The Kingdom's Most Useless Princess

The first person to announce Princess Elara Valedorn's arrest was the executioner. "Your Highness," he said, tightening his grip on the axe, "I would strongly advise you to step away from the condemned." Elara looked at the man kneeling on the execution platform. Then she looked at the executioner. Then she looked at the three hundred people gathered in the palace square to witness an execution that, until approximately thirty seconds ago, had absolutely nothing to do with her. "Why?" she asked. "Has he become contagious?" A nervous murmur passed through the crowd. The executioner stared at her. Lord Cassian Veyr, former royal adviser and current traitor to the Crown, lifted his head. For the first time that morning, he smiled. "Do you see?" he said to the executioner. "This is precisely why the kingdom is doomed." Elara sighed. "If the kingdom is doomed, Lord Cassian, I would appreciate it if you stopped announcing the fact every time I speak. People might begin to think I am responsible." "You are responsible for more than you know." "That sounds expensive. I hope someone has informed the treasury." A few people laughed. They stopped when Prince Adrian turned towards them. Her elder brother stood on the raised platform beside the royal council, dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Northern Command. His ceremonial sword hung at his waist. A silver clasp fastened his cloak at the shoulder, bearing the emblem of House Valedorn: a crowned falcon with its wings spread over a mountain. Adrian had the sort of face that inspired confidence in soldiers and immediate honesty in people who had done something wrong. Elara had never understood why. In her experience, the people who looked most confident were usually the ones who had misplaced something important. Sometimes it was a document. Sometimes it was an entire army. She glanced at the royal council. Twelve councillors sat behind a long table beneath the palace's eastern balcony. Their expressions ranged from grave concern to the barely concealed satisfaction of people who had spent months waiting for someone else to be disgraced. At the centre sat Lord Merek Thorne, the Lord Chancellor. He had a narrow face, silver hair, and a permanent expression of disapproval that made it difficult to determine whether he was angry or simply remembering an unpleasant lunch. Beside him stood a thin palace official carrying a stack of documents against his chest. The official appeared to be arguing with a guard about the position of a chair. Elara recognised him. Master Oren Bell, assistant keeper of royal records, had spent the previous week complaining that the council had requested too many documents without completing the proper requisition forms. He had also sent Elara a written notice informing her that the library's eastern staircase would be closed for maintenance. The staircase had been closed for three days. There had been no maintenance. Oren had subsequently informed her that the closure had been necessary to protect the structural integrity of the building. Elara had asked whether the staircase had developed political opinions. Oren had not found this amusing. He rarely found anything amusing. At that moment, he was trying to convince a guard that moving his chair without authorisation constituted a breach of palace procedure. Elara looked away. There were more pressing matters. Such as the condemned man who had just announced that she was responsible for the kingdom's impending destruction. "Lord Cassian," she said, "if you intend to accuse me of something, could you at least choose a crime I have committed?" "I am not accusing you." "You have just told an executioner that I am responsible for the kingdom's downfall." "I said you were responsible for more than you know." "That is considerably worse. At least a specific accusation gives me something to deny." Cassian's smile disappeared. For several seconds, he studied her. Then he leaned forward, as far as the ropes around his wrists allowed. "Princess, listen carefully. Your father did not die of the illness recorded in the royal physician's report." The crowd went silent. Elara felt the change before she understood it. The executioner's fingers tightened around the axe handle. A councillor stopped whispering. Somewhere behind the crowd, a child began crying and was quickly hushed. Even Adrian turned. "My father died after three days of fever," Elara said. "That is what the palace announced." "And the physician confirmed it." "The physician signed a document." "Yes." "That is not the same as confirming the truth." Elara looked towards the council. Lord Merek Thorne had gone very still. That interested her more than Cassian's accusation. The Lord Chancellor was a man who reacted to most surprises by demanding a written explanation. Yet he was staring at the condemned adviser as if he had just heard a language he had spent twenty years hoping never to encounter. Elara returned her attention to Cassian. "What are you saying?" "I am saying that your father was already dead when the physician arrived." A woman in the crowd gasped. Adrian descended one step from the platform. "Enough." Cassian ignored him. "Your father summoned three people to his private chambers during his final night. One left before midnight. Another left shortly before dawn. The third—" "Lord Cassian," Adrian interrupted, "you have been convicted of treason, forgery, and conspiring with a foreign power. You will not use your final moments to spread accusations you cannot prove." "Then let me prove them." "You had your opportunity." "I had an opportunity to defend myself against a forged account of events. I was not permitted to examine the original evidence." "You were given a hearing." "Before a council whose decision had been made before I entered the room." Several councillors shifted in their seats. Elara glanced at Adrian. Her brother's expression had hardened, but she noticed something else: he was not looking at Cassian anymore. He was looking at the royal records official. Master Oren Bell had finally abandoned his argument about the chair. He was watching the condemned adviser with an expression Elara could not quite interpret. It might have been irritation. It might have been fear. Or perhaps he was simply wondering whether the execution would delay the processing of the morning's paperwork. With Oren, all three possibilities seemed equally likely. "Thirty seconds," Cassian said. Elara blinked. "What?" "You have approximately thirty seconds to decide whether you wish to save your father's murderer." "My father's murderer?" "Yes." "You have just told me my father did not die of the illness recorded in the physician's report." "Correct." "And now you are calling me his murderer?" "No, Princess. I am calling you the person who may be capable of discovering who actually killed him." Elara stared at him. Then she looked at the executioner. "Has anyone explained the procedure to this man?" The executioner looked deeply uncomfortable. "I beg your pardon?" "The procedure. Does the condemned receive a final opportunity to make an accusation, or are we expected to improvise until he says something useful?" "Your Highness, I believe—" "Because if we are improvising, I would like to suggest that we postpone the execution until after lunch. People become remarkably uncooperative when they are hungry." Someone laughed. This time, the laughter lasted longer. Adrian closed his eyes briefly. Elara knew that expression. It was the expression he wore whenever he considered asking the gods to replace him with a less troublesome sister. She had been trying to persuade him to do so since childhood. He had yet to submit the necessary paperwork. "Elara," he said, "step away from the platform." "Why?" "Because I have ordered it." "That is a reason for you to expect obedience. It is not an explanation for me." "Now is not the time." "You say that about every time." "Elara." "Adrian." For one brief moment, the royal square felt almost ordinary. Then the palace bells began to ring. Not the slow, measured toll used to announce a royal death. Not the single bell sounded when an important visitor entered the capital. These bells rang rapidly, one after another, so urgently that their notes collided above the square. Every soldier turned towards the palace. Adrian's hand moved to his sword. The Lord Chancellor stood so abruptly that his chair struck the wall behind him. Master Oren Bell dropped his documents. They scattered across the platform. He stared at them in horror. "Nobody move!" he shouted. Nobody paid attention. A soldier came running through the eastern gate, shoving past the guards. Dust covered his uniform, and one sleeve had been torn at the shoulder. He stumbled before the platform and dropped to one knee. "Your Highness!" Adrian descended the remaining steps. "Report."! "The northern fortress." "What about it?" The soldier struggled to catch his breath. "The royal banner has been lowered." For a moment, nobody spoke. Adrian seized the soldier's arm. "Has it fallen?" "No, Your Highness." "Then why has the banner been lowered?" The soldier swallowed. "The commander has surrendered the fortress." The silence that followed was so complete that Elara could hear a loose ribbon fluttering against the execution platform. Adrian's expression changed. The northern fortress stood at the entrance to the mountain pass separating Valedorn from the Kingdom of Darsen. Its walls guarded the principal military route into the northern provinces. No enemy army could advance through the pass without confronting the fortress. No merchant caravan could cross safely without the commander's permission. And no neighbouring ruler could threaten Valedorn's northern territories without considering the soldiers stationed behind its walls. The fortress had never surrendered in three centuries. "On whose authority?" Adrian demanded. The soldier hesitated. "His Majesty's." The Lord Chancellor came down from the platform. "The king is dead." "Yes, my lord." "Then the king cannot issue orders." "The commander received the decree before His Majesty died." Adrian released the soldier. "What decree?" The man reached inside his uniform and produced a folded document. A royal seal hung from its lower edge. Elara recognised the falcon pressed into the red wax. She had watched her father use that seal hundreds of times. The soldier held the document out. Adrian took it. He examined the seal, then unfolded the parchment. His expression became unreadable as he read. "What does it say?" Lord Merek demanded. Adrian did not answer immediately. He read the document a second time. Then he looked at the council. "The king ordered the temporary transfer of the northern fortress to Darsen." "Temporary?" the Chancellor asked. "That is what the document states." "Under what conditions?" Adrian's jaw tightened. "It contains additional provisions." "Read them." Adrian looked down at the parchment. For the first time since Elara had arrived at the execution ground, her brother appeared uncertain. He read aloud. "Upon transfer of the northern fortress, the Crown shall recognise the terms of the founding charter concerning the legitimacy of the royal succession." A councillor rose. "That is not a transfer provision." "No," another said. "It is a constitutional provision." "What does it mean?" someone demanded. The Lord Chancellor snatched the document from Adrian. He read the clause. His face went pale. Elara had never seen Lord Merek Thorne look pale. She had seen him furious, offended, exhausted, and once so irritated that he had spent an entire dinner explaining the proper placement of serving spoons. But never pale. "What is the meaning of this?" Adrian demanded. The Chancellor folded the parchment. "We must convene the council immediately." "We are the council," Elara observed. Nobody looked at her. She considered repeating herself. Then she noticed the seal. There was something wrong with it. Not the falcon. The design was correct. Not the wax. It was the right shade of red. The impression itself, however, was too clean. Her father had used the royal seal for decades. The edges of the original impression were slightly uneven because the seal's lower rim had developed a small flaw. Elara remembered it because she had once pressed the seal into a lump of wax as a child and been f*******n from entering the royal study for a month. This impression had no flaw. She leaned forward. "May I see that?" Adrian turned towards her. "No." "I only want to examine the seal." "You will do no such thing." "Then I shall have to examine it from here." "Elara." "Adrian." He looked as though he regretted every decision that had led to their birth. The Lord Chancellor placed the document inside a leather folder. "Secure it," he ordered. A guard stepped forward. Before he could take the folder, Cassian began to laugh. It was not a pleasant sound. It was the laughter of a man who had spent the morning watching people walk towards a cliff while congratulating themselves on their excellent sense of direction. "You see?" he said. "You have already begun." Adrian turned. "Silence him." "Your Highness," Cassian continued, "the decree is not the danger." "Take him away." "The danger is that you will do exactly what the person who created it expects." Two guards seized Cassian's arms. He did not resist. He looked directly at Elara. “Your father knew what was coming,” Cassian said. “Ask your sister what she saw in the study. Ask her before they make her choose.” Adrian's expression hardened. “Take him away.” The guards seized Cassian by the arms. “Wait,” Adrian said, turning towards the messenger. “You said the commander received the decree before the king died. How long before?” The messenger hesitated. “Four days, Your Highness.” For a moment, nobody spoke. Adrian stared at him. “Four days? The king died three days ago.” “Yes, Your Highness. The commander believed the document had been prepared before His Majesty's death.” “Believed?” Adrian's voice sharpened. “Your commander surrendered the northern fortress based on what he believed?” “His Majesty's seal was on the decree. The commander was bound by the royal military code.” “Then he should have read the code more carefully.” “Perhaps,” Elara said, “we should first establish whether the decree was genuine before deciding which part of the military code your commander failed to understand.” Adrian turned towards her. His jaw tightened. “You will have plenty of time to offer your opinions later.” “How reassuring.” He gestured to the guards. “Take Princess Elara to the eastern apartments. No one should visit her without my permission.” This time, the guards did not hesitate. As they escorted her away, Elara glanced back at the messenger. His face was pale, but he was no longer looking at Adrian. He was looking at her. And whatever he knew, he was afraid to say it aloud.