A Piece of Paper

It was all happening too fast for Sovelor. He tripped awkwardly over his bed frame-- thank goodness none of his councilors were present! His coronation was happening too soon after his father's death. But that was the way things were done in his father's kingdom, and it had become tradition. Swift justice for offenders, swift answers for petitioners, swift funerals for a King dead less than two days, and now a swift coronation for his son. Cursing his nervousness, he stepped in front of the great mirror and studied himself, squaring his shoulders as he did so. The King had died hunting yesterday morning, and today was the coronation of his fourteen-year-old son. Sovelor wondered what to do. He knew he must appear strong to the counselors, as his father did. That was plain. "A weak King has a short reign," his father used to say.

Father. He stared at his shoes, lustrous though they hadn't been shined for the ceremony yet. Gleaming like glass from a hundred polishes, but soft and supple on his feet. A dour frown spread across his face, and he sat back on the bed behind him. Father had such strength. Father was crowned King at thirteen, but everyone respected him for his ability to command, to lead men, whether into battle or into prosperity at home. He did both, and much more. The greatest King in history, many had called him. But Sovelor felt like a young fool. He commanded none of the respect his father had. In fact, he had overheard a servant make comment: "a damned poor time for his father to die-- the youngling's hardly fourteen and's got none of his father's stoutness. He may learn, but I'd rather he learned behind a book than beneath a crown!" Another servant had laughed--ashamedly, but laughed nonetheless. They couldn't have known the Prince could hear them, but that was no excuse. If his father had overheard such a conversation, he would've flayed them both and fed the skin to his hunting hounds.

Sovelor, upon hearing this yesterday, had cried. Cried! Like a baby, not like a King. His half-brother Aglinnen wouldn't have cried-- he would've stormed in and made the servants listen to him-- beat them, even, and tales of the event would have the soldiers laughing in the mess hall for months. But he himself was a gentler sort, though he wished for the thorny but just disposition of his Father. If Aglinnen had been recognized by Father, then they might share in the responsibilities of kingship, at least for awhile. But the bastard son's bloodline was a topic carefully avoided by the King, though he was secretly fond of him. Aglinnen and Sovelor were close in age, Aglinnen being but six months older, and the young Prince loved planning wild pranks with him--though he could never partake in their execution. He smiled thinking of the evening Aglinnen poured Horse Pepper into the cook's stewpot. Sovelor had even been involved in that one--a tiny lie, is all it took, really--redirected the cook to the larder until Aglinnen could complete the jest. He couldn't remember which was hotter-- the cook, or the stew he was forced to dump in a barrel and have taken out of the castle.

Sovelor's expression darkened as he thought again of his father and the reason for his own morning preparations, but then Fewoss burst into the room grandly, like the popinjay he was. He brightened quickly and turned, but Fewoss took no notice.

"Sire!" He bowed the deep quick bow of a man too busy for formalities, but obliged to observe them. "We must prepare you for your coronation! May we continue?" His oversized features beamed, and his red cheeks bounced with the rest of his great weight as he bowed again.

"Yes, Fewoss, you may. But quietly, please. I have important matters to think on." He hoped the tactful statement might silence Fewoss' incessant prattling.

He was wrong. Fewoss nodded quickly, a jerk of the head that somehow made Sovelor think of what an overweight bluejay might look like in silk. Fewoss motioned behind him as a sea of attendants poured in. They combed the royal hair, polished the royal buckles, straightened the royal garments, cleaned and powdered the royal face, and yes, polished the royal shoes. And Fewoss said immediately: "Yes, Sire, your coronation and the ceremonies are important matters, indeed. In fact, I would like to review them with you if I may?"

He began a sigh, but Fewoss mistook it for a nod. "Good, Your eminence.'" He removed a small scroll from his pocket. "The ceremony begins, for you, with your entrance, last excepting only myself and your entourage--robe-holders and the like. It is important, as you know, that the ceremony begin with your ascension to the throne. Kneel at the base of the steps, and High Priest Gelac will bless the occasion in his long-winded--ah, but effective--way." Fewoss was a fawning noble, but he often expressed his opinion in the frankest of terms before he caught himself. It was one of his most redeeming qualities, and Sovelor prized him for it. His honesty was so pronounced a trait that he was known to criticize the young Prince. While uncertain how he would deal with a councilor who weakened his position by questioning his authority, Sovelor hoped to place Fewoss on the King's council as a reward for his loyalty. His half-brother, too, should have the honor, though that would put half of the council in a snit, and the other half would be too angry to speak of it. Too bad. Fewoss and the bastard Aglinnen both deserved it, and a strong King should have no problem setting two of the thirty seats-- his father had appointed nearly ten when he was crowned. The council would call him weak if he appointed no one. Such appointments were solely at the King's discretion, though the politics of it all was important too.

Fewoss was continuing with the details "Of course, you must take time to acknowledge Welbione from Hild, Granthal from Beckersby, and Fevrie from Davomir-- and any other ambassador who makes it in the next few hours. This makes them feel important, and endears them to you, uh, my liege." Fewoss stopped awkwardly, caught between the lessons of a Prince and respect for a King.

He recovered quickly, as he usually did, reviewing the ceremony for nearly an hour-- all repetitive and all extremely important minor details of a major day in Sovelor's life. Sovelor was only half-there, thinking more about establishing a strong hand in his first few days of rule-- to emulate his father's impressive command of his kingdom.

Then, as Fewoss at last prepared to leave, Deither Bosh rushed in to the room and asked permission to speak. He was flushed with his run up the stairs, and his face was wide with shock, which worried Sovelor. Deither was a young man and a friend. His father, a large strong man, sat on the council and was a well-trusted merchant in the city. A good family. Sovelor worried that Deither's father had come to ill as his own father had.

"Your brother-- I mean Aglinnen, he's been arrested." He panted.

"By whom and what author--well, have him released!" The words burst in a rush from the man who would be King in a few short hours.

"Captain Pem caught him this morning, Sov--Sire, I just found out. During the hunt, it was. He-- stole-- from the King!"

"What?"

"He stole a ring, an opal-- the blue stone-- he claimed his mother wore it-- and also a scroll the King had in his room--"

"This is ridiculous--"

"So- Sire." Deither caught himself, "Captain Pem saw him leaving and asked him his business, and he ran. They caught him and searched him because-- well, you know how they treat Aggy, calling him bastard and everything-- and the Captain found these things and he's already in jail, Sov!" Deither appealed to his friend, not the King, and Sovelor stiffened.

He knew how they treated Aglinnen. He was a commoner without the King's recognition as his own blood. Just another commoner allowed to live among nobles, though Sovelor fought always to provide him some dignity, and the King had too, in his way. Some would murmur that even Aglinnen's life was a boon not to be taken lightly, though Sovelor knew the hidden pride the King had for his bastard son. Why, then, would Aglinnen do such a thing? He intended to ask him, but after the coronation.

#

Hours later, he stepped up to the great iron-bound doors to the throne room. The coronation was a huge affair-- larger even than the King's funeral the day before, and that had included thousands of people crammed into the great hall inside the castle. The coronation was an opportunity for every anybody hoping to be somebody to establish themselves as supporters of the new King. As a result, they were packed in to the rafters, and the heat of their bodies warmed the throne room, a room unwarmed in Sovelor's lifetime. His father liked the throne room cold, like his reasoning, and so the windows were open to the outside. Despite the chill of the season, the wave of heat greeted Sovelor as he entered, slowly and deliberately, to the fanfare of trumpets. He scanned the faces that shouted encouragement to him, knowing that Aglinnen was not among them. Fewoss had asked that he remain in prison-- despite the fact that Fewoss was fond of his half-brother, too. "Sire, nearly every man on the council despises Aglinnen, and special favors for the man for so grave an offense could be fatal to your first day of kingship. No," he shook his head, his great jowls emphasizing his thoughts, "whatever Captain Pem and the others are up to, let poor Aglinnen remain until after the coronation, and then look into his offense. I will have Deither gather the facts for you." Convinced that Fewoss was right, but unhappy at the result, Sovelor relented. Aglinnen must hear only faint cheers, if anything, in his cell. After the coronation I'll make things right.

And the coronation was a gigantic success. Silk banners hung from the mezzanine, the Prince's colors of gold and scarlet. The music of harp, lute, and flute was lost among the great noise of cheers. Everyone cheered the young King as if he were his father-- even perhaps more so, Sovelor imagined. The counselors that seemed to treat him as a foolish boy were suddenly deferential to him, respectful, even, as he caught their eyes one by one. It was this last which worried Sovelor, for he feared that Fewoss was right. If so, then his inaction upon Aglinnen's arrest had shown them how strong he was. Thinking of his bastard brother smelling the dankness of the prison cells had Sovelor sick with worry, but if the men who would help him run his kingdom respected him for it, well then Aglinnen might have to wait until he could think of a solution. As he recited the Prince's oaths of the blessings of kingship, his mind wandered always back to the faces of men who now seemed to respect him for his control. The crown fit perfectly, and his mind roared with the celebration as it was placed on his kingly head. Even as he rode through the streets of the city afterward, he saw only the admiring faces of men he himself respected and admired: merchants, minor nobles, traders, soldiers, waving scarlet and gold ribbons and cheering "Sovelor! Sovelor! Welcome the good King Sovelor!"

And there were a hundred matters to attend to after the parade-- kingly matters which demanded a King's attention. The council swarmed his chambers, bearing gifts and congratulations, and asking the King what he thought on this matter of an Anshik rebellion, or what to do with the family beaten by drunken soldiers, or if we should accede the Betton peninsula to the Grayma as part of the treaty, and other important considerations such as a King is faced with. Sleep overtook him suddenly, a yawn dominating his face as he listened to a boatwright describe the design of the new warship. The councilor facing him smiled kindly.

"Tired, my King?"

"No, certainly," Sovelor lied, "but just the same I would like to attend to these matters to-morrow."

Everyone dismissed themselves even as the King's eyelids fluttered, and Fewoss' lackeys removed shoes and coat as the King reposed. He smiled grandly in his sleep as he remembered the way in which he handled them all, and the respectful smiles of his councilors and loving looks of his people.

He awoke suddenly, the sun streaming through his window. Aglinnen! He rushed out of his room, dressing himself without waiting for his attendants to wait upon him. His disposition soured as he stormed downstairs, at once angry at his councilors for sidetracking him and flushed with anger at himself for forgetting his bastard brother. We'll come up with a way out of this after we talk, he decided.

Near the throne room, he encountered Deither, sunken, sleepless eyes going wide as he saw Sovelor. He went to one knee as the King approached, but had to yell after, so quick was the King's passing. "My liege!" He shouted, "Aglinnen is off to his death!"

Sovelor froze.

Deither padded up beside him, frantic. "I looked into the charges-- they are real, near as I could tell. I did as Fewoss asked of me, but I couldn't make it to your chambers. There were so many of them, and they all outranked me, and even after they all left they said you were asleep and a King is not to be disturbed by the likes of me, that's what they told me."

"Stop, Deither. Where is he?"

"The gallows! They took him!"

The King left Deither raving, his own thoughts churning uncontrollably. They dare? One voice said imperiously. Justice is swift in your kingdom, sire, said another voice. He stole from a King, punishable by death, and it’s your fault. You left him to rot in prison, remember? But there was so much to do...

His strides took him past more deferential guards and soldiers, kitchen staff and old friends. He ignored them all and leapt upon the first saddled horse in the stable, heedless of whose it was. The stablemaster sputtered his silly objections, mounting up himself once he realized that the King would not wait for an escort. He followed his King to the gate, and amidst the guards' screaming at his leaving with only the stablemaster and more congratulatory cheers, they galloped into the heart of the city.

They were in time. The gallows-rope was strung and ready, and Aglinnen was being roughly escorted to the platform, his crimes already read. A large crowd booed at the bastard son of their recently departed King, yelling insults and threats. Aglinnen's fair hair was plastered to his head, soaked, perhaps from a bucket-bath before his hanging.

"Stop!"

All eyes turned to view the King, and an instant ripple of murmur went through the crowd. It took a moment, but all activity stopped and silence governed as the clip-clop of the King's horse took him to the platform. The stablemaster rode warily behind, looking around as he thought a good soldier would do, had one been ready when they left the castle.

It appeared to all that day that a weak-minded boy ascended the steps to the platform, wearing a kingly cloak with his hair still matted from sleep and his boots unlaced. He was obviously unnerved and uncertain as he yet commanded with kingly authority that the hangman wait a moment. It was clear that the King wasn't pleased to see the bastard being hanged, and people would argue for years to come what words passed between them that day.

"Congratulations on your coronation," Aglinnen said through his teeth as the King approached. "The crown fits you well. Is this is my council seat, brother?" Aglinnen said the last word bitterly, for it was a word they had always shared despite the deceased King's misgivings about it.

"Aglinnen, why?" Sovelor whispered.

"Hah! But for a piece of paper, it is I who would be crowned and you who would be hanging, my liege." Aglinnen lowered his voice, "But I don't have that paper, do I?" his anger filled the air between them.

"You stole the ring, then?"

"Yes. My mother's ring, remember? And the scroll, too, don't forget that. Your watchdog Pem took them straight to you, no doubt?"

"But it's punishable by death," Sovelor said ruefully, ignoring the strange question.

"But with the King's recognition, I am older-- and I would be King, Sovelor. How could a King steal from himself?" Aglinnen had a peculiar and defiant look on his face.

"You are not the King. You are not!" Sovelor trembled in anger as he hissed the words. Had his closest friend Aglinnen been nothing more than a friend in word, ready to strike once his back was turned?

Aglinnen's face went cold and unreadable. "Then I am nothing more than a commoner who stole from the King." He stared into the gathered crowd.

Why? Sovelor pleaded silently to Aggy, his friend, even as the crowd grew restless with uncertainty. Why do such a terribly stupid thing? I would have made you a beloved friend to the King!

"The evidence is true, and truly gained." Sovelor spoke to the crowd. He choked on his next words, not knowing what they were anyway, and fled from the platform, un-regally, uncaring.

King Sovelor didn't remember the ride to the castle, nor the walk to his chambers. He was stunned that the bastard would have done such a thing. The bells tolled Aglinnen's death shortly, and the tones were a dull thud on his heart, shaking emotions from him in a flood of tears.

It was a sadder picture, then, a week later. The young King, strong and proud, sat in the great throne. He and Fewoss were reviewing some of the late king's last papers. Unopened since his father's death, Fewoss had brought the scrolls, insisting their import and possible urgency. Who knew what matters the King had prepared before his untimely demise? They were boring ideas, mostly, thoughts sealed up for the King's private musings on policy and the populace. A message meant for Fevrie of Davomir was dispatched immediately, a note of gratitude and hope for future well-dealings from a deceased King. A powerful statement, Sovelor felt, and one which couldn't hurt their future relationship with Davomir.

Fewoss agreed. "It will be a pretty moment, sire, when he reads it-- if you will forgive my morbidity. Fevrie seemed to genuinely respect your father, and will appreciate words from him, even posthumously."

"Yes," Sovelor said slowly, "Fevrie is always frowning, but he deferred properly to the King-- my father."

"It wasn't always so--" Fewoss pointed out without pausing, oblivious to Sovelor's thoughts, "--Fevrie was difficult to control when he first came here, and his troops even more so. The first time they came to the castle after Fevrie was named Davomir's Champion-- you'll recall that the Davomir duel for the succession? Of course you do, sire, a minor jest. Their first visit was a disaster. his men scrapped with the servants, the soldiers, even the nobles. One of his men killed another, you know." Fewoss finished the sentence and paused, though his previous question had no such pause after it, only a quick recovery.

Sovelor laughed at Fewoss' verbal antics, then stopped immediately as he realized the import of his last statement. "They did?" He screwed up his face in thought. "I remember some skirmish-- I wasn't aware that anyone died."

"Well, it was years ago. You were.... Probably not told, then. Your father was furious! Not just at the death of the Davomir man, but at Fevrie's lack of discipline. He was quite the barbarian then, but you had to be to succeed in Davomir."

"The Davos and the wolves fight different battles the same way," Sovelor interrupted, quoting a lesson from Fewoss.

"Why yes!" Fewoss smiled broadly. "Who said that?"

"You did."

"I did?" Fewoss placed a finger on his temple. "My, that's true. Anyway, the death was quite by accident. A Davo stabbed one of his fellows when they were running to a battle, they thought. Actually it was sword practice in the courtyard. One man stopped, and the other man didn't stop quickly enough. The poor man had his spear lowered... Ran him right through the lung. I think your father helped Fevrie teach his men some discipline. Always running off to kill each other." He shook his head sadly.

"I hope Fevrie respects me." Sovelor wondered, then wished he hadn't said it aloud.

"I hope so too."

Sovelor grabbed another of his father's papers to avoid an embarrassing pause, tearing it a bit in his haste. It read:

"I, King Kovelor, am proud this day to proclaim...

Fewoss continued speaking while Sovelor read. "Fevrie of Davomir has matured much since that day..."

"...Aglinnen as joint-heir to the throne of my kingdom..." The scroll's edges crinkled as the King gripped it more tightly.

Fewoss droned on. "...There are many examples, and I'm sure you'll remember them, of how a man sometimes becomes greater..."

"...Let Aglinnen be called bastard no longer, but brother, and Prince..."

Fewoss rambled, something about "crisis and tragedy," but Sovelor wasn't listening. His hands began to tremble. "Aglinnen and Sovelor have grown as kin; let them rule after me as kin and Kings. This is the sworn bond and word of King Kovelor..."

The paper fluttered to the floor as his fingers, which had been gripping the page tightly, released suddenly. He stared at his fingertips.

"My liege?" Fewoss cocked his head and furrowed his eyebrows.

"Leave me."

"You don't remember any examples?" He chuckled, waving his hand. "It's nothing to--"

"You blithering fool. Leave me." He had heard his father say such things in anger, never himself.

Fewoss wisely disappeared, and Sovelor cupped his eyes and the floor near the scroll began a drip-drip as the King wept again over the loss of his friend. For his brother had stolen a note from his father's study, where this scroll was retrieved. This scroll was the one stolen, he was certain, by Aglinnen. Fewoss' unheard words were correct that day: men did mature in their grief. Each Kingly tear from Sovelor was a drop of arrogance and vanity that ran upon the stone floor to evaporate.

The scroll itself was a treasured document from that day, decreed sacred by King Sovelor, to be copied in large on the wall of the throne room as a testament to the follies of men. A simple scroll from his father granting Aglinnen the rights of his name, with all the privileges and benefits therein. It was the stolen scroll, still sealed and returned by the loyal General Captain Pem; the scroll that granted his friend and brother who died a commoner the right to be crowned King. The humble King Sovelor never forgot it.

The End

Tony Markey began his writing career growing up in Fairbanks, Alaska. In the sixth grade he wrote and acted in his Thanksgiving play, "Turkey On Trial." It was a well-written piece, including such great dialogue as "Shaddup!" and "You Shaddup!"—and who could forget the timeless classic "everybody Shaddup who says Shaddup!"

It was a tough Thanksgiving. His writing improved greatly, evidenced with a "D-" on his first book report, a "D-"in Basic Composition, and an "F" in Introduction to Literature. He continued writing however (why?!), and his greatest poetic successes came in college when wooing his bride of five years, JeNell. He likes to think she’d have given him an "A."

He continues his writing of fiction and poetry, feeling at times like the "Turkey On Trial."

He resides in Washington State.

E-mail: tonymarkey@hotmail.com

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