Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert

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СКАЧАТЬ fleeting smile and left nought but confused faces behind. The mutterings in the halls would not die down before sunset.

      You speak true, young prince, Auran-San thought.

      “I have been silent all this time, Auran-San. I put all my trust in you, even though collecting the money has made me no friends, to put it mildly. But to keep trusting you I must know what you plan to do,” Haltern-kin-Eben whispered to the first councilor, his hand held in front of his mouth.

      Auran-San lifted his chin and looked down his long nose. His voice lost all inflection and sounded oddly flat as he spoke. “The prince will not have long to relish his crowning and his soldiers’ oaths.”

      “What are you going to do?” Haltern-kin-Eben asked in shock. “Do you really mean to topple the prince? I thought kingslayers had no easy reign.”

      “None of that. I will let fate play its hand for us,” Auran-San responded calmly.

      Sarch and the keeper of tradition exchanged glances before quickly fixing their eyes back on the first councilor as they waited for an explanation, but Auran-San took his time. He slowly turned to face the wide plains beyond the city walls, and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, neither knew whether he was answering Haltern’s question or simply thinking out loud.

      “There is a tale that has been told at countless evening fires in our kingdom for untold generations. It is the tale of the weight of the crown. You must know that the crown of the Fire Kingdom brims with magic and grants the wearer absolute power. But only if…”

      “If what?”

      “But only if the head it sits upon is strong enough to bear it. A normal person, without royal blood, or a weak youngling who dares take it before his time, will be crushed by its weight. So goes the tale.”

      “Superstitious rubbish,” Sarch snorted.

      “Certainly, Grand General, certainly. I agree with you; such stories are seldom entirely true. But what does that matter? The important thing is that the common folk believe in them. All that remains is to amplify the crown’s magic and give it a little extra weight. Then a – how did you say? – superstitious rubbish story can become a staggering truth in the most real sense of the word. The moment Sergor-Don is crowned, he will have to take it off quickly if he does not wish to crumble beneath its weight, and all will see it. And should he be so foolish as to put it on himself, the effect would be even more impressive. And if he denies the impulse to take it off, his head will be crushed. Just like this here, look.”

      At these words Auran-San gripped a sweetfruit and squished it in his hand. All eyes followed the juice that ran down his fingers.

      Earlier than had been agreed upon a crowd of splendidly clothed nobles gathered before the throne room. To everyone’s surprise the doors were still locked, and no guards were posted by the entrance. Traditionally the throne room remained open until the new king had been crowned and taken his place. Prince Sergor-Don seemed to have forgotten this tradition.

      At the precise mid-point between sunrise and noon the bars were lifted from the doors. Two young lads clad in the yellow-brown garb of the dustriders opened the doors and quickly stepped aside to disappear into the shadows behind the throne.

      The councilors, sorcerers and generals entered the throne room first and saw that the young prince had already taken his place on his father’s throne. Their steps faltered for a heartbeat, but the crowd from behind forced them onward. The hall grew fuller and fuller; later tales of this day would claim that not a single further squire could have fit inside.

      Sergor-Don looked down at the jostling crowd before him and waited for all to face their new king.

      Auran-San was satisfied with what he saw. The prince was already as tall as his father had been, but was still a slender youth. Two more young warriors could have fit comfortably beside him on the throne, but perhaps that was only an illusion, a trick caused by the dark wood and the equally dark robe the prince wore, and the jet-black hair that covered his head. It fell unrestrained to his shoulders. Only a simple red band kept his hair out of his eyes.

      “He could not have shown more obviously that the throne is still too big for him,” Haltern-kin-Eben muttered. “If he’d asked me I would have advised for bright colors and wide robes.”

      “You would have turned him into a songbird. We ought to be happy that your counsel was not needed,” Auran-San chuckled quietly.

      The prince did indeed seem strangely lost beneath the carved black-headed eagle that decorated the throne’s back. Or perhaps it was the powerful embrace of the armrests, shaped in the form of a leonpedon’s paws, that made his slim figure seem almost absent. The huge throne of pitted queba-wood called for a true king; it showed Sergor-Don the same indifference as it had a mouse that had clambered up on it that morning at dawn.

      As the dark throne imposed itself upon its surroundings, so too did the shining crown atop the steps. It glowed red and gold with countless white and yellow stones as it sat on a small table, the weight of countless dynasties pressing it deep into the soft satin cushion. It was a heavy crown for a great king, and now it sat there, expectant and imperious, waiting for its new bearer. None present in the room could overlook how young their future king was.

      Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben had stepped forward to begin with the crowning ceremony. But the prince had risen. His robe was split down the front and revealed the fiery red of his battle-harness. Red and black, power and mourning. The prince had chosen his entrance well.

      “I have decided to postpone the crowning until noon. The sun has not yet reached its highest point, at which it looks down on kings and peasants alike, but it has already begun its work. It shines. It shines for all of us. And so I will follow its example and begin making changes before I am crowned.”

      The first councilor and the keeper of tradition nodded at each other. “As you wish, Prince Sergor-Don.”

      You are making this easy for us, young prince, Haltern-kin-Eben thought. The court, generally disliking changes from tradition, showed only stony faces. The generals stood with their legs slightly apart, their arms crossed before their chests or with their hands resting on their hips, like a warrior readying himself for battle. The courtiers sought more stability in small groups than in their king, and the sorcerers had their cowls drawn low over their faces so no one could read their expressions.

      “A king is only as strong at the people who hold him aloft, as the councilors that help him decide, as the soldiers who swing their weapons for him, and as the magic that fills all realms of his kingdom.

      “The King’s Guard that protected my father so well is now dissolved. I will not hide behind the shields and swords of my soldiers. I have more worthy tasks for them. My protectors will be five sorcerers. One for each element. Each one so powerful that even an archmage could not pierce their shields. Is there any arcanist among you who believes their power to be such?”

      The sudden change from military to magic caught many off guard. Only Auran-San smiled contently at this chance to increase his influence on the king further still. The court sorcerers, however, seemed less determined, their eyes flitting back and forth between themselves as though they meant to spin a web with looks alone.

      They were all experienced and knowledgeable, skilled and revered for their cunning. But what Sergor-Don demanded was pure, brutal power, not the elegance in the magical arts they prided themselves on. They were sorcerers of the court, СКАЧАТЬ