guests seemed to share his nerves. He was the one who was out of place.
As proceedings lagged and pleasantries were forced, it was actually the man to the left of their host who twitched the most. But what did this man have to be nervous about? He wore an over-elaborate crown of dubious construction, and he fidgeted with a plethora of rings, each one housing jewels that appeared to be of great value. He was a large man, and as one of those in attendance without a hood, Kantal could take in his features. He was softer than expected.
“A fine spread, Lord Gorfin.”
As the man spoke, his chin quivered. It was not the sign of a strong leader. His face was smooth and unblemished; his cheeks rosy like a virgin’s. His eyes danced with something sour, and every time he spoke, the tone was edged with deep-rooted discontent. He portrayed power through his dress and his actions, but he could not hide his weakness – not truly. This man was the polished symbol of Mikaetan decay; he was the Emperor. But still, he had no reason to be nervous. Not here.
Then it struck him: this was the seat of his ancestors. He wasn’t nervous, he was angry. The Hooded King was sitting in his seat.
The servants continued to scuttle about, darting back and forth from the wings of the room whilst conversation continued around them. Fear was a powerful tool indeed. He gulped again, and the man opposite sniggered. Damn the bastard. He straightened his back and drew his attention back to the head of the table. The hooded aide finally pressed the direction of the discussion.
“Your Majesty, lord of the magnificent lands of Delfinia, what is it we can help with?”
Everyone in the room knew why they were here, but it appeared that the Gorfinians wanted to labour the point. Only the Mikaetan Emperor seemed oblivious to the forced tension, gluttonous as he was upon the spread before him, his eyes darting jealously.
In response to the question, the King of Delfinia wiped his own mouth, removing an escaped dribble of wine. Then he stood to address the audience; to share the plan. It seemed rather formal, but then what did he know? This was not an arena in which his particular skillset flourished.
As the King of Delfinia passed on his way to the map, he offered the slightest touch on the shoulder. The unexpected interaction cut right through him, and his awareness of the other participants’ critical gaze was heightened. He wanted this over, and he wanted it over soon. This was not his territory. He dropped his head once again. He would rather be hidden.
“We come asking for assistance. We come for your help.”
The statement was simple, clear, but in a room-full of vipers, it was guaranteed to shock. The Emperor slammed a flabby fist onto the table, and loosed his objection. And bizarrely, that wobbly strike struck even harder than the sharp steel of a mandahoi could. The Emperor may be flabby and soft, but he was still an emperor. He was of the line of Villas, and that was a great line indeed.
“And why should we offer you help? What has Delfinia ever done for us, apart from splintering our great union in the first place?”
His king stumbled over his attempt to counter. “Your Excellency, if you please. Will you let me explain―”
“What sort of help is it that you’re after? I have an idea, but please elaborate.”
This was the worst of it. It was like asking a cripple for a leg-up.
“We want military support.”
“Ha! I have a mind to leave now.” The Emperor rose from his seat, but the greed in his eyes betrayed the false intentions. He was ushered back by the soothing palm of the Hooded King, but it was really an unnecessary measure given the preposterous transparency of the Emperor’s feint. “We have pleaded for assistance from Delfinia for decades, and what have we received? Nothing. Not even a damned response. Do not forget that it is Mikaeta that still holds the flood of the Centro from your gates. Never forget this.”
The King fought this corner well. “And do not forget, Emperor, that it is Delfinia that keeps you free of the Burnt People. We too have borders to hold.”
“The Burnt People are nothing compared to the Centro―”
The Hooded King raised a hand, and his aide coughed. It was eerie. “Please. Let the King of Delfinia speak.”
The Emperor nestled back into his well-cushioned chair, firing a spiky glance across the table whilst ramming more food into his mouth. But the Gorfinian King’s head did not even move, and there was no sign of emotion. That was the power of the hood; it was all-concealing. That was the power of Gorfin.
“Thank you, Lord. As I was saying, we request your military support for an assault on Ahan.” There was a disrespecting snort from the Emperor, but his king did not react. He would let the plan speak for itself. The all-important plan. He shivered.
This was his plan, his genius, and he tingled at the beautiful details. He hoped these powerful men would see it the same way. He was being laid out for all to see, and it thoroughly discomfited him. He was desperate for a positive exchange, but he was at the mercy of his king’s bargaining capabilities.
“We have established a plan of immense merit, but what we have in ingenuity, we lack in resources. However, with your help, we believe that we can make the move that will crack that nut. We believe that we can take Ahan.”
He was sweating. His hands pumped uncontrollably, and he was mouthing along with his king. These were his words.
But the Emperor’s response was at best dismissive, whilst the Gorfinian king remained silent as ever. Intentions laid out, it was time for the challenge. He wanted to crawl under the table, even though the attention was not upon him.
It was the Emperor who shifted first. “And how many have tried in the past? Ahan has been a locked realm for over a hundred years, and yet you come here with promises of success. How naive. You do realise that we three nations once formed an alliance, but even with such combined authority, we could not prevail.”
“Yes indeed, and we shall form a tri-liance once more, but this time with success. Please, I implore you to entertain the proposal at the very least.”
The Emperor opened his mouth, but it was left gaping when the Gorfinian King interrupted with a hand. He leaned into his aide, who straightened and drew the attention of his king.
“Then what makes you think that you have a successful design where all others have failed?”
“Because I believe in the man who came up with it.”
Oh no – that wasn’t part of his speech. The King had all the facts, so why would he alter the focus? He could now sense the lingering eyes upon him, and he dropped his head further. Was it possible to force one’s head into one’s own chest?
“And this is the man that conjured this miracle?” Each word of the aide speared his faltering confidence, and he closed his eyes. This was not how it was supposed to be. He was never designed for this.
The king hummed his confirmation and the transfer was complete. He had to justify himself, and that would be tough. He had never managed to do that. Not even to himself.
“And you are?”
When he raised his head and went to open his mouth, the prospect of his peasant twang froze him. That was the final nail in his resolve. He could not spar with these oiled serpents, masters of tongue and politics. What right did he have to respond? He was the most common of stock. He puckered his arse, succumbing to that same cowardice that identified his childhood. His hands fidgeted, and when he did manage to blurt out his name, it sounded childish. Oh so childish.
“I am General Adnan ap Kantal of the Delfinian army.”
And foolish. That too. Definitely foolish.
Was it hot in here? No; it was just him. He could see it in the faces of the other table guests. They were smirking at his impotence. When the Gorfinian King raised his fist, he assumed it was for the ear of the aide. Instead the Hooded King thumped it down with stony authority, noise crashing through the room, shredding his residual nerve. He was a ghost now, and the aide’s words
nearly blew him away.
“Tell me, General. What makes you think that you have earned the right to gamble with my Lord King’s property?”
It was a good question, and if he couldn’t answer this, then he deserved to fail. He looked to his own remarkable story.
The Then
Two | 20yrs ago
Being the fifth son of a blacksmith was tough work. It was really tough work, and not because of the labour. Quite the opposite in fact. And with his name, it was even tougher. He had a girl’s name.
No honestly. His mother had been desperate for a daughter, and when she fell pregnant for the fifth time, she was determined that it would be a girl and insisted on the name. He’d come out with a winkle, a one-eyed snake pointing right at her, but still she persisted. He kept the damned girl’s name. The thing had cursed him ever since.
If he’d been a girl, then his life would have been a whole lot easier.
His oldest brother was king – heir to the smithy empire – and he bore the arrogance to go with it. Damn, did he wear that badly? But in some ways that wasn’t surprising; because though he was the oldest, he certainly wasn’t the best. That was son number two; the gifted child. He had a bright future, if only as usurper of his reprobate older brother.
The third son was well-placed too. He was somewhat eccentric, but somehow, someway, he’d established himself a slice of the future. He’d pioneered a mobile furnace, and