanced to either side at the guards flanking them and spoke loudly enough for them to hear. "When Aldric came into power eleven years ago, he faced opposition from within and without. His father's power had been slowly crumbling away during his reign, and the nobility were claiming more for themselves. They even began demanding a Peers' House in the fashion of the Gladelysh so they might weigh in on the making of the law and the ruling of the kingdom. Twenty-two years old at the time of his coronation, Aldric seemed an impressionable boy to the nobility, a puppet by which they could take yet more power from the throne."
The guards wore frowns, but neither interrupted as Bran continued.
"But Aldric was far from a puppet. Knowing he needed to consolidate power, he manufactured an affront from Jakad and invaded their small kingdom. Typically, an act of war would be protested by the nobility, but Aldric was clever, promising to reward key houses with significant lands from the kingdom once it was won, and keep little of it for the crown. It played on both the nobility's petty politics, allowing some to lord their promised winnings over their rivals, and their greed, for Jakadi vineyards and the wine they produce are favored across the Westreach.
"But Sendesh, as Avendor's balancing power, couldn't ignore such an aggressive act. Believing Avendor overcommitted to the Jakadi front, the Sendeshi Protector declared war in defense of their ally and began to march south. But Aldric had known Sendesh would come and had set a plan in motion. While his armies swept through Jakad, he sent ships to Nemenport, a Sendeshi town important for trade along the northern coast. Yet Aldric didn't sail his warships, nor fly the flags of Avendor, but instead commandeered fishing vessels and trade boats and raised the black sails of the northern marauders, the Yraldi. Oddly enough, it became the foreshadowing of the summer that would follow, where the Yraldi came down in greater force than they ever had before."
The guards were nodding now, eyes gleaming as they basked in the reflected glory of their King's butchery. Though I'm the last man who can condemn another's massacre, Bran mused.
"Burning and pillaging Nemenport, Aldric's self-fashioned marauders swept east along the coast, razing three other Sendeshi towns as they went. It was enough to force Sendesh to split its forces into two, with half the army continuing to march south and the other returning to deal with the incursions. But by the time Sendesh had reached Avendor's border, Jakad had been conquered, and King Aldric extended them a claim they couldn't refuse, granting them the best of the Jakadi vineyards and castles. The Sendeshi Protector, seeming to have lost his appetite for blood and gained one for wine, accepted the offer after only minor skirmishes. Ever since, it has established an uneasy peace between our nations, but one long enough that the Annexation of Jakad has been touted as a victory."
For a youth walking through a castle for the first time, Garin looked strangely somber. "My father must have died in one of those wars," he murmured. "In Jakad, or Sendesh. I thought he went to the Fringes. But it was eleven years ago that he went to serve the King and never came back."
How well I know it. Bran found he couldn't look at the youth. "Must have," he muttered.
It was almost a relief when they reached the throne room. A pair of doors nearly as impressive as the ones at the castle's entrance were cracked open in the middle so that Bran could see glances of the glimmering gold room beyond. The youth's mood had sobered since his story, his thoughts no doubt on his long-lost father, and the King he believed had sacrificed him for his own gain, but he perked up at this fresh glimpse of grandeur.
The guards at the doors took their weapons while their escort motioned them toward the entrance. As they stepped through, the room opened up into a dazzling, airy atmosphere. Sunlight from high windows filled the room with an ethereal glow, and everywhere gold and silver gleamed in complement to the apple red and sunset orange of the Rexall crest. On either side of the room, guards lined the walls, and between them, brown-robed monks stood similarly at attention.
Though their simple, coarse clothing looked out of place among the opulence of the room, Bran wasn't surprised to find them present. Monks of the Order of Ataraxis — or Mutes, as most called them — were often used by the monarchs of the Westreach to utilize to their peculiar power of Quietude. Assumedly attained through their oath of silence to the Whispering Gods, Quietude allowed Mutes to produce a barrier of silence around them when they chanted, ensuring that undesired ears would not overhear the proceedings. That the monks themselves might hear was of little concern; between their chanting and their magic, their eavesdropping was unlikely, and their silence assured. At the moment, the monks were quiet, and they watched the newcomers with demure stares.
Turning his gaze from the monks, Bran looked to the far end of the long, red carpet on which they stood to the golden throne and the man sitting atop it. His face was a mixture of annoyance and boredom as he stared at the half-circle of other richly dressed folk around him. As every king should look, Bran reflected.
Before they had taken more than a few steps toward the King, however, a herald approached them with an expectant look. Aelyn turned to Bran, one eyebrow arched, a cold smile twisting his lips. Garin watched Bran as well, seeming to realize something was about to happen, curiosity alight in his eyes.
Bran met Aelyn's gaze and knew then that Bran the Chicken Farmer would soon be just another chapter in his past.
He sighed. "I'll tell him myself — if he doesn't remember."
The mage, still smirking, waved the herald back and began leading Bran and Garin down the pristine carpet, ignoring the monks and guards to either side of them. Garin seemed nervous even to walk on the rich fabric, but followed a step behind Bran.
As they approached, the King glanced up from the men and women surrounding his throne to stare at them. "Emissary Aelyn," he said in a thin, nasally voice. "I expected you to return last week."
The King's gaze fell on Bran, and he tried not to flinch. King Aldric Rexall the Fourth was not an intimidating man in looks. He had pudgy cheeks, a weak chin, and large, watery eyes that made him seem a large babe sitting the throne, never mind having nearly three and a half decades to his age. But looks were a mask, as Bran had long ago learned during his time in an acting troupe, and though he wasn't a gambling man — at least, not anymore — he would have wagered gold that Avendor had never seen a more ruthless king.
"Your Majesty," Aelyn said as he swept off his hat and gave a low bow. His voice had gathered a sycophantic air that had been distinctly absent from any words he'd uttered to his companions. "My deepest and sincerest apologies. I would have come sooner, but a tragic lack of horses delayed my errand."
At this, the mage flashed a nasty look at Bran.
"Never mind, never mind." King Aldric wrinkled his nose and waved a hand as if trying to banish a particularly persistent flatulence. "Councilors, I bid you leave us. You guards as well. But stay close — this won't take long."
The guards bowed, then led the arc of councilors from the throne room. As the most powerful men and women of Avendor passed, eyeing them curiously, Bran kept his gaze solidly forward, forcing an insolent smile onto his lips. Let them think of that, he thought. A man who would dare smile before a private audience with the King. No doubt they'd consider him a fool, and that was all the better — a fool was permitted to do what a wise man never could.