The Journey to Kingship: Chapter 1: Childhood among Carnations

A Novella

High were the walls of the castle of the city of Taletium. They had endured more than a thousand years of history, weathering more than ten thousand storms and a thousand sieges. Each of them grander, fiercer and crueler than the last, where some had failed, such as that of Alvarus the Battler, others had succeeded, such as Amalric of Griszard. The latter’s attacks nigh on a century and a half prior, had decimated the walls whereupon they were repaired in the reign of King Brayan I. The walls though had recently crumbled once more despite having been raised twice as high by Jeremias II throughout his reign, the damage inflicted upon them had been done by King Amilcar III of Nauvarre.

It had been the desire of Jeremías II, to rebuild those walls, taller and thicker than before. It was also his dream to transform the city of Taletium from a city of mud and thatch, into one of stone and marble. He had spoken at great lengths of his plans, his dreams to a number of men which included Baron Jaime IV of Alvalres which lay nearer to the mouth of the Tajosia-River. A dream that he had sought to share with his son, so that he often took him out onto the city-walls, to the local quarries to examine the local stones and even showing him the disrepair of the principal castle-keep’s exterior walls.

In the day those walls once marble white had begun to fade and darken with age, so that they were at times dubbed the ‘Rust-Walls of Taletium’. A slur that had made Jeremías II’s cheeks burn with shame.

It was at night that the people most often felt at ease. Their shame at the collapse of the city from that of stones from the time of Brayan I and his son Kilian I, and into the thatch and mud houses that had outgrown the bounds of the city wall was at last soothed.

Night had indeed fallen, at this time with the inky skies were it not for the stars above darker than the soul of a demon. The lateness of the hour was one that ordinarily found the King of Castilion in the midst of one of his late-night visits to the Temple of Hispania, the chief goddess of the Kingdom. Or he might have been found journeying out into the local Cavilianwoods’ for a week-long hunt (or alternatively returning from a successful hunt). Quite what the tinkling darkness had in store for him, was something that those who resided within the keep was to reveal itself all too soon as a series of cries went up throughout the city, as it was not the corpse of a half dozen does that was wheeled into the city, but that of a man.

“The King is dead! The King is dead!” Went the cry, one that shook the very stones that served as the foundation of the royal keep built by Jeremías’ greatest ancestor more than a century prior.

The cry was one that shook the stones that served as the very foundations of the walls and palace; it shook every soul that had the misfortune of hearing them. And none among those who heard it, were more shaken than Jeremías himself.

It was in that hour that his very life was metamorphosed from one that he imaged to have been as idyllic as any song sung in the Elysium Fields, into the very worst of nightmares. Jeremías, having been in the midst of comforting his brother Jaime, was torn alongside his brother and carried off from their shared room. In the midst of comforting his younger brother after the younger boy had had one of his typical nightmares which always appeared whenever their father left on campaign, or to hunt without him. The two had originally been meant to accompany their father on his hunt, when they had found themselves caught up in spilling some of the castle baker’s wine as he moved beneath them, in the courtyard exterior of the large building. Never one to tolerate one of their pranks, he had commanded that they remain within the castle, whilst he took their youngest brother Kilian with him on the hunt. It was Kilian’s first time going out hunting, and the youth had been so excited that he could hardly be restrained by his father. His brothers having looked down from the castle-window could only glare jealously when they had left.

At present neither of them had much thought for such petty desires. They knew only terror and worry, for both were at an age to understand what that dreadful cry meant.

If neither boy was quite prepared or knew what to make of it, their mother certainly did.

Their mother was a woman, with long black hair falling past her shoulders, her red dress flowing, and her bejeweled hands glittered with myriad rings, her naturally dark eyes glittered with a harsh light akin to that of a crow. That seemed as cold as the winters of Hella, and her crown would denote her ranking, as the Queen of Castilion, Queen Elisabet. Her maids struggled to keep pace, as she marched her way to the throne room, where the messenger had arrived. The man in question who was in the midst of wiping at the back of his neck with a cloth a servant had brought him that he might wipe his brow with. He looked up at the arriving women with visible relief.

“Highness! Highness! I have a message; The King has been murdered!” Cried the messenger as he threw himself onto one knee.

The Queen now Queen Dowager was the first to turn to her son, doing so eagerly she knelt that she might whisper to him. “Your royal father has passed, my liege you must trust in myself, and those I trust, my son!” Then she arose satisfied to have extracted his heavy nod, she proclaimed to all the guards and servants present therewith them. “The King is dead, long live the King! Long live Jeremías III, son of Jeremías II!”

It was a mere three days later that they laid upon Jeremías’ dark brown haired head and it was at that time that he was to truly come to realize what he had lost. The weight of the crown could not compare with that which weighed upon his young heart. Thinking of his father, he closed his eyes unable to endure the stare of the stern faced Archdouvain Amalros of Léan.

“Sire! Sire! Do cease tarrying,” Nereo bellowed at the youthful ruler, his voice sounding distant as he spoke from beyond the door to the royal bedchambers.

Reluctantly Jeremías awoke. After eight years, he remembered that day all too well. A part of him hungered still to once more see his father. His memory of the man who had preceded him upon the Scarlet-Throne, was one that had remained untainted and that he cherished more than all the treasure in the world.

“Am I King or servant?” Jeremías grumbled, disdainful of the brother of the Count of Léan. The man was his uncle if by virtue of the Count’s marriage to Elisabet, and yet they had never truly come to much care for one another or even respect each other.

His rebuttal was muttered, not for lack of fear of the other man but rather from being in a poor mood. Jeremías despised early mornings, and preferred to sleep on until noon most days, when not out on a hunt. He wondered briefly as he threw water from a nearby bowl onto his face, if being out on campaign might aid him in awakening early in the morn’.

Amalros did not merely stop at shouting through the door, exasperated he was to enter after having called for a number of the ruler’s servants. Entering the room to find the ruler thankfully fully dressed in a simple red tunic made of rough wool, and trousers and having already donned his boots. Where other rulers wore rings of gold, and with a multitude of gemstones, Jeremías had but one; the crimson-jeweled ring of Theodemir. The oldest of all the possessions that belonged to the royal family, it was all that Jeremías had left of his father. The family sword, Colada notwithstanding with the blade one that Jeremías had had many a dreams about in the past also. Mostly about how his father had once let him hold it, with the blade afterwards put firmly back in its pedestal within the Temple of Hispania (itself also in disrepair) after the King was slain, years ago as was tradition.

It was thus in this dour mood that he allowed himself to be dressed in his royal-cloak of Lyonessian silk, and for the royal dagger of Fuegua to be girt to his belt. The latter a royal treasure of a sorts, was the only weapon he was permitted due entirely to tradition. Unless out on war, and having not yet pulled Colada from its pedestal he was not permitted a sword. Thankfully no bare piece of steel was permitted in his presence, other than eating implements.

“Your mother has been waiting along with a great many others in the throne room, as you are to hold court sire.” Nereo informed him disapprovingly, the other man dressed in a rich silk tunic, with a dark silk over-cloak and trousers and fingers covered in rings looked something akin to a peacock in the eyes of his sullen charge.

There were others within the King’s chambers, each of them hurrying to and fro to prepare him for the day and otherwise escort him to the throne-room. Other kings might not have liked holding court, sitting in judgment of those with grievances yet Jeremías quite enjoyed it. Rarely if ever in contact with his people, he was curious about them, and fascinated by all that he had missed in the years he had been shut away.

Stepping into the throne room, one would expect the greatest demonstration of wealth in the kingdom, elaborate tapestries, and gold trimmings, but that was not the case. There were some displays of wealth, such as the suits of armour, the throne, and this was where he saw his mother, Queen Dowager Elisabet sitting thereupon the King’s throne.

“Let us start. What is the first matter in need of resolution?” His mother cleared her throat.

“We have been working on the preparations for the ceremony. I have handled most of it, my son, you need only enter the temple hall, and pull the sword.”

“Yes mother,” He said quietly, pleased to have this opportunity to speak to her of the ritual, “I should wish to ask mother, regarding what we spoke of, of the matter of the sword I had hoped that we might delay-”

“Whatever for my son?” Elisabet interrupted at once, arching a brow at him.

“I feel it might be more appropriate to do it on a separate day than this,” Jeremias continued rather more nervously than he would have preferred.

“Why would that be?” Elisabet asked patiently, her eyes warm.

“It is only that it is the date of father’s death, I felt only that it might be more appropriate to delay it for another week.” He answered discomfited and apprehensive regarding this particular detail, only for his mother to wave it away.

Rising to her feet, she looked up at him (for he was considerably taller than she), gripping him by the shoulders she was to say to him. “My son, you are the light of my world and all that one can hope for in a King. However, not all see this and you do indeed have much to learn, this we both know and feel in our bones, and so what better date? What finer date is there to reach for the sword and announce thy majority than this one?”

It was the answer he had both expected and dreaded all at once. He knew she was right, knew that everything she said was perfectly correct. He had no other choice but to recognize this fact, and it was as she made to walk down each one of the seven steps, relying on his aid with the half a meter high stones steps. A smile on her full lips and arms around his own, there was sense in what she said he knew, and yet a part of him would have preferred things otherwise.

“Of course mother,” He replied with a bow of his head, his heavy lidded stare falling upon the drab throne room. “I have long awaited this day.”

“It shall be a day like no other, and before day’s end you will have heard as always countless cases and requests, but also you shall pull Colada from its place in the temple.” Elisabet assured him cheerily, having never sounded more motherly than at that moment. “And really you must promise me not to allow thy sister to be present, she will only make people talk.”

“Mother, it happens that I think quite highly of Teresa, she is family and family must be present for this event in their entirety.” He replied with patience, aware of his duty not only to her but also to the half-sister that had been banished to a convent since the time of their father’s death. Since that time, Teresa had been seen but sparingly by the court, and with the only males who had ever seen the young woman being her half-brothers.

Born from their father’s first love the Countess of Vendrid, a woman whom Elisabet had disliked a great deal, and whom had died birthing Teresa. The girl had shown herself in her time in the convent a vivacious maiden, one with a passion for dancing, sewing and also old Castillion songs. This greatly pleased her brother who fancied that his court would be one that would put his ancestors Brayan I and Teresa’s to shame, even that of the likes of current High-King of Ériu and that of Theodosianople would be put to shame.

A great lover of music, of poems and of paintings, tapestries and the history of his nation, Jeremias was determined to change the drab, lifeless court he had inherited into the most lively in the world.

“Send for everyone, and the first of the cases, I would hear what cases must be heard before the ceremony of Colada.” Jeremias replied eagerly, determined to convey only excitement rather than timidity in the face of what awaited him.

Elisabet pleased by this command turned to one of the nearby servants, and was to motion for him to hurry away to announce the King’s readiness to see his subjects. Guiding him back up the steps they had just descended, the Queen Dowager was to beg him leave for her to retreat to the kitchens. “I must have things prepared for the feast after the court-hearings of the day, and the temple ceremony prepared.” She was heard to tell him, leaving behind her the youth’s stepfather the Count of Léan who was an energetic man with thick black hair and a thick beard, a face as pale as Jeremias’ was ruddy, he had flashing dark eyes and high cheek bones.

Always eager to serve, just as he was to manage the administration, the Duke was officially merely co-regent with the Queen Dowager who had elevated him to the post. It was his younger brother who was Chancellor, just as the next brother was Royal Chamberlain, and the next brother Royal Steward. The last of the brothers, Diego was the sole one exiled from court if only for the simple reason that he had married far beneath his rank, preferring a peasant woman and mal-comporting himself last time he was at court.

Though named after the hero Diego, this one had according to what Elisabet had said given way to drunkenness and lechery, and was a scoundrel.

Never one to question his mother’s judgment or that of his stepfather whom he respected, Jeremias was to motion the man up the steps, “I would have you sit by the throne and be within reach Emiliano.”

“You do me a great honour, sire,” Emiliano replied with a deep bow, motioning to his brother the Steward he signaled for him to allow the supplicants entry and to send for the nobles. “I would also prefer if it might be possible, for my brothers Amalric and Juan to be present. As Chamberlain and Chancellor respectively, I may have need of their knowledge of the law, individual cases and nobles for the proceedings.”

“Very well,” Jeremias agreed at once not seeing the harm in it, only to upon reflection say to the other servant who went to depart to fetch the two men. “Also, send for my brother and heir, Jaime. He should be in the courtyard, practicing with his sword with Captain Amalros.”

To his immense pleasure, he saw that Emiliano approved at once. The inclusion of Jaime as heir, was necessary in spite of the youth’s dislike for assize cases such as these, yet it was necessary no matter if the youth claimed to be too young at fifteen. Jeremias grumbled internally that he himself had attended such events since he was four years of age.

Jaime and the two brothers of Emiliano arrived just as the thirty or so nobles and clergymen had bustled into the grand thirty meter long, fourteen meter wide and twenty-eight meter high throne room. Each of them filled with eagerness to see the long all but hidden away heir of the starry-eyed Jeremias II, and to in this manner determine what sort of ruler he might prove to be.

The case that was first presented to him, was that of a farmer who had lost his herd of cattle to royal officials. They had seized it, and had refused to return it claiming that it was no longer his and that it was compensation for unpaid taxes. The cattle-farmer had naturally preferred to protest this seizure, claiming it to be illegal.

Where a great many noblemen were well-dressed in raiment of silk and light furs, the peasant was dressed in the roughest of clothes, and tended to exchange a great many glares with his rival. The official in question for his part was bearded, dressed in finer dark silk than his King, and was rarely to be seen not sneering at the peasant. The man was also one that Jeremias recognized as Arlo the Brute, a man infamous for his bad temper and for having enforced the law on more than one occasion on behalf of Emiliano.

“This case has been ongoing for more than three months sire, and has tested the patience of even the Queen Dowager,” The Count explained wearily, with a significant glance to his brothers.

“I had told him, there was naught we could do for him,” Juan added important, the plumpest of the three of them he was also the most talkative. “Justice is evidently on the side of our official, as he had good reason to seize the man’s herd and to take them into royal hands.”

“Then why listen to him?” Jeremias interrupted irritably, tired of listening to the Chancellor even as he pondered the reason for which the gluttonous man had been appointed to a clerical position at his court. Raising his voice he addressed the peasant, “How have you survived hitherto now, if you have lost your herds and flocks to the Crown?”

“I have had to rely upon what I farm, and my good-brother who as my sister’s husband has aided me in my time of difficulties, and as the nuns of Hispania from the local convent just outside the city have taken in my daughters I have not had to feed them. But I worry over how I might feed my sons’.”

“Arlo?”

“It is as he said, but the Crown had need of what he had as he had not paid his taxes in some time.” Arlo hissed irritably, “I did my duty.”

“And every sheep has been accounted for, in our registry and among our own directly owned cattle farmers?” Jeremias asked now of Amalric who nodded his head several times, whereupon the ruler asked next, “And who is his landlord?”

“It would be the convent, they own the land to the south-east which was given to them more than sixty years ago by thy grandfather sire. But they have not paid taxes-” Amalric began sharply.

“But they are exempt,” Jeremias interrupted at once, “They pay tithes to the Temple in Quirinas, and in turn also care for the sick, the wounded, orphans, or women who have lost their husbands. Or in this case daughters’ a poor farmer shan’t afford to feed, and as they are not supposed to pay for taxes this case is moot.”

“But sire, there is greater complexity to this case than you understand,” Arlo growled impatiently.

“He is right, sire,” Juan agreed at once, “I agreed as Archdouvain of Taletium that the nuns’ should on account of their excess wealth pay taxes every three years. They did not.”

“What has Holy Father Temple said of this?” Jeremias queried perplexed and confused, only to nod his thanks when the record of all royal pastures and flocks were brought to him. Glancing through the record he failed to notice the worried looks on the faces of the men around him.

“Sire, for generations my family has served the convent, and has donated generously for we have typically been quite fruitful, and have also paid our taxes and tithes dutifully. However they have risen steadily these past seven years at an absurd rate.” The plebeian complained with a scowl in the direction of Arlo. “If I may say so, none of the lands owned by the Duke or his brothers have paid into the royal treasury.”

The blunt speech of the peasant, and mean look Arlo cast him were enough to demonstrate the mutual hostility between the two. What ought to have alarmed Jeremias more was the mention of his relatives yet this did not strike him at all at once as being particularly odd. Fixated upon the notion of making this right, he did not spare them so much as a glance.

“We must consult with the convent,” the Duke stated with a glance to the peasant.

“Then we shall send for them, and on the morrow they will tell us if what you say is true. As to the taxes, we shall look into this matter, and resolve it.” Jeremias replied firmly, interrupting his stepfather who hissed between his teeth.

“And what pray tell do you imagine resolving it means? If you intend to lower it, I would advise against such,” Emiliano whispered to him sharply. “It is naïve to think that this would be preferable, to the situation as it presently is. Next!”

The next case was one in which a woman wished to complain about rogue knights on her crippled husband’s lands. She had left him to come to the city of Taletium that she might fight to keep roving knights off his lands.

Jeremias when he asked to whom the knights belonged to, found that they were sworn to the house of Jarovas, who was good-brother to Amalric. It was he who interceded at this moment, “Juan of house Jarovas, has served loyally for more than thirty years. He it was who discovered your father when he was wounded, and he who sought to find the archer who slew your father.”

Jeremias remained silent, agonized by this reminder of the debt his house owed this other Juan, and by the desire to heed the words of his ‘uncles’. It was his view however that, knights ought not to be used to raid farm-lands belonging to the King.

The issue of tax-enforcement and of the King’s justice must indeed be enforced harshly, yet never without a proper trial. This was as integral to Jeremias’ rule as he believed the faith, and the strength of his military had to be. The remotest hint of weakness would signal only a return to the decaying days of his grandfather, Amalros VI who had lost almost a third of the territories won by his own great-grandfather Brayan.

It was as the day progressed that more and more Jeremias felt less comfortable with his stepfather’s manner of rule. The man was certainly efficient, able to discern who lied and who was not, while he was still racing to catch up to the man in terms of wit. Keen to follow in his steps, he was to in most cases agree to exercise justice in the manner recommended, and advised by his chief councilor.

It was as the morn’ reached its end that Juan was to leap to his feet with a sniff of satisfaction and a ‘hurrah’ that demonstrated more than a little exuberance and pulled quite a few laughs from the crowd of noblemen. There were of course disapproving looks, mostly from those members of the clergy of lower ranks, Jeremias and also Emiliano.

“Brother, comport yourself,” Emiliano growled sharply, furious with his younger brother for having embarrassed them before much of the court.

“I had simply hoped to express my eagerness for the ceremony which is to bring about this ridiculous regency to an end,” Juan lied with all the dignity of a jackal that has lost a leg.

Emiliano looked prepared to offer another correction, but then thought better of it, and regaining his feet was to proclaim to the gathered crowds that the ceremony was to proceed in the next hall.

When he had seen to it that all knew that the ceremony would be held later in the afternoon, the Count of Léan turned upon his stepson. “All shall be in place by the time, of your arrival in the old temple of Hispania, let us now proceed your Grace.”

Jeremias nodding his head followed after the older man, nary any trace of reluctance or doubt on his face or in his heart. He knew that what was to follow after his lunch was to prove the single most important event of his life hitherto then, and that as the legitimate heir to the throne of Castillion he was expected to pull the blade free. Little did he know what was to follow, was not to be the first in a long history of glorious victories for him and his reign, but the first of many ignominious humiliations.

The ceremony that was to follow was one that had its roots in the founding of the Kingdom. It was one that had proven a mainstay of the dynasty and had outlasted the first dynasty of the realm. It happened that the sword every dynast who had ever ruled Asturian and Castillion had ever wielded, or nigh on every single one of them had wielded, had become as integral to the realm, as the people themselves. Or so it was whispered, with Jeremias unsure of this fact. He had never wielded it and had handled it but once, and that was on a dare by his humour loving father who had passed it along to him, and had chortled to see him struggle to hold it aloft.

The ceremony had been developed over the course of many centuries. All the nobility and clergy of Taletium and the realm itself were to be in attendance, with a great many having gone ahead of the King from the court he had ruled over. Each of them dressed in their finery, with the most important in the realm nearest to the steps that led up to where the sword’s pedestal was to be found.

It was those farthest from the sword that were considered the least important. What startled Jeremias as he entered the temple was the fact that Baron Jaime was absent. Putting it from his mind he advanced along behind his mother, who had the wife of her good-brother carrying her van while behind the women advanced the King dressed in his full regalia. Or what was left of it, he had been told since his early youth that a great deal of it had been pawned off and sold to cover royal debts, so that there was but one scarlet silk cloak and an ill-fitting silk tunic. His trousers were the same that he had worn earlier in the day, so that Jeremias appeared slightly more impoverished than some of his subjects.

The knowledge that he might present a more pitiful image than even some of the wealthy merchant peasants present embarrassed the youth. By his very nature, he did not much like having the gazes of all around him concentrated upon his person. However, he would not flinch from them, nor would he return back the way he had come.

Raising his nose as he had seen his mother do, when she wished to appear regal he stepped forward hoping to instill in those around him the same dignity and aura of majesty that she so often did. It was with more than a little pride he noted the approving look in her eyes, and also in those of his stepfather when he reached the first of the steps before him.

The first of the half a dozen steps that led to the pedestal that was in the middle of where the altar ought to have been, were a third of a meter in height. Each step though seemed higher and more defiant than the last. It was as though, it sought to humiliate and deny him, or so one might have thought so cold and looming did those steps seem.

The temple interior ought to have been grand, beautiful and at one time cleanly, and a source of inspiration to all within the realm. At present it was a fascinating hall with marble stone walls, more than fifty circular columns supporting the heavy stone-roof that was more than thirty meters above them. The forty-five meter long hall was decorated with a plethora of stained glass windows that had been put in place in the reign of Brayan I. Each one depicted a different period of the life of Dagobert the Saviour, who had appeared suddenly in South-Agenor preaching of the twelve gods of the Canticle. It was said that the twelve gods in question had themselves appeared alongside him, and recognized him in the manner befitting a Lord. The man’s life, his horrific scourging and death as he was nailed to a nearby building were told in graphic detail via the window-glass. What was more was that there were images of the twelve gods, in all their glory resplendent in their individual colours and with their symbols in hand. There was of course thunder wielding Tempestas, in her full dark glory, eyes flashing and formidable as the worst storms ever imagined by mortal men. On the opposite side of the temple was Ziu god of war, the favourite god of a number of the Kings of Castillion, it was he who was believed to not only grant victory but to defend orphans and women. To the left side next to Tempestas there was Saga, the keeper of history, while to the right-hand side was Tenjin the Lord of wisdom, where Saga had as emblem a scroll, Tenjin had a brush.

The next two images were those of Meret the goddess of music, she with her harp with the goddess Turan, lady of love and marriage with her usual pet swan at her side. An animal she had a long association with, the swan was considered a good omen in the eyes of the Temple, with it being one that was said to be common in many parts of Castillion, so that Jeremias was not entirely certain how they could be regarded as a good omen.

There was of course Fufluns who was growing out from a field of crops, and who held up an acorn with a smile on his bearded face. There was opposite of Fufluns the King of the Dead, Orcus who was also god of light and said to be the most just of all the gods. His colour was white and he was represented as a thickly bearded white haired man, with a white rose in his right hand. There was also of course opposite Meret the bronze skinned and aged Khnum, with his blacksmith’s hammer held high above his head in his right-hand. There was also the likes of Nótt who held up the moon in her left hand and with a beatific smile on her lips, and of course there was her brother Dagd, the sun-god who held up one sun in each hand, his face bearded and smile genuine. At last there was to the left hand-side the goddess Hispanya, the loveliest of goddesses in the eyes of Jeremias (though his younger sister Teresa would disagree, as she loved Meret and Turan best). The goddess of his nation was far more beauteous than any other, in his eyes and was one to whom he had every intention of devoting his reign towards.

Once I have succeeded in pulling Colada from the pedestal, he told himself eagerly, a new era will be ushered forth and her name will be stamped into every stone in Castillion just as every citizen and individual within the kingdom will know to revere the Brayanian dynasty once more.

Resolved he reached the end of the great hall which he had visited often after the death of his father, Jeremias studied the enrobed figure of his uncle keenly aware of all the eyes upon him. He was also keen to look past the figure who stood to one side of the sword, forbidden from blocking it from view of the monarch, who must see the prize as it were of his youth that came with every coronation or the end of every regency period.

Studying the blade with keen interest, Jeremías knew all there was to know about the one hundred and twenty-five centimeter long long-sword. From the ruby-tipped pommel to the gold sword-guard that bore the words in the Romalian tongue; ‘To take back what was lost’, to the hilt itself which bore the image of the goddess growing out from carnations, holding up a balance and a sword in her other hand, he knew all there was to know about it. He could recite its history going back to the age of just after Roma’s retreat, when the blade had been presented before the likes of King Rudesind. The barbarian King who had forged the whole of the peninsula into a singular kingdom, with little to no bloodshed, so that he was still dubbed the ‘Peaceful’. Well-regarded, he had only used the sword for ceremonial purposes, and the blade remained in the temple of Hispania far to the south, in what was now the Caliphate of Sefarad most of his reign. It was long after that King and his dynasty had gone to rot that the Mardukians had arrived, just as the last ruler of the dynasty had begun to seek to redeem the line from their previous madness and incompetency. King Theodemir IV was a good King, and a stalwart warrior of some renowned, he had however fallen in the battle of Rojampos. It was this battle that had cost the first of the kingdoms of the land of Hespanya, with only the King’s dearest friend and house-hold warrior to rescue the Queen Dowager and King’s sister, to take them away to the north. It was there that Asturian was born, and there that the war to re-conquer these lands had begun. Much aid had been lent by the Gallians and also from the kingdoms of Caledonia, Brittia, Ériu and Antilia and of course from the Holy Empire of Valholant.

All lands that Jeremias felt grateful for, and was of the view his kingdom owed a debt to, for their aid. It was why he intended to once he drew this sword, begin the process of taking back all the lands that had been lost by his people. Vengeance would be swift, and just and there would never again be so humiliating a show as that which his grandfather had been reduced to; begging the kingdoms of Scipiolonia, Nauvarre and others for assistance.

The Long Peace established by Brayan I had been a great one, lasting for a full century. Yet it had ended in blood and betrayal by the Mardukians, as all such periods do. This time, Jeremias mused we shall be the victors.

This thought ran continuously through his mind, as he knelt with his hands spread to either side of him in prayer, as his uncle Juan read from the Canticle. Reading in the classic Romalian that had been part of Temple customs for nigh on a thousand years, and that were always a source of comfort to the pious Jeremias.

From the corner of his eye he could see Jaime and also Kilian both in the midst of bowing their heads. The timid youngest of the family Kilian, was the most affected by the reading and did the symbol of the Carnation several times throughout. The death of their father had most affected him, so that the youth of thirteen was one that Jeremias felt most protective of and had striven to teach and take in hand, supervising his education personally. The fact the two younger boys could follow the whole of the sermon, filled him with pride.

“Do you your Highness, swear to uphold Father Temple, the laws of the land, to be as a sword against the enemies of your people and to safeguard them as justly and ably as the likes of Ziu and Hispania themselves do?” Juan asked severely, his thick chins hidden by his thick beard sweating in the heat of the day.

Jeremias nodded his head eagerly. Satisfied Juan stepped out from before him, no longer separating him from the blade that was the King’s destiny.

At first the monarch could only stare at it. He knew that Caleds and Gallians loved to marry their rulers to the land, just as the Elves had before them. He had heard tell of similar ceremonies as theirs being favoured by rulers to the east, in Beveriand. Yet among the people of Castillion and Hespanya, their ways were different. His mother might well have sniffed in disgust and haughtily tossed her hair, yet the son did not.

Regaining his feet, he stepped forward to accomplish what he knew to be his destiny. He had been born for this very moment, he told himself, just as his father had been before him, and all the other ancestors who had inherited the crown since the days of Walagothi all those centuries ago.

Reaching out with shaking, sweaty palms he made to pull the sword. His hands found the pommel to be smooth, the bright red ruby affixed to the top of it fascinated him. He imagined that it was redder than a man’s blood or heart must have been. He had never seen something so horrible yet beautiful in all his years.

As to the hilt, he studied it intently also. It had been years since he had seen it, since he was rarely allowed in this part of the temple. It had two major halls for worship, this one was typically barred to visitors and worship when the blade remained in the pedestal. Tradition dictated that the hall could not be ‘tested’ with temple Sessions until after it was pulled, as to do otherwise would mar the significance of the King’s courage and sacral nature when the time came for him to remove it.

Running one hand over it, he was to wrap long, slender fingers around the hilt savouring the smooth feel of it before he with one hand made to pull it free.

Stunned when it did not at once give way, Jeremias stared at it. Pulling at it once more, this time with a little more effort he was to however be shocked when not only it did no such thing, but as solid as a boulder. Once more he was to meet with failure.

It was after this that he clasped both hands over the hilt, to pull at it with all his might. Yet again he met with failure, one that stunned those around him not that he paid them any mind at first. Pulling until his hands were scarlet and his face redder than the sands of the southern dunes of Hespanya, Jeremias could not however do it.

“Jeremias! Stop this at once, pull the sword free!” Elisabet hissed at him as the hall went silent, everyone looking at one another in awkward uncertainty.

“I am trying!” Jeremias replied his face turning redder still, as he redoubled his efforts all to no avail.

The whispers grew louder and ever more persistent than before. The more frantic the King became the more disconcerted the crowd became until many began to lose faith in their monarch. Some even to his horror, he noticed from the corner of his eye began to climb to their feet and without being dismissed sought to leave.

It was however soon to be made worse when losing faith with the King, one man acted against him, one who was seated in the aisle to the right-hand side next to Juan. Rising to his feet he was to address the multitude in a ringing voice that carried throughout the hall.

“The regency will have to be extended, if you shan’t do this simple task,” One man grunted scornfully, it was Brother Brayan, the Douvain of Amalrios, and a close personal friend of Juan. The man had regained his feet, dressed all in black, with flesh pale as snow he was one of the most intimidating and menacing individuals in the realm. “It might be that we must attribute this to lack of maturity.”

Face burning with shame and fury, Jeremias turned upon the older man, “I can pull it free! I am worthy and more than wise enough for it!”

“Then do so,” Elisabet hissed at him.

Yet he could not.

Ashamed, Amalros of Léan and Emiliano looked away, unable to continue to bear to look on him. It happened that it was Juan who endorsed Brayan’s words, and was to raise up his hands also and calling for a charter to be brought forward. The regency as he argued it, had been sealed and agreed upon on condition that on the King’s sixteenth birthday he succeed in pulling the sword Colada from its pedestal.

By this time, falling to his knees Jeremias could only weep from the shame of it, staring at his blistered and reddened hands in defeat. Such was the grief and shame that he felt then, as he failed in his first hour of kingship, he hardly noticed Jaime his younger brother seeking to help him to his feet, seeking to whisper reassuringly in his ear. Nor did he notice when Elisabet seized by disappointment and anger stormed from the hall, abandoning her son therein a sea of horror and disappointment.

It was as it turned out neither she nor her new family that came to his assistance, but rather one of the lesser douvards, one by the name of Ferdinand who stepped forward. Kindly, the dark haired and bearded man dressed in the blue robes of one sworn to Meret the goddess of music, was to seize him by the arm.

“Come away, come along your Grace, do come along,” He whispered taking him up by the arm, eager to help and guide the lost youth.

Grateful as he was, still Jeremias could not quite bring himself to face him or speak. Escorted from the great hall, long after most had left, he could only look back at the blade that had rejected him.

Unable to believe his own misfortune, he would never forgive himself this failure. Though what was worse was that others would not. Shamed and humiliated, he was not to see his day as true King for a great deal longer after this. Not that Jeremias much cared about that, shattered as he was by that moment, this moment of failure would be as nothing in comparison to the manner in which his mother’s kinsmen took this failure.

None proved able to meet his eye, and each of them was to mutter and grunt to themselves in displeasure, for many months. What Jeremias never forgot though, was how all love disappeared from the eyes of each of them, and how they began to turn ever more to Jaime and Kilian.

*****

He never forgot that day. Looking at the faces of those around him, he found only scorn, pity and disappointment. All had expected him to do what most of his ancestors had done, and he had failed completely and utterly. Few were the Kings who had failed so badly, and even fewer had been humiliated to such an extent. Utterly bereft, Jeremias withdrew from the world from then onwards, what joy he once derived from the hunt, from the study of law, of history were gone. In their place was a hollowness, a sense of emptiness, of failure that could never be wholly washed away.

It had been three years. Three years since the disaster in the temple of Hispanya, and in that time Jeremias had hardly changed in temperament save that he had become quieter and a little more timid. Before that terrible day, he had been convinced that his would be a glorious renewal of the golden age of the previous century, of a mind that his heroes Teresa and Kilian and Brayan I had been reborn in him. Yet now every time that servants or nobles passed him by, whispering between themselves he hurried his pace, cheeks burning with shame.

How could they not? He had brought shame to the family name, where all that he had longed for, was to honour it and bring glory to it.

Leaving much of the administration in the hands of others, he had at first did as bidden and allowed himself to participate if loosely in it, only to finally utterly withdraw. Why try? It seemed more effort than it was worth, especially since he felt lethargic or simply alone most days.

Abandoning hope of including him in matters of state, Elisabet had turned her attention to having Amalros educated in matters of law and history, alongside Kilian. It was difficult to tell when she had given up on her eldest son, but Jeremias did not much hold it against her.

Passing his days in his large bed-chambers which were fifteen meters in length and width, having once belonged to his father, he had taken to sculpting with stone and wood a small city. His father had loved sculpting and stone-masonry, it had been a passion of his since a young boy and he had shared it with each of his sons, and even Teresa. It was one that Jeremias as a favour to his mother had long neglected, but that he now took back up.

Sculpting and carving out a small miniature city gave him a sense of accomplishment and power he had never known before. Life could not be controlled, yet this city could be, or so he told himself. The city also represented what he would have liked to build, how he had hoped to transformed Taletium from a fallen city into the next Lynette or Armand. The tricky part as he had discovered was keeping the pain from falling on his trousers, and also carving things such as the mouths and eyes of the small figures he had also taken to making. Thankfully, this was a pastime that the servants had taken to humoring and would often hurry away to find the materials for, if with pitying expressions or no expressions at all. He knew they thought him strange, regardless how queer they found him he had no interest in discussing the particulars of his mind, or the extent of his dreams.

The only company he kept on some days was the poet Gaston. Born in the southern lands of Gallia, namely those of the lands of Aguiane he was prior to his arrival in Taletium a famed troubadour. The son of a miller, he had taken up the craft in early childhood and had come south after he had murdered a man over a woman they both loved, his actions yielded the wrath of a local lord angered at the death of his servant. It was for this reason that the talented youth had been compelled to go south on pilgrimage, to find his way down the Pilgrim’s Road, which crossed from Scipiolonia to Nauvarre and into the lands of Castillion. He was meant to continue on yet had halted at the invitation of Jeremias when he was fourteen years old. The troubadour had come highly recommended by his uncle Diego, who had enjoyed his songs and poems.

The trouble was that by the time the poet had arrived before the King, he had buried his beloved from Gallia and so was in a terrible depression. Taking pity upon him, Jeremias had made him his court poet.

The poet knew all sorts of tales such as those of the legendary King of Neustrie Éluan, the Golden King. He also knew tales such as those of Roland, Aemiliemagne and many others, including the songs of the White King’s Daughters, the song of Clovis the Conqueror. Certainly most of Gaston’s songs were Gallian in nature, yet in the years since his arrival, Jeremias had come to admire them.

“Castillion has much to learn from Gallia,” Jeremias was wont to say to any who might listen to him, often muttering this whilst he and Gaston worked on the miniature city (for the poet had taken to assisting him with it).

On this particular occasion the thirty year old troubadour was as always singing as he cut and hewed with a small knife, at a miniature house, turning it over in his well-practiced fingers. The moment he heard the other man absentmindedly singing, Jeremias encouraged him to sing louder. “Do sing the tale, I should like to hear more of it, and sing it later myself when we go to visit my sister, in the convent.”

“Yes, my liege,” Gaston agreed at once with a small smile on his bearded lips. Blond of hair and beard, Gaston was well built, more barge than man he was tall, fierce and could well have passed for a knight. His hair was long, as were his fingers with the man’s eyes green and piercing, though they often glimmered with sorrow he was of a convivial nature that often tended to win people over to him.

“L’écuyer boucles-de-soleil nomma

la jolie dame Judith de Luçia

tel fut son adoration pour lui qui combattra

toujours en son honneur et s’écria

toujours son nom lorsqu’il endura

l’horreur de bataille et saura

les pires douleurs qu’elle imagina,

Si proche fut les beaux-cousins

qu’il fut nommé ‘frère’ et tous l’admira

pour qu’il protégea de tout soudain

attaque le Comte qui toujours maltraita

la pauvre dame dont Marculf soutient

toujours ceci malgré qu’il le regretta,

De dragons connurent Marculf

et par le dragon l’armée était abattu

là par la rive-enflammée Marculf

pour son seigneur sa face mi-disparu

aux flammes redoutables,

De cet évènement inattendu

le cuivre se reforgea en le plus durable

acier imaginable invaincu

décoré avec les bijoux glorieuses

de la chevalerie bien défendu

par tout vrai chevaliers !

Ainsi Marculf définir l’honneur

de la plus haute valeur !”

“And now in thy tongue, sire,” Gaston told him though the other man could well understand it in his native, he did this with a small smile at several of the servants who were there with them, and to the two guards who stood at attention in the bedchambers with them.

“The squire with his golden locks, was named

By Lady Judith of Luçia, of memory most famed,

Such was his adoration for her, he fought

Always in her honour, and cried out

Her name when he endured,

And was properly by battle horrified,

The worst pains that she imagined,

They did together, such was their bond,

That he was named ‘brother’, and all admired him,

So that he defended her from all sudden

Attacks by the Comte who mistreated

The poor lady, Marculf supported,

This always he didst regret,

Of dragons Marculf well knew to fret,

And by the dragon the army was torn,

Therein the river-aflame Marculf was shorn

Of half his face,

To those redoubtable flames,

By this unexpected event that he disdains,

Bronze re-forged to be more durable,

Steel of the spirit unconquerable,

Decorated with the most glorious jewels

Of chivalry that all who dost

Call themselves knights cling still, whilst on earth!

Thus didst Marculf define honour

He of the greatest valour!”

Muttering along with him, Jeremias though kept his focus upon the carving of the sculptures in his hands. He could appreciate the other man’s voice even as he escaped from the world then, to that of old Gallian romance, where heroes’ triumphed and Kings were grand figures. The knights and Kings of those tales never failed, never faltered and never lost, or so he imagined.

So distracted was he by the tale he came very near to cutting himself, cursing at the near miss he threw Gaston an amused glance when the other man reprimanded him. “Caution sire, less you spill your blood unnecessarily and clumsily if I may say so.”

Chortling, his guards were to stand at attention when he threw a glance in their direction now, “Something amuse you sir knights?”

“Not at all, your Grace, we simply thought it appropriate criticism given how often you spill blood in the pursuit of your toy-city.” One of them, the one to the left of the doors replied with a snigger. The man was tall, blond and easily entertained with a roving eye for the ladies, dressed all in silver armour and with a short beard he was a paragon of manhood. No less muscular than his ruler, he was one of the few who had always managed to beat him in the joust and in swordsmanship so that it was he, Fernando who was often at the monarch’s side.

“Quite true,” Jeremias agreed with a small smile.

This was how it was these days; lazy and yet full of sculpting and jousting, both with one’s tongue and also physically out in the courtyard. It was thus whilst utterly distracted and expectant of another dull day, with precious little before it beyond these things that the most unexpected thing happened. The doors flew open and for the first time in months, Elisabet threw herself forward to address her son.

“Why are you not dressed for travel?” She demanded of him, dressed in a light dress and travel-cloak, and with her long mane of hair thrown back, rather than done up in the latest fashion.

“Excuse me mother? Whatever do you mean?” Jeremias asked of her confused.

“I sent Kilian to find you, and he- do not tell me that do-nothing has instead distracted himself with another of his ridiculous statues or gone down to the temple again to discuss temple and Cathedral plans instead of doing his duty? I should have him whipped!” Elisabet seethed in such a mood that she appeared very likely to give just such an order.

Bewildered, and seeking to protect his brother from any possible difficulty, the disconcerted monarch spoke up. “I am sure he had a legitimate reason for not conveying the message you wished to; now what is this about?”

His last words though were overshadowed by the sudden arrival of the very youth they spoke of, with the boy sporting a pinched, embarrassed look to him as he suddenly shouted. “O Jeremias, I bring urgent news from mother it would seem that- oh mother you are here, I had no such notion!”

“And why is that you think? Could it be that you forgot to convey to your brother that he must prepare to depart at present?” Elisabet said impatiently to her youngest, who flushed scarlet.

To Jeremias and Gaston’s immense amusement, the boy turned now to his eldest brother sucked in a breath and said, “Ah yes, my brother I deliver news from our mother the Queen Dowager that you must prepare to go on pilgrimage. She has had enough of your sulking, and feels it might endear you to the realm were they to see your penitent sincere feelings of regret about Colada and that this might convince them to better accept your kingship.”

“I am right here, there is no reason to inform him of this, if I am already present at hand to tell him all of that!” Elisabet snapped at him.

“Yes, but mother I had to present the message to him, as you had instructed to prove, I am indeed a worthy prince,” Kilian retorted evenly if slyly.

Repressing a smirk, while Gaston sniggered, Jeremias attempted to assuage her concerns to no avail, “Does this amuse you troubadour?”

Her voice was so stern, so frigid that Gaston ceased at once. Bewildered he looked from her, to the King, and said, “Not at all, milady.”

“Good because, the last thing I wished for was for you to derive some sort of amusement from my son’s lack of discipline.” Elisabet growled coldly, returning her gaze to so that it rested upon her son. “He still has much to learn about growing into manhood after all.”

Kilian for his part looked as though he wished to say something more. However he preferred instead to take his leave, never one for the company of the Queen-Dowager, though quite why was a mystery to his brother.

It was with a sigh that Jeremias was to reply to his mother, “Why do you not join us. There is yet time before we likely must depart.”

“No Jeremias, there is no time.” Elisabet snapped at him, “If you are to grow into Kingship you must partake in its responsibilities at once. At the present moment what that means is going out to do penance for your inability, to draw the sword from the pedestal, as is proper given that it was you who failed to draw it.”

Jeremias had no rebuttal or answer for her. He had no wish to discuss the matter, preferring to instead stare at the small figures he had been carving and the buildings he had cut, refined and painted.

He felt defeated, and he knew she knew. Elisabet was merciless, and told him carrying on with her harsh words, “My son, do stop obsessing over your defeats and go be a man and King. You will never amount to anything sitting herein the dark, now go face thy realm and let us put a brave face on defeat, as we ought to have done three years ago.”

*****

Leaving Taletium proved difficult for the young King. His excursions in the local woods, or to visit Baron Jaime three days away, or the convent of Hesblanca a week away where Teresa lived were as nothing compared to the ambition of this journey. The county of North-Asturia which was Teresa’s by hereditary right thanks to her mother, and conferred on her by Jeremias II at the woman’s passing was where they were going. It was there that they hoped to find their way to, notably the temple of Amalia and Roderick the Paragons sworn to the goddess Meret. It was said that at the founding of Asturia, the first of the kingdoms to resist the Mardukians, who sought to wipe out all Quirinians within the Peninsula. It was said that the Amalian-Shrine was built upon the burial place of warrior who held off the Mardukians, along the bridge that ran over the Hesparias-river, Roderick, was said to have fled north. It was as he lay dying that the Mardukians wished to have his body fed to the crows, whereupon the lady Amalia who was wife to him, was to dance for the entertainment of the Mardukians. Amusing and pleasing them, they were to encourage her to dance all the more, wherefore she did… until such time that the armies of Asturia arrived to avenge noble Roderick. Enraged by this act on her part, it was said that the devout young woman who had prayed and prayed as she danced, was then slain with the same blades that had mortally wounded her husband. What occurred next was that as she lay dying she prayed not for herself, but for those whom her husband had sacrificed himself for. A miracle then occurred and her slayers were blinded, left unable to defend themselves and were easily slain despite outnumbering those of Asturia. They were to bury husband and wife together, laying them in a single cairn overlooking the sea and were later to build there a small convent and town. It was said that every King since that time of the Kingdom of Asturia and later that of Castillion had visited the site shortly after their coronation, to pay homage to the valour of Roderick, and the piety of Amalia.

It happened that this tale passed down across the generations was a favourite of Teresa’s, and over the generations since the time of the passing of the Paragon Camila, the site had become a popular pilgrimage site. The pilgrimage that Jeremias sought to undertake was one which included the whole of the royal household, minus the house of Emiliano. This meant that the King’s stepfather, half-siblings’ Emiliano and Juan, Juan, Amalros and all the clerks they necessitated for the royal administration and Royal Court had remained in Taletium. Only Jaime and Kilian, their attendant servants and guards and those of the Queen Dowager were with Jeremias, along with those guards and servants he favoured.

In the choosing of companions Jeremias had prevailed to the utter irritation of his mother. It was as they made their way through the lands of North-Asturia that Jeremias was filled with longing to return home.

By the time he had arrived in the vicinity of the village of Rojaldea he was in a considerably better and far less home-sick mood. It might have had something to do with Gaston, who had never relented in his singing if only to ease his mind. The troubadour had made certain to sing of the King’s favourite ancestor Brayan I and of the likes of the Neustrian Golden King, who was also a favourite of his.

If only, Jeremias caught himself thinking, I had some of Éluan’s blood in my veins, now there was a King blessed with greatness from the moment he drew breath! The heir to the line of Aemiliemagne, crown-prince and having out-jousted his uncle the mighty Médard the Strong at age fourteen! Where he has achieved marvels by the time he was fourteen, I have yet to accomplish a single thing and I am halfway to near double his age, the nineteen year old Jeremias caught himself thinking quite often as he rode.

His mind torn from the excellent tunes of his friend, the King’s gaze was naturally drawn to the raggedly dressed, visibly under-nourished people all around him. Many of them drew pity and gasps of sympathy from his brother who rode in the carriage with his mother, Jeremias did not avert his eyes or ride with them.

It was after they had requested a place to stay and fallen asleep in the local mayor’s home that it happened. The mayor snoring a short distance away in his small house after having served his best food and ale to the King and his household, the young monarch struggled with nightmares. His dreams haunted by the haunted gazes and weary eyes of the peasants he had crossed that day and felt such guilty to have observed.

It was just as they vanished in his dreams that he heard screams and shouts that he was shaken awake by his mother. Startled, he was surprised to find his mother staring down at him with panicked and angry eyes, “We are betrayed! Hurry away with me my son, the village has revolted!”