RE: Monarch

There were many requirements for a Lord of Balan’s stature. Deference, a certain level of competence, and some key value that only they, as both a House and individual, could bring to the table. All of those elements were important. But there was another, less lofty talent, that was absolutely vital.

Knowing when to shut the fuck up.

Unfortunately, Balan was well studied in the practice. He understood that he’d overestimated his ability to manipulate matters and that his current circumstances were dire. The consequences of his first attempt to lie to me—three darkening buildings, two of which were still burning brightly as the sun set—were swift and severe enough that he had no intention of trying again.

Despite that, his silence spoke an obvious truth. In his mind, going against my father was a more damning prospect than denying me. Something about the sudden inaction was almost disappointing. I figured he’d have more. An angle to work. Maybe an ill-advised attempt to drive a wedge between the clearly fractured relationship between the king and his heir. But as the now gaunt-looking man stared through me, mouth pursed between bloodless cheeks, I knew his course. A pity, as Vogrin’s spark bearing golems were arranged at most of the remaining storehouses.

“Nothing to say?” I prodded, taking the distraction to steel myself for what came next. “Don’t even want to shake your fist a little?”

Balan’s face twitched in disgust. “What a waste. What a flagrant, pointless waste.”

“Eh. Probably should have just shaken the fist...”

I trailed off, as Balan’s attendants returned. They were disciplined, but not so much that they didn’t pick up on the way the atmosphere of the meeting had changed, one audibly gasping when she saw the fire in the distance. They’d returned with a man, the one presumably bearing the gift. I frowned, studying him. The man was below average height, bald and clean shaven, hair sheared rather than lost. His clothes were decent but threadbare, and the slightly inhuman pink tinge of his skin and pointed black nails suggested infernal blood.

An odd find in House Westmore.

“Care to introduce our guest?” I asked.

The moment I spoke, the man’s head snapped towards me, his eyes wide. Joy, fear, excitement, and terror all warred in his expression before he seemed to reel it all in to something more neutral.

“Is it really you?” He asked. “You’ve returned?”

When—unsure of what else to do—I nodded in confirmation, the man fell to his knees and prostrated himself, pressing his forehead against the ground. He spoke, hoarse voice wrenched with pain. “Forgive me. I failed you, my lord. You kept your promise, and I have forsaken mine. It has been so long, so many, many, cycles, with no change and nothing to show for it. I lost faith…”

Before my mind could even process the words, Maya was there. She whispered something in the man’s ear and he fell quiet as her hand on his shoulder glowed green.

So many cycles.

An icy chill traveled my spine.

“His mind is severely fractured.” Maya stated grimly. “It’s a miracle he can even speak.”

“Well?” I stood, staring at Balan first, then scanning the attendants and the rest of the onlookers. “Someone want to fill me in? What’s the meaning of this?”

“May I—” A quivering voice spoke from inside, and was just as quickly silenced.

“Shut up! Not a single gods damned word, any of you!” Balan glowered, snapping to attention so quickly it was almost disorienting. It appeared as if he meant to address the entire room, but he’d reacted too swiftly to properly mask his panic. Whoever the speaker was, he meant something to the House Lord.

I folded my arms and turned to the door that lead inside from the balcony, shifting to cordial. “You may approach the crown.”

A member of my regiment brought out a familiar face I hadn’t seen since my venture into the pits. Dark hair, marred with sweat from the heat, and a nose that was barely there. Alten’s former master.

Scyld.

He scuttled forward, bowing as he went. “A pleasure as always, my prince.”

A vein stood out on Balan’s forehead. “Don’t—” He stopped mid-sentence, as a mote of violet fire raced across the table and nestled on his chest. I kept the temperature neutral, barely burning, but he could feel it.

“It would be wise to avoid obstructing matters further, Lord Balan.” I spared him a withering glance before returning my attention to the newcomer.

Scyld swallowed. “As much as I would like to respect my father’s wishes, he lacks context, as he has no prior dealings with you. Though our first meeting was a bit… adversarial and left me angry, I found you to be shrewd and reasonable. You paid a fair price for my fighter though it was clear you didn’t approve of the practice.”

Across the table, Balan groaned.

I nodded in understanding. “A favorable estimation.”

“But not undeserved. In my judgement, at least.”

“Please continue.”

Scyld straightened up, emboldened by the approval and crossed the balcony to the kneeling man. “This individual is an indentured servant. A gift, from House Westmore to the crown.”

The sheer gall of it was unfathomable. I looked over my shoulder in annoyance at Balan. “After being thoroughly informed of my stance on the practice of indentured servitude, your intention was to give me one?”

Balan’s grip on his chair tightened.

“If I may, my lord.” Scyld interrupted with a nervous chuckle. “This contribution has been in the works for some time.”

“Well, that changes things. By all means. Continue.”

“Right.” Rivulets of sweat dripped down Scyld’s face. “One of our caravans found him wandering mindlessly down a trade route down the eastern reaches. As they were about to break camp for the night, they were kind enough to offer him food and shelter. As the night went on, it became clearer how unwell he was. Indecipherable mutterings that no one could understand, references to historical events that never happened as if he’d been there. We assumed it was wasting sickness of the mind, but he had a strong body, so we offered him an indenture. His name is Daloch.”

The name resonated in the back of my mind, like an inch I couldn’t scratch.

“Despite his condition, he proved an excellent servant. So long as we were patient with him and gave him simple tasks, he carried them out quickly and efficiently.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “If the intent of this gift and the overly-long-story that accompanies it is to laud the merits of indentured servitude…”

“Part of my father’s intent. But not the whole. Because as Daloch continued his tenure, his previous master noticed certain repetitions in his rambling. He would occasionally mention existing leaders by name—utterly without deference—going on about their dealings and the ramifications of those dealings. Slowly, his former master realized his ramblings were not the simple ravings of a madman.” Scyld’s eyes gleamed. “They were predictions. Divinations that were not only accurate, but actionable.”

“So,” I said flatly, taking every effort to hide my growing concern. “You’ve brought me a soothsayer.”

“I understand how it sounds. But Daloch here—why are you kneeling? You’re not some groveling servant. Rise.” He hoisted the half-infernal to his feet, going so far as to bend down and brush off the other man’s knees. “Daloch is the genuine article.” Scyld nudged Daloch, like a child urging a tamed animal to perform a trick. “Go on. Tell him.”

Daloch stared at me, conflicted. I didn’t know what Maya whispered in his ear, but I could guess she’d told him to remain quiet. He knew what I was.

Because we were the same.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to speed things along and ensure Daloch didn’t say anything damning. But the implications of Scyld’s story were vastly farther reaching than he could realize. I wanted—no, needed confirmation.

“Go ahead.”

Daloch stared at nothing, his face a mask of focus and pain. “She is coming.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Thoth.” Daloch spat the word. “One-hundred-and-seventy-six days before she returns to Uskarrion shores. Sometimes less. Rarely more. She will overwhelm the Elven Consortium easily with the aid of their dark brethren, then move against the dwarves. If she claims both, all is lost.”

“How do you know?”

He gaped at me. “Because you—” Then suddenly cut off, swallowing. “Because I was asked to. To watch. To always watch. Never intervene, never involve myself, never speak up, or cry, or scream. Never do anything that draws attention. Just… watch.” Bitter tears spilled from his eyes.

Because you asked me to.

A wave of nausea washed over me, as I realized what that meant. I struggled to process the sheer scale of what he’d endured and failed to grasp even a fraction. I didn’t understand it all. Not yet. But connecting the dots, the partial memory I’d recovered in the wake of Lillian’s death implied there’d been many loopers, once. That they’d all lost their minds, one-by-one, and once that happened, given the danger they posed, had to be forcibly removed. The memory suggested that Thoth had killed many of them, using an unknown method to remove them from the loop. But if there were that many? Realistically, she couldn’t have handled them all. It followed that handling Daloch fell to me. And for whatever reason—perhaps his madness made him less malevolent than the others, perhaps we’d disagreed—I let him live, to remain in the loop, with instructions to observe Thoth’s movements over the cycles, suspicious of her even then.

“Uh,” Scyld interrupted. “Sorry, he’s not usually so—um—passionate. You kind of have to read between the lines.”

I ignored the handwringing, and locking eyes with the man who was in many ways the best friend I’d never had, said the only thing I could think to say.

“Thank you, Daloch.”

He stared down at the ground, overwhelmed. “Doesn’t feel real.”

“Can someone take him inside? Get him something to eat and drink?”

An attendant bowed and took Daloch by the hand, leading him away, and the man followed compliantly. Everything he’d been through, everything he’d endured. All while following the charge to stay out of sight. With his mind fraying, it wasn’t hard to see how he’d fallen into the hands of cretins like House Westmore countless times.

“So.” Scyld rubbed his hands together nervously. For the first time, I noticed they were badly burned and unbandaged. Probably from the incursion. “Do we have a consensus?”

“We do.”

The slaver’s eyebrows shot up. “Excellent. And you will postpone further discussion of the indentured servitude issue to a later date?”

“I will.”

“Fantastic.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Then I’ll uphold our end of the bargain. Princess Annette was here. We received cryptic notice from a whisperer shortly before your arrival to relocate her immediately, as well as the instruction not to use any of our usual locations.”

Thaddeus.

Still observing the proceedings placidly, Balan slowly shook his head. “You foolish, foolish boy.”

Scyld hesitated for a moment, then seemingly resolved to continue. “Given the short notice, we moved her to one of our chartered ships, moored at the docks. The frigate.”

Immediately, I strode into the house and leaned over the bannister, locating Zin. The dark elf was among several officers overseeing the hostages. “Annette’s being held in a merchant class frigate at the docks.”

“Plain sight, really?” Zin asked, unamused. “Holding the ship should be easy. Want us to go in or wait for you?”

I wavered, then made the decision. We had time to spare. “Take a small group like you did in the mock battle. Pick up whoever you can along the way. Place scouts around entrances to the docks. If you hear my father coming, catch even the briefest glimpse of his shadow—hells, if it just doesn’t feel right—go in. Otherwise hold them there.”

“Yes, sir.” Zin nodded, and started barking orders.

Scyld was still waiting for me on the balcony, his confidence looking a little more forced than before. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“Better than.” I smiled coldly. “I’m in a great mood, my dear sister won’t be shipped across the ocean, and thanks to you, I have my very own soothsayer. Just want to make sure this isn’t another diversion before we get out of your hair.”

“Of course.” Scyld nodded, wringing his burnt hands reflexively and wincing at the pain.

“Maya,” I waved her over. “Our new ally was injured in the incursion.”

“Apologies, my prince,” Maya said.

I let every bit of charm, friendliness, and compassion drain away. “Can we… do something about that?”