Manipulator's War

Chapter 3: Loss

Chapter 3

Loss

Kyura: the Zaldeaan Realm, Eight Weeks Earlier

King Kyura’s beringed hand ran across a finely carved wooden cradle. His glistening eyes swept across the soft toys lined up inside it and the blankets spread before them. His gaze came to rest on newly woven swaddling, which ought to be warming his son, and the embroidery on it, a dragon sewn by his wife’s hand. It was time to face this room and the future that could have been.

Footsteps approached. Only one person in the palace had permission to enter a room Kyura occupied during the Month of Mourning: his eldest sister, Governor Syenne.

“The court was very generous,” he told her, his voice trembling slightly. He turned from the distressing sight of the empty cot to the painted wooden toys lining the walls of the empty nursery. “Such a nice welcome, he would have had.”

The toys were an insufficient distraction. Kyura swept up the swaddling, eager to touch her handiwork, hesitant lest his rough fingers damage the delicate embroidery, the final work of her hands.

Syenne halted beside him.

“Lenine will look after him,” Kyura told Syenne. “She was clever, sure of herself, and strong. That’s why I married her. I don’t know how I’ll manage without her.”

Tears spilled down his face. He could still picture the way the sun made her golden hair shine and the light of intelligence in those kind blue eyes, the first time she advised him, in a chance meeting in the palace gardens. It was a week since he had last slept beside her and sometimes he still tried to fight the idea she was gone.

“You do not rule alone, little brother,” Syenne said curtly.

Sometimes he found his older sister forbidding, but tonight it was a comfort to feel the firm grip of her hands around his upper arms and to see the normally fixed lines on her face curve in concern. At thirty-nine, she was twenty years older than he, and he could see all of those years in her expression.

“I will stay in court for three more weeks. Cousin Iomar can visit the month after. I know you would prefer to have us both, but you must present a strong face to the people.”

“Lest the war-hungry, brawny idiots think their sensitive king ripe to depose?” Kyura said bitterly.

He drew a steadying breath, nervous of meeting her gaze because Syenne never flinched from the truth. Lenine had been right; Syenne would support him. Her loyalty to family was as strong as her military skill, which had enabled her to kill three assassins to date.

He braced himself and met Syenne’s gaze. Had those care lines creased her mouth and eyes before Lenine’s death? Syenne’s pale face was more angular than Kyura’s round one; her nose was pointed and the gaze of her pale blue eyes, as they rested upon him, was softer and warmer than he recalled.

She smiled. Then she swept him into her arms and he hugged her back, letting the tears fall. “You don’t need to put on a king’s hard face with me,” she whispered. “I have many enemies, and while the list of your enemies may be growing, for politics, we are allies. Always. I was Father’s right-hand man, and while my reputation would lead the court to think you are my puppet if I appear too close to you, that does not mean you cannot write for advice or that we cannot visit each other. Politics aside, you are my only brother to survive the Sea Plague, and I will support you through whatever the Gods neglect to defend you against.”

“I keep forgetting what Mother said: the position isn’t the person.” Kyura stepped away. He exhaled deeply, blinking tears down his cheeks until his vision cleared. He met his sister’s eyes as she smiled.

“I know you don’t remember her very well,” said Syenne, “but when Father appointed me governor, she impressed that upon me. And Lenine loved you for more than your position, as does your friend Aoran. Keep him close, but privately. We don’t want the court misinterpreting your relationship.”

Kyura slumped. Aoran was the only friend he trusted as much as Lenine, but the court wasn’t to know Aoran was Kyura’s cousin’s lover, not Kyura’s. The consequences of the court drawing false conclusions about their relationship didn’t bear thinking about.

Kyura turned back to the cot and swaddling he still clutched in both hands, caressing it without realising it.

“Father will find them,” Syenne said gently. “He should be familiar enough with navigating the next life to do so by now.”

Kyura took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. Losing his father, then wife and first-born child, only nine months apart, weighed on him so heavily that he felt thrice his years.

“I am sure he will. And he would want me to go on. I will attend the unveiling of his statue after the Month of Mourning, as planned. Let the people see that their king’s capacity to cry does not make him broken.”

When the Month of Mourning ended, King Kyura prepared for a public appearance. His servants fitted the diamond-studded helmet, which served as the Zaldeaan crown on formal occasions, on his head, and fastened the royal fur cloak over his silken tunic and black wolf fur trousers. They wiped his face with a cool cloth and brushed his golden hair so it sat straight across the line of his narrow, clean-shaven jaw.

He slid off his chair, ignoring how his bodyguards stood head and shoulders above their king, ignoring that his physique and temperament flew in the face of all his people valued in their men, and strode out of his chambers. Syenne met him in the hallway. Her hair was down in mourning, combed to golden silk. Her skin was porcelain from many hours indoors politicking, and her regal silk dress matched the colour of the sky Lenine and his son’s spirits were traversing.

The frescoed corridors before them mirrored the emptiness of his heart but also gave him peace in which to rally himself, to show the influential members of his court that neither his age nor his youth meant they could take advantage of his grief. The King’s Hall, separating the royal chambers from the rest of the palace, was anything but quiet. High officials stood golden cloaked in a cluster to his right, his generals and captains bowed in silver cloaks in the middle. Nearest stood his Uncle Derlan, a grave, silver-haired version of Kyura’s late father. The court waited as his uncle approached.

“My brother would approve of you re-entering public so soon,” said Derlan. “Do as you usually would, nephew, and show the unruly mob who their king is. But that is what your sister told you, isn’t it?”

“Of course, uncle,” Syenne replied, sounding as stately as ever.

“Are you coming to Father’s statue’s unveiling, uncle?” Kyura asked.

“I shall follow where you lead,” Derlan replied, his head at its usually stately tilt, his gaze meeting Kyura’s yet somehow unreadable.

Kyura paused. Uncle Derlan had led soldiers in the Sea Wars and had never made much show of supporting his brother, Kyura’s father’s, Peace, but they were in public, so Kyura forced a smile, then turned to face his court.

“Highest of Kings, our deepest condolences to you.”

Kyura turned to the most eloquent and lowest of his High Officials, recognising the subtle insult in them nominating that man to speak on their behalf. The man had even found time to oil his fashionable beard before offering condolences. But this was the Zaldeaan court, and those who stood within it wore the masks tradition required as they clawed their way to power. No less was required of Kyura.

“You have our thanks,” he said formally, a player on stage, reciting assigned lines with little genuine feeling.

“Buffoon,” Derlan put in quietly, and Kyura almost smirked.

Kyura moved on. The silver-cloaked generals and captains had the decency to look grave rather than falsely upset, but was it his imagination, or was there an almost predatory look in some eyes?

“Our condolences on your loss, Highest of Kings. May Fahria and Jormaan make your next son a great warrior.”

The First General looked sincere, though that was of little comfort. Kyura suspected the army primarily wanted a strong heir, perhaps to replace his weak father.

“I would have thought tactics would make generals more tactful,” Derlan quipped, and this time Kyura’s lips raised slightly at the uncle he had always thought of as a military man playing court jester.

At the back of the hall, Kyura’s official companions waited in the position tradition relegated common-born men: last. Companion Armar bowed, his features solemn. When he straightened, his posture was still slumped, his gaze downcast. Armar tended to be sombre, but Lenine knew how to make him smile, and Kyura suspected he would miss her dearly.

Kyura’s brooding half-uncle cast tradition to the winds and embraced him. Kyura hugged him back but heard a snicker as they stepped apart. He straightened, flushing, and stared down the offending low official, who swiftly smoothed his expression to the neutrality of the officials surrounding him.

Kyura walked on, bodyguards falling into step beside his Companions as he departed the hall, exchanging the alert and piercing eyes of a court he had not yet won over for a quiet corridor alongside offices of state. Syenne had been right to advise him not to invite Aoran today. He would have to fulfil his duties with family and companions of official rank.

Servants rushed to open the doors ahead, and guards bowed Kyura and his companions out of the palace’s confines. As they descended the palace steps, the cool breeze brushing his face and broad skies in which a bright, warmth-less Planting Season sun shone were a welcome change. Crowds in the street, shoppers with money pouches at their waists, servants in black linens, the wealthy in fur cloaks, and the poor in homespun woollens, parted before Kyura with heads bowed. In the distance, he heard hawkers crying wares and trundling carts, but before him was a vast sea of silence. A woman suckling a child gave him a pained, sympathetic smile, and Kyura halted in his tracks at a sight he should see in his chambers every day but would not.

“Go on,” Syenne whispered.

Kyura made himself walk, but he couldn’t banish the grimace from his face. Elders signed blessings and women and children lined his path with flowers. Every day, scraggly things, not as perfect as those which would wreath the King’s Hall for the Month of Memory, but here, among the people, Kyura felt acceptance. His bodyguards surveyed the crowds, their postures relaxing as they sensed the mood of the often-frowned-upon-in-court masses. No one noticed a child clutching a hand sewn toy slip through the crowd. Kyura stared in surprise as the small boy said to him, “Mummy said you lost your baby. Would you like Tassy? He always looks after me when I’m sad.”

The procession halted. A woman gasped, raising both hands to her mouth. The boy hadn’t addressed Kyura with a title. He looked about four years old.

Kyura smiled. “I thank you for this generous offering, boy. But you may yet need Tassy, so you may keep him.”

The boy beamed, then ran back into the crowd at a summons from an older woman, who embraced him while his mother rushed forwards, wrapping him up in her arms. A small smile crept across Kyura’s lips as he walked on.

Ahead, Kyura’s late father’s statue stood at an intersection, the bronze figure glistening in the sun as it towered above the crowd. King Kyomi was cast in Zaldeaan plate armour, but instead of brandishing a sword or spear like most great men, Kyomi the Peacemaker released a murin bird, the symbol of peace. As Kyura drew nearer, he noted that the birds’ feet were bent, just about to leave his hands, and its wings were outstretched and spread mid-flap.

“It is ornate,” Kyura said, acknowledging the silver-haired bronzesmith and his leather aproned assistants standing to one side. “Your craftsmanship is unrivalled,” he added, taking time to appreciate the artistry of the bird, so heavy against such delicate feet that he was surprised it remained upright.

But his father’s face had to be acknowledged. Kyomi’s features were robust, his stature short and stocky. His determination to end decades of stalemate against the Timbalen Empire to claim the last independent kingdom on the continent — Tarlah — had sealed the first official Peace. Kyura had been four years old. But the Timbalen Empire had been absent for years. Calls to retake Tarlah had grown louder since his father’s death. Kyomi had surrendered to illness, leaving Kyura both his Peace to maintain and a growing number of opponents.

“I didn’t always get on with him,” Uncle Derlan said, “but he knew how to get the people on his side. I have always admired how well he did that.”

“The Tarlahns are coming,” Companion Karmarn whispered.

Kyura straightened, turning to face them.

“He looks marvellous,” said Prince Omah in Timbalen.

Kyura’s brain clunkily translated the language his late father had insisted all his family learn, so they could speak to the Tarlahns in their own language. Father was right. It could help diplomacy. If the Omah’s words didn’t leave Kyura turning blinking back tears.

Princess Telena smiled sympathetically. Kyura’s guards shifted.

Omah raised both hands in a placating gesture as he stepped close. “I apologise for my timing,” he said quietly, “but I would ask you, is it your wish to continue his work?”

Kyura sniffed at the Tarlahns taking advantage of his leaving the palace and its eyes and ears behind. Even so, not a single Zaldeaan would speak to him so bluntly, forcing the issue without preamble.

Kyura felt the emptiness his father, wife, and unborn child had left him. It wearied, pained, and upset him. But his faithful Companions, uncle, and sister stood behind him. He could still counter any officials who dared call for war. With support to counterbalance grief, he could resist an army of warmongers, as his father had.

He wracked his brain for appropriate Timbalen words, then replied, “It will not be easy, “but I would rule as my father did.”

“If there is anything Tarlah can do to make that easier,” Omah said, leaning in, “let Karmarn know, and we will see it done.”

Kyura managed a weak smile. So many coveted power in the Zaldeaan court that it was easy to forget that every Tarlahn approved of peace and wished him well in preserving it. But Omah wasn’t finished. “Your Greatness should know that some of your subjects do not. They have already committed an act of rebellion. There was an attempt on our Heir’s life this afternoon.”

Kyura’s chest tightened and his breathing turned shallow.

“Ruarnon is fine,” Omah assured his brother-by-law, Companion Karmarn, whose Timbalen was flawless. Then he turned to Kyura. “Whatever internal challenges you face, your Greatness has Tarlah’s support.” He bowed and took a step back.

Syenne stepped beside Kyura and led the way silently back to the palace.

“Someone tried to kill the Tarlahn heir?” he whispered in her ear.

A void opened inside him. He hadn’t even met the heir to the Tarlahn throne yet. They were supposed to take supper together tonight.

“There is opposition to Father’s Peace in court,” Syenne replied, her jaw set. “I am investigating it and I have people who can continue to do so after I return to my city.”

“What if they try to kill Prince Omah?”

Syenne met his gaze, her posture rigid. “It is possible, Brother. These may be dangerous times.”

Kyura kept silent until he bid the others goodbye and he and Syenne reached his chambers.

“How do I deal with the fact someone just tried to kill the Tarlahn heir?” he asked her as they reclined on silk cushioned seats in his sitting room.

Syenne’s gaze sharpened. “I will hunt them,” she replied without hesitation.

Kyura sighed.

“Take each day as it comes,” she advised.

“Is that how you managed opposition when you became governor?”

She nodded. “Some small battles can be won in a day, but grief is like a war, and trying to plan too much will exhaust you. Just do what needs to be done each day and let me keep watch over dissent.”

Kyura nodded, feeling so weary he could happily lie down and sleep. But he had voices of doubt and criticism to silence and traitors to w**d out, and proving the strength of his rule was integral to both. He would focus on that and trust Syenne’s help.