Different Worlds

CHAPTER 8: THE STEP DOWN

Grey morning light entered the physician’s room through the narrow windows, touching the stone walls without warming them.

The war was over.

At least for now.

The keep still smelled of smoke, boiled linen, and wet stone. The scent of blood lingered beneath the sharper odors of herbs and disinfecting spirits. Somewhere beyond the room, a hammer struck broken masonry. Men were already repairing what the enemy had destroyed, though the sound of their work lacked the rhythm of ordinary construction. Every blow seemed to remind the keep that it had survived by inches.

Ethan sat on the edge of the physician’s bed.

His left hand held a cup of water. His right rested in his lap, the fingers curled slightly inward.

Not closed.

Not open.

The physician stood in front of him with his arms folded beneath his robe.

“You should remain in bed.”

Ethan took a slow drink.

“I have remained in bed for three days.”

“You have remained sitting on the edge of it.”

“A technical distinction.”

“A useful one.”

Ethan set the cup on the table beside him and pushed himself upright.

The physician reached for his arm.

Ethan waved him away.

“I can stand.”

He rose.

For a moment, his knees held him without complaint. Then his injured shoulder pulled sharply, and pain flashed across his face. He caught the edge of the bed with his left hand until the room steadied.

The physician watched him closely.

“You are healing.”

“My shoulder?”

“Your shoulder.”

Ethan glanced down at his right hand.

“And this?”

The physician did not answer immediately.

That hesitation was answer enough.

“The hand may improve,” he said at last.

Ethan’s mouth tightened.

“May?”

“I will not promise what I cannot control.”

“Everyone seems determined to teach me that word.”

“Which word?”

“May.”

The physician picked up the cup.

“You need rest.”

“I need the hall.”

“The hall needs a king who can remain upright.”

Ethan looked toward the door.

“Then it had better be grateful.”

He reached for his coat.

The physician sighed, but he did not try to stop him again.

────────

Fay was waiting in the eastern corridor.

She had brought a small tray of breakfast: bread still warm from the kitchen, slices of fruit, and a bowl of honey. She had also brought a clean shirt for Ethan, though she knew he would insist he could dress himself.

He emerged from the physician’s room wearing a dark coat over a clean tunic. His shoulder was bound beneath the fabric, and his right hand remained hidden in the fold of his coat.

Fay looked him over.

“You’re standing.”

“An impressive achievement.”

“Don’t get carried away.”

She lifted the tray slightly.

“Desmond requested breakfast.”

Ethan’s expression softened.

“With honey?”

“With honey.”

“Then I am under orders.”

“You are always under orders.”

“From whom?”

“Your son.”

Ethan smiled.

They began walking toward the Great Hall.

Two guards stood near an archway. Both bowed as Ethan passed. He acknowledged them with a slight nod.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Ethan stopped.

Fay turned toward him.

“What?”

“They looked at my hand.”

Fay glanced back at the guards.

“They looked at you.”

“No.”

“Ethan—”

“They looked at the hand.”

She set the tray on a wide windowsill.

Then she reached for him.

Ethan tried to pull away, but she caught his right hand before he could hide it again. His fingers were cool and stiff beneath hers.

“Let them look,” she said.

“It is not theirs.”

“Then stop hiding it like it belongs to them.”

He stared at her.

Fay held his hand between both of hers.

“You are still the same man.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“You sound very certain.”

“Someone has to.”

A bell sounded in the distance.

The notes rolled through the keep, clear and formal.

Ethan glanced toward the Great Hall.

Fay followed his gaze.

“What is it?”

“The council.”

“Already?”

“They have been waiting.”

“For what?”

Ethan looked down at his hand.

“For me to become inconvenient.”

Fay’s expression hardened.

“You’re not inconvenient.”

“Not to you.”

“That should be enough.”

Ethan gave her a tired look.

“It has never been enough for a kingdom.”

She picked up the tray.

“Then perhaps the kingdom should learn.”

────────

The Great Hall had been rearranged.

The bodies were gone. The blood had been scrubbed from the stone. The broken furniture had been removed, and the long council table had been returned to its place beneath the tall windows.

But the war remained in every face.

The council sat along the table, their expressions solemn and watchful. Some had fresh bandages beneath their collars. Others wore mourning black. The servants moved quietly around them, keeping their eyes lowered.

The Old Steward stood beside the Book of Houses.

Thomas was present as well.

He wore a dark formal coat with a silver chain resting against his throat. His posture was perfectly straight, his expression carefully composed. He looked as though he had not slept since the attack—or as though sleep had simply become another thing he had learned to do without.

When Ethan entered with Fay, the hall rose.

Not everyone rose at the same speed.

Some stood immediately.

Some hesitated.

Some looked first at Ethan’s face, then at his injured shoulder, and finally at the hand concealed inside his coat.

Fay noticed every one of them.

Ethan walked toward the raised platform at the far end of the hall.

The throne stood above the floor on three broad stone steps. The crown was not resting upon it. Instead, the royal seal lay on a velvet cushion before the seat.

The Old Steward bowed.

“Your Majesty.”

“Steward.”

“The council has been called under emergency provision.”

“The war is over.”

“The war has paused.”

“Then the council can pause with it.”

Thomas’s voice came from the table.

“It cannot.”

Ethan turned his head.

Thomas stood with one hand resting against the back of his chair.

“The realm requires continuity,” he said.

“The realm requires sleep.”

“The realm requires a lawful hand.”

The words fell into the hall like a stone dropped into still water.

Fay looked from Thomas to Ethan.

Ethan walked to the first step of the platform.

He did not sit.

“Say what you came to say.”

The Old Steward opened the Book of Houses.

Its pages were thick and dark, their edges worn smooth by generations of hands. The writing upon them seemed older than the hall itself.

“Under the emergency provisions of the Avelor Crown Law,” the Steward began, “the seat must remain with one who can bear its obligations.”

Ethan’s face remained still.

“I have borne them for twenty years.”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps it remembers me.”

“The law does not remember.”

“That is why it is so often wrong.”

A murmur passed through the council.

Thomas glanced toward the Steward.

“Continue.”

The Old Steward’s fingers tightened against the edge of the book.

“The crown is not owned,” he said. “It is carried.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed.

“The seal is the physical sign of the seat. The bearer must receive it, close the hand upon it, and hold it without assistance.”

Fay looked at Ethan’s right hand.

Ethan’s voice was quiet.

“You have made a ceremony out of a grip.”

“The law was written when ceremony was the only way to make a thing visible.”

“Then write a better law.”

“I do not write the law.”

“No.”

Ethan looked toward Thomas.

“You only find ways to use it.”

Thomas did not react.

The Old Steward gestured toward the velvet cushion.

“Your Majesty, take the seal.”

The hall became silent.

The seal was a heavy piece of dark metal. Its face bore the symbol of Avelor: a door beneath a crown.

Ethan stared at it.

Fay stepped forward.

“He has just survived a war.”

Thomas turned toward her.

“The law does not ask whether he is tired.”

“Then the law is a fool.”

“The law is older than either of us.”

“That doesn’t make it intelligent.”

Ethan lifted his left hand.

“Enough.”

He stepped toward the cushion.

His right hand remained at his side.

The Old Steward watched him.

“The right hand, sire.”

Ethan looked at him.

“Why?”

“Because the right hand is the hand of the crown.”

“And if the right hand is wounded?”

“Then the law must determine whether the bearer remains able.”

The words seemed to tighten the air around them.

Ethan reached toward the seal.

His right hand trembled.

He tried to straighten his fingers.

The thumb moved.

The first finger bent.

The others remained curled.

He reached farther.

His fingertips brushed the metal.

The seal shifted beneath his touch.

Ethan concentrated. His jaw tightened as he tried to close his hand around it.

Nothing happened.

The seal slipped from beneath his fingers.

It struck the stone floor with a sharp, metallic clang.

The sound traveled through the hall.

It seemed to strike every wall, every window, every person standing beneath the crown.

Ethan looked down.

No one spoke.

Fay drew in a breath.

“He can try again.”

The Old Steward’s face was pale.

“The law has witnessed the attempt.”

“Then let it witness another.”

Ethan’s voice cut across hers.

“No.”

Fay turned toward him.

“Ethan—”

“No.”

He stared at the seal on the floor.

“It has seen enough.”

────────

The Old Steward bent to retrieve the seal.

Before he could reach it, Thomas stepped forward.

He moved without haste. There was no triumph in his face, no satisfaction in his eyes. He simply crossed the space between the table and the platform, bent down, and picked up the seal.

The Steward held out his hand.

Thomas placed the seal in it.

The old man closed his fingers around the metal, then turned and offered it to Thomas.

Thomas accepted it.

His hand closed around the seal.

The change in the room was almost imperceptible.

A guard straightened.

A clerk lowered his head.

One of the councilmen knelt.

Then another.

Fay looked at Ethan.

He stood completely still.

Thomas turned toward him.

“I did not ask for this.”

Ethan’s eyes remained fixed on the seal.

“No.”

“I would not have chosen this hour.”

“No.”

“But the law has chosen.”

Ethan’s expression hardened.

“The law has always enjoyed pretending it has no hands.”

The Old Steward turned toward the council.

“By the provisions of the Crown Law—”

“Don’t,” Ethan said.

The Steward stopped.

Ethan looked around the hall.

“Don’t say it like a victory.”

No one answered.

“A man has fallen.”

His gaze shifted to Thomas.

“That does not make the man who stands taller.”

Thomas’s face remained unreadable.

“No,” he said.

A pause followed.

“But it makes him responsible.”

Ethan looked at him for a long moment.

Then he nodded once.

“Then be responsible.”

He turned away.

────────

Fay followed Ethan toward the doors.

Behind them, the Old Steward began reading again.

“The seat cannot remain without a bearer.”

Fay stopped.

Thomas stood before the throne with the seal closed in his hand.

“The bearer shall assume the duties of the crown until such time as the law recognizes a restored claim.”

Fay looked toward Ethan.

He had reached the bottom step.

He was not looking back.

“Ethan.”

He stopped.

The hall seemed to wait with him.

Fay crossed the distance between them.

“You don’t have to leave like this.”

“Like what?”

“As if they have already taken everything.”

Ethan’s gaze moved toward the throne.

“They have taken the seat.”

“Not you.”

“They will try.”

He turned toward her.

“Don’t let them teach you to confuse the two.”

Fay reached for his hand.

He gave her the left.

She took it.

For a moment, they stood together in the middle of the hall, beneath the crown and before the book that had just declared him unable to carry what he had carried for twenty years.

Then Desmond’s voice rose from the side of the room.

“Papa?”

Fay turned.

Desmond stood near the doorway with Mara beside him. He held his wooden horse against his chest and watched the adults with a solemnity that did not belong on his young face.

Ethan’s expression softened immediately.

“Come here.”

Desmond ran to him.

Ethan lowered himself with difficulty, and the boy threw his arms around his neck.

“Did you win?” Desmond asked.

Ethan closed his eyes.

“We are still here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Fay looked at him.

Ethan rested his cheek against Desmond’s hair.

“Yes.”

Desmond pulled back.

“Can we have breakfast now?”

A faint smile touched Ethan’s mouth.

“With honey.”

Desmond’s attention shifted to Ethan’s right hand.

“Why is your hand hiding?”

Ethan glanced down.

“It is tired.”

“Hands get tired?”

“This one does.”

Desmond took Ethan’s injured hand in both of his small hands.

He tried to pull the fingers open.

They did not move.

“Come on,” the boy whispered.

Ethan watched him.

“You have to open.”

Fay looked away.

Ethan’s eyes shone, but he did not let the tears fall.

“Papa?”

“It is trying.”

“Try harder.”

Ethan gave a small, broken laugh.

“I am.”

Desmond kissed the back of his hand.

Then he looked toward the throne.

Thomas stood there, holding the seal.

“Why is he holding Papa’s thing?”

No one answered.