Page 22 of Kingdom of Feathers

“Not that kind ofget rid of,” he said. “You know what I mean. I want a council of advisors who will tell me the truth, and say what they really think.”

“And if they do, will you follow their advice?”

For a moment a genuine grin lit Basil’s face. “I didn’t say that.” The smile faded immediately as his eyes returned to the marble structure that stood between him and the open ocean below. “I hope I’ll always listen to others’ advice, but I’m not going to let anyone talk me out of doing what I know needs to be done.”

“That sounds ominous,” said Zinnia, frowning.

Basil said nothing, and before his sister could further interrogate him, a soft call from their mother made them both turn. The mourners had almost all departed, leaving only the royal family. Of course, since there were fourteen of them, along with their attendants and a host of royal guards, the clifftop still seemed fairly crowded.

Responding to the semblance of privacy provided by the much smaller audience, six-year-old Dahlia detached herself from the bevy of princesses and hurtled toward Basil and Zinnia. She buried her face in her brother’s leg, and watery sobs emanated from the spot. The queen started to chide her ninth daughter, but Basil shook his head. Detaching Dahlia from his leg, he hoisted her up so their faces were level.

“When did you get so heavy, Dahlia?” he asked, with an exaggerated grimace.

“I’m not!” Dahlia hiccuped. She hovered uncertainly, evidently torn between expressing her outrage at the slight and burrowing into Basil’s comforting solidity.

“I’m only teasing, Dee,” said Basil lightly. With a quick squeeze, he set her back on her feet. “Come on, Father wouldn’t want us to miss his memorial feast.”

“It’s not a feast, Basil,” corrected Briar, sounding scandalized. “It’s a funeral supper. You make it sound like a festival.”

“My mistake,” said Basil gravely. He caught Zinnia’s eye, and saw the ghost of a smile on her face as well.

“You wanted to surround yourself with people who say what they’re really thinking,” she reminded him in a mutter.

Basil couldn’t help smiling. Briar had always been meticulous about the facts. When she was an adult, it would probably fit her for a very useful role. In an eleven-year-old, it was usually either annoying or entertaining. But Zinnia was right—at least she wasn’t afraid to tell him he was wrong, king or not.

“Your Majesty.”

Queen Lucille turned reflexively, and Basil didn’t. But it was the new king whom the messenger was watching, and Basil nodded for the man to continue.

“A courier has just arrived from Mistra, bearing a message for you. Apparently he wasn’t told to wait for a response, but the steward wasn’t sure whether to let the courier just leave, or whether to remand the man in custody. I was sent to bring you the message immediately.”

An angry hiss from the queen told Basil exactly what his mother thought of the Mistrans interrupting his father’s funeral with any kind of message. But he was intrigued more than anything. Holding out his hand, he received the sealed billet, and pulled it open, fracturing the Mistran royal crest that was pressed into the wax.

“Well?” prompted Queen Lucille tensely, as he ran his eyes over the short message.

Basil looked up at her. “It’s a simple message of condolence from King Lloyd,” he said, unable to keep a hint of satisfaction from his voice. “With a carefully worded comment about hoping for constructive communication in the new reign.”

“That’s outrageous,” said Daisy, the sister between Violet and Briar. “They’re the ones who killed Father! Now they want constructive communication with you?”

“Would you prefer them to declare open war and march on Tola?” Basil asked her dryly.

His mother shot him a sharp look that suggested that she, like him, had recognized the possibility of such a response from Mistra to King Thorn’s death.

“More like we should march on them,” muttered Daisy.

“We are not going to do that,” said Basil. He spoke calmly, but even he could feel the authority that came with the words. The conversation stilled at once. Basil looked between the heavy eyed faces, struggling to pull his mind from strategic considerations. He was bolstered by the message—it confirmed him in the course he already intended to take. But this wasn’t the time.

“Come on, everyone,” he said gently. Putting his plans for the future momentarily aside, Basil led the way back toward the castle, the family of which he was now the head following in his wake.

* * *

“Let me stop you there.” Basil raised a hand, calmly stopping the relentless flow of words pouring forth from the nobleman across the table. “It won’t be necessary to detail the report.”

“But, Your High—I mean, Your Majesty,” protested the man. “A great deal of time has gone into this report. Surely you recall our instructions to put together a proposal for a spring offensive. The plans before you constitute the preferred strategy of our army’s most senior commanders. They—”

“I must interrupt you again, My Lord,” said Basil, his tone still calm but his voice now raised in order to be heard. “I remember your instructions perfectly, and no doubtyouremember that it was not I who issued them.”

Silence fell around the council table, and several of the lords shifted uncomfortably.

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