The Hundred Kingdoms

The room stunk of death and ambergris.

In it's center, on a bed shrouded by purple drapes, lay the Lion of Redrock. He had been a tall man, standing head and shoulders above half his court with a chest and arms to match. A fortnight ago, his subjects had seen him leading the hunt from his magnificent red charger and sworn that he would live forever.

Word was that the sickness had been as terrible as it was sudden. The only ones who had been permitted to pass under the drapes and see the king these past three days were the eunuchs with lacquered nails that he had grown so fond of since moving his seat to Seygos. The king of kings didn't trust physicians, not after what had happened to his beloved Basil.

Bessius, the Asephar steward, had produced a pair of highly reputed warlocks who had slaughtered a dozen bulls and recommended that the king bath in their blood, but the only thing that had changed were the pair of fresh heads now decorating the citadel's battlements.

Wracking coughs shook the room, and the scented candles cast shadows of scurrying eunuchs on the curtains. Whispers rose from the small crowd at hand. They now knew the rumors to be true. They, those closest to the king, had been gathered here to attend to his last moments.

Gavon Raine, king of Sain and a close cousin to the dying emperor, stepped forward from the crowd and addressed the chief eunuch. "Narces, does our King grant us his company?"

Narces shook his hairless head, "Our master is in no state to be granting anything. The king needs his rest."

"Rest, he will have enough of soon," noted Ser Delian, dressed just as much for war as mourning in black scale. "The kingdom needs his decision."

The coughing stopped. A few let out sighs of relief... until the candles behind the curtain were blown out. They waited in silence, moments as heavy as minutes, until a single man stepped out from the curtains, his face pale to the point of blueness.

Narces was the first to ask the question on the gallery's tongue. "Who will sit the Throne of Serpents?"

"He said...", even the beat of the audience's hearts seemed to quell, "He said the man who can hold it."

King Raine gasped. No, that eunuch was lying! He shoved Narces aside, and asked the emperor for himself. "Who will suceede your majesty's throne!?"

His reply was silence.

"The king is dead," Delian said, "Long live the king... whoever it may be."

Gavon Raine slowly placed the body of the deceased emperor back onto his bed. A single tear rolled down his cheek, which he was unable to wipe away before Queen Soah rushed to her late husband's side.

"The Lion of Redrock will forever roar within our hearts, as surely as his heir roars within my queen's womb.", he said before turning to face Ser Delian with a stern look on his face. "Isn't that right, my Lord? All hail King Kendrik!"

Larsus Montclair, Duke of Coldharbour and Myrantia, and much else besides, covered his eyes with one pearl-gloved hand. The laments and murmurs of the court hammered on his ears and the smell of ambergris and death burned in his nostrils.

Still, at least he'd gone with the Seygan traditions. The eunuchs made it easier, really. More dignified. Better than physicians and sawbones, always poking around where they weren't wanted and saying things like: 'We'd better examine this powder in His Majesty's stomach,' or 'Look how the heart has been corroded.'

Far better the eunuchs, who knew how to handle things discreetly and with dignity. Most of the court might disagree, but Larsus was Seygan through and through. Dying with grace was the Seygan way, not cut about on a physic's table.

He listened and observed - keenly, even through the facade of mourning - to the high court as it swarmed and twittered in the imperial bedchamber. There was Ser Delian, the knight-hostage, who'd served the Crown Prince before his death, the idiot still dressed for warfare, sword and all. Swords, Larsus snorted internally. Bloody useless in the Palace; far better the needle-thin and razor-sharp poniards he himself carried, capable of shearing through chainmail or lopping off a pound of flesh in an instant.

King Raine, too - the profligate wastrel who lived too well, beyond his means and flaunted the purple on his nails. It was all to the good that he overtaxed his trading ports, of course; it meant a greater influx to the more friendly havens of Coldharbour, Helios, Coreollis and Vandemar, all coastal cities part of the Poison Counties, but sometimes the man simply grated. It was perhaps telling of the Seygan attitude to things that he cared little for Raine's execution of Vaynmark duchy; while he himself preferred venom or loyalty through penury, slaughtering everyone was also perfectly valid.

"Who shall sit on the Throne of Serpents?"

Larsus paid attention, balancing heavily on his dragon-headed cane. Whomsoever had the throne would have a great bearing on House Montclair's fortunes.

The next words out of the attendant's mouth sent a wave of muttering washing across the room, and had King Raine dashing up the steps to the imperial bed in defiance of all protocol, demanding answers of his liege.

"All hail King Kendrik!" Larsus blinked, and cleared his throat, with a short, perfunctory bow to King Raine.

"Majesty, I must ask how you know our master - our late master - the Lion's heir shall be male? Or indeed fit to rule? There were great hopes for His Lamented Highness, Prince Basil, but with his life cut short on the Long Border..." Larsus let his voice trail off expressively.

Unsaid, hovering in the air, was the simple fact that a regency would in all probability tear the Empire asunder.

Crisiana was walking in the halls of the castle in a distraught state. News of the Lion's death had upset her greatly, he had been like a second father to her and the idea of him dieing was a painful one. Due to the fact that she herself was not of a high role, being female she was unable to be there for his last moments.

She continued to wander aimlessly through the corridors waiting for people to emerge and was surprised to find herself in the regal corridor outside the Old Emperors chambers. Turning quickly she hurried as fast as her large skirts would allow, she had the front hitched up to her knees and she ran at a great speed, for a woman. Her long brown hair flew out loosely behind her as she ran towards her own chambers on the far side of the castle. Upon arrival in her chambers she immediately collapsed onto the bed in a mess of pitiful sobs.

No music would ring from Phaileru's Zuvja today, even now he stood, facing the wall of the hall, too struck with the moment to look at anyone. Amalric hadn't even had a swan song, he died so uneventfully here, how could a man of such greatness be simply taken.

The Prince's mind didn't immediately jump to succession, to the fate of Az Ndal or his own standing, quicker it brought him to his own mortality. Death feared nothing, and believed in no one culture. Every noble, every peasant, every slave would fall under the sweet embrace.

He had the strength to turn towards the deathbed, he hardly cared if an heir became apparent. How could anyone but the Lion properly maintain such a vast empire, stretching across all the Earth? Soon advisers would come like vultures on whatever diplomatic babe would be given such a burden. The Lion was not perfect, perhaps he favored some over others, but always his actions seemed properly tempered with a greater purpose.

In the snuffing out of a single light, the entire world was forced to grow up. To think Phaileru had come to court one Crisiana, and hardly thought of maidens now.

The Seygas style clothing was tight and restricting, not unlike the society, and reeked of formality and feigned politeness, whatever aromas Phaileru thought appropriate were all drowned out by the solemness of the occasion. The very air seemed numb.

The poor Sister, her grief was tangible. What place did she have here now? Who was to say the fate of anyone now? Already it seemed the world's greatest empire was doomed, and it was all too clear that if the Lion's life was not succinctly replaced, blood would run across the entire continent. Most disturbing to Phaileru was that already the effect was wearing off, already he felt his heart lighten, it was simply in his nature. Life must go on, but he felt horrible recovering in a room so thick with angst and sorrow.

And it was not in human nature to let the dead rest, nor power hanging unconsummated in the air.

Delian gave a deep bow to the mourning Queen Sister as she entered the room, despite knowing fully well that she could not see the respect he granted her. The Nightingale was one of the few in court that Dourheart spared from his acid tongue, though he had no love for any Acraman.

"Majesty, I must ask how you know our master - our late master - the Lion's heir shall be male? Or indeed fit to rule? There were great hopes for His Lamented Highness, Prince Basil, but with his life cut short on the Long Border..."

“My lord,” Delian said with a threat of a smile, “If I may presume to remind you… the Lion left two cubs amongst us, the living. As you say, one is but a seed in the lioness’s womb. A babe for the foreseeable future… if not a Kendra. The other—“

The chief eunuch coughed in interruption, ”Ser, our king lies newly dead in this very room. Is this truly the time to—“

“Yes, most lamentable,” he said without a note of lament. No love for any Acraman, especially the Lion himself. Delian’s appointment amongst the king’s guard had been just as much a show of the king’s confidence as it was a reward for his valor. ’I did my part, Amalric.’ he thought grimly, ’For a hundred nights, I've guarded over your sleep, and not once did you wake with my dagger on your neck. But in the end, no silver shield saved you from justice.’

”The other, though baseborn, has proven himself one of the Lion's blood by merit, if not by name. To his friends, he is just. To his enemies, fearsome. His triumphs on both the field of battle and joust have won him the love of court and commons alike. And for the past few years, he has lorded over Cartada much as his father did.

“My Queen,” He walked to the mourning Angelique and dropped to a knee, “In his last words, the King of Kings bequeathed his throne to the man who could sit it, and there is only one such man. On behalf of the kingdom, I ask of you. Send word to Redrock. Ser Cedric must be legitimized and crowned at once.”

Before Gavon could remind Duke Montclair of the warlocks' prophesy that the king would have another son, the doors to the chamber blew open for a distraught looking Queen of Merriskold. And, of course, Ser Delian had already stolen the conversation. He did his best to drown out the orphan's words and focus on his cousin's grieving.

Gavon. Am I too late...?

He lowered his head and leaned in with his arm around her back—etiquette be damned! "The Lion...", the words struggled to come out of his mouth, "has fallen, though his majesty's deeds will live on past the end of time."

Gavon glanced back at Amalric's body. This time it hit him. Memories, good and bad, played in his mind. The Siege of Bora, where their brawl over whether to burn the city's renowned wineries almost cost them the war. The hours spent laughing behind the nobles' backs after their pathetically humorous attempts to gain royal favor. And who could forget the famous hunting trip to Skittle Woods? A few more tears rolled down Gavon's cheek, which he did not immediately wipe away. It wasn't like Angelique could see them.

And then Ser Orphan interrupted him again.

"As I have already explained to the good Ser Delian, the matter of succession has already been dealt with and the empire shall go to Kendrik."

He turned towards Delian and smiled. "Now if you don't mind our brother and dear cousin lies newly dead in this very room, and we would like to honor his memory and not spoil our mourning with talk of such vulgar political matters."

Crisiana rose from her bed and walked over to the looking glass in her room. Her cheeks were splotchy but her eyes were the most vibrant of colours, dabbing her cheeks with a wet towel they slowly returned to normal colour. She grabbed an antique brush and pulled it through her luscious brown hair before pulling it back into a tight braid. Straightening her dress she raised her chin, all signs of tears going aside from the brilliant tinge to her eyes.

Opening her door she left the regal chambers and began to wander towards the gardens where she had gone for long walks with the Lion, they had had arguments about a variety of topics and yet she knew that this was unusual due to the fact that she was a woman. He was like a second father to her and she had little idea how she would bear the long years without him when she came to the castle.

As she walked through the halls she saw Phaileru, she walked over to him and curtsied deeply, "My Lord," she said in an a shy tone, she looked up and smiled charmingly at him, waiting to see how he would respond. She straightened up from the curtsy and had a high class air about her.

Phaileru quietly stepped out of the hall, already people were dishonoring the Lion, and he had no intention of seeming power hungry or somehow jaded for recovering so quickly, looking out from the balcony across the admittedly beautiful gardens and courtyards of the castle, he spied Crisiana, looking reminiscent.

He turned, running a hand through his long, black, Seygan styled hair, and wondered why he felt it necessary to appear properly Seygan to a dead man. If the Lion could see him now, he'd see him as the Az Ndaliq he was, so why would he care what the others thought?

But he cared what the others thought, and he let out his sigh. From here he was headed north to Drohem, a lovely temperate place, with healing waters and all sorts of berries, a quiet little Shire. Sadly he was going to try and undermine the local brewers of nectar and dried fruits, attempting to secure a slightly more stable source of the pirate navy of Az Ndal.

"My Lord"

It was Crisiana, he turned, bowing deeply with a faint, subdued smile.

"Lady Crisiana, I understand how-" He stopped himself, she hardly needed a reminder, but it was simply proper.

"H-how you feel -- I imagine the flowers here get jealous of you walking by, I can tell by the blush you seem modest about it." Phaileru's smile widened, if he'd known the lady's stars he could have been a bit more tactful, but a compliment was never too out of place, even in sorry times.

A small laugh escaped Crisiana's lips "You are far too kind my Lord I am naught but a girl of average appearance," she replied modestly her eyes dropping to assess the intricate patterns of the tiles on the floor, she had been through such lines before but it sounded different when Phaileru, it almost reminded her of when Basil said it to her those years ago. Shaking her head as if to awaken herself she looked up at Phaileru a smile over her face but her eyes sad, showing her inner turmoil. Her eyes had always been her downfall in this regard, almost anyone could see her emotions through her eyes. "My lord, I was going to walk through the garden if you wish to join me," she offered, making an extravagant gesture towards the beautiful palace gardens, 'perhaps it would be nicer to have company...' she thought to herself as her eyes threatened to start tearing up again.

It was rather fitting. Phaileru stepped out of the chamber, attempted to escape the politics, the dishonor, the inherent corruption of the system he so deeply wished to join. Someone, however, stayed, when Phaileru could not.

Every noble had one somewhere, their train. Their consorts, their musicians, their guards, their cooks, their diplomats. They were as faceless and nameless as a poor tapestry, drifting, hardly more than limbs to the noble's mind. Phaileru stepped out, took a moment to see a world beyond castle walls and steep towers, but his train did not promptly follow.

In the unrecognized shadows of the hall, amidst other equally silent servants and onlookers, one Khadra, an Eisul woman slightly older than Phaileru had her head unceremoniously up, her face not veiled as required by Eisul women. Her absolutely stunning black hair fell back unkempt, her wide set Eisul eyes her mark, her chains, but her spirit was not crushed like those of her people.

Phaileru was weak, a flitting fancy, a salesman if anything, trying to gain power through weak negotiation. He had useless concepts of love and beauty, and he spent too long on unimportant dribble, while unable to hold himself to any serious matter. Khadra had spent her life holding him into the noble mold, which she knew was hers to fill.

"Company makes all perfumes sweeter, and tears have no place enriching gardens, my lady." Phaileru said, seeing Crisiana's eyes turn, he held out his arm behind her, and began to walk towards the well kept lawns and flowers, pristine to a genius gardener's plans.

Khadra couldn't help but glance around the room. The looks were priceless, nobility were constantly taught to act inhumanly, without the faults of the lower classes. Khadra had no such excuse, it was many a myth that surrounded her. Khadra, who came to midwife and would lay the sweet babe to sleep, smiling as she laid the child into her bed. Covering her up kindly, and walking away from the fresh grave still smiling.

Perhaps if the good Queen, the Lioness, could see Khadra in her corner, her face marked with not a smile, but a distinct brooding look, sultry, though she were imagining some new epiphany impossibly hilarious to the moment, and refraining from laughter.

It was time to see how much noble blood would be spilled without her intervention, and judge the situation there.

Crisiana smiled at Phaileru, she had heard such comments before but decided to overlook it. gently placing her arm on top of his she walked beside him in a stoic manner, "you are far too kind with your compliments sir," she said with a little smile quivering at the corners of her lips, "I hardly desrve the flattery," she continued modestly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her eyes.

Her gaze was fixed on their gorgeous surrounding, flowers of every colour of the rainbow bloomed and in the distance the sound of fountain could be heard. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of the hundreds of flowers around them. Keeping her eyes closed, her tiny smile grew into a stunning one, which showed her pearly white teeth, a variety of happy memories came to her and she soon began to laugh quietly, a tinkling laugh that caused her to radiate with sudden uncontrolled joy.

"You've been made too much of a Seygan, chasing away compliments. Truth is true, believe it or not, and it's getting you nowhere denying it." Phaileru saw her combating a smile, but something was making her break. He did notice a distinct aroma in the air, which tied together, quite beautifully, the colors and the atmosphere. Was it Quince? He wouldn't claim to know.

"Funny, that I think I might give up titles and banquets if I could have something like this." The Az Ndaliq stooped down towards a particularly charming mass of flowers, whose tall stone vase was completely hidden behind the blossoms. "Not the water, or the flowers, or the trees, or the peace. Perhaps.... perhaps the grass. It's soft as moss, so perfectly manicured. I think to have grass like this I might die happy, I'd think someone who had such beauty would be a lucky man."

Admittedly, Phaileru was staring at Crisiana throughout his monologue.

Khadra tried to fight back the urge to spit. A worthless Andak wasn't owed a single tear, let alone a roomful. Ironically, her attempts to hold back her seething anger seemed like a weak woman holding back hysteria, a fellow servant turned to her, reassuring her.

Reassuring her that, like so many times before, a power hungry leader would replace a power hungry leader, and her people could return to slavery along with so many other peoples of the world, and everyone could bow and wail and be delightfully numb. Drugged by the idea that someone powerful was protecting them.

These people gave up their freedom for safety, and that made them weak. They hadn't even been born into slavery, and they chose peace over something so valuable. Obviously no one here was worth that seat. Khadra bowed her head, letting her unplanned disguise remain.