Page 34 of Kingdom of Feathers

Basil considered his companion silently. The young nobleman had so far struck him as sensible and down-to-earth. He’d been quite surprised by Lord Baldwin’s evident discomfort when they spent time among the injured soldiers.

“It was necessary in my view,” he said simply. “They were injured fighting in my name. What honor would I show if I passed through their camp and failed even to acknowledge their sacrifice?”

“But you don’t even agree with the war,” said Lord Baldwin, regarding him curiously. “You never asked them to fight in your name.”

Basil smiled ruefully. “That’s not how a crown works, My Lord. I inherited all my father’s responsibilities along with his title. His decisions are mine now.”

Lord Baldwin shook his head slightly. “You are a very unusual eighteen-year-old, Your Majesty.”

Basil laughed aloud at that. “That comes with the crown, too.”

“With respect, King Basil,” Lord Baldwin insisted, “I disagree.”

“How old are you, My Lord?” Basil asked bluntly. The nobleman looked surprised, but didn’t hesitate to answer. Basil felt a surge of satisfaction. It was nice when his exalted position actually worked in favor of his preference for plain speaking. He could get away with asking questions that would be impertinent in anyone else.

“I’m thirty-five. I also came into my father’s position young, although not quite as young as you, Your Majesty. He died almost ten years ago.”

“My sympathies,” said Basil gravely, and Lord Baldwin gave an awkward nod.

“Are your family’s holdings near Tola?” Basil asked, thinking he should have taken the time to familiarize himself with his companion’s history before their departure.

Lord Baldwin shook his head. “Further west, Your Majesty. We rode by not far from them on our journey.”

“Did we? You should have pointed them out.” The young king turned his horse’s head toward the city. “Well then, enough of a rest, my friend,” he told the creature. “We are, as Lord Baldwin has so accurately pointed out, late. Let’s not delay any further.”

Without another word, the two men spurred their mounts back into motion, the combination of soldiers and guards fanning out into formation around them, and the few servants and officials who formed part of their delegation riding a short distance behind.

Somewhat to his own embarrassment, Basil found himself surreptitiously searching the sky as they rode. No winged shapes blotted out the sun, and he shook his head at his own folly. The dragons wouldn’t come so soon. He just hoped their very non-human perception of time wouldn’t cause them to visit Myst in a decade, expecting Basil to still be present. He didn’t truly wish for their presence to dominate his first meeting with King Lloyd, anyway.

They had almost reached the city gates when a group of horsemen rode out to meet them. The senior military officer on the Entolian delegation rode up to Basil’s side as the riders approached, speaking to the king while they still had privacy from their hosts.

“Soldiers, Your Majesty,” he said, jerking his chin toward the oncoming Mistrans.

Basil regarded the riders curiously. “Really? They’re not wearing uniforms.”

The officer grunted. “I would guess they don’t want to proclaim their position. But you can see it in the way they ride, and in their weapons. Soldiers or guards, no question.”

Basil nodded his thanks, and the officer fell back slightly just as the two groups converged. Whatever his companions might be, the rider heading the approaching group was clearly a nobleman. He greeted Basil formally, his words of welcome belied by the tension and suspicion in his tone. Basil responded with his usual calm, and didn’t hesitate to allow himself to be subsumed into the Mistran group as they turned to ride back toward the capital.

A glance back showed Basil that his own military escort looked far from pleased, but he just sent the ghost of a shrug toward his senior officer. The other man might be suspicious at the deception, but Basil took heart from the fact that King Lloyd had sent non-uniformed soldiers. It suggested that while the other king wished—most understandably—to minimize the threat Basil posed, he also didn’t wish to offend his visitor by greeting him with a show of military force.

Either way, Basil couldn’t see anything to be gained by refusing to fall in with the soldiers. He had chosen to put his head into the dragon’s mouth, as Zinnia would say. If his hosts wished him harm, his own small force would be powerless to protect him. Allowing the Mistrans to escort him to the city put him at no greater risk than he was already facing.

Still, he didn’t really blame his officer for not seeing it that way.

Conscious of the hard stares of the guards on the parapet, Basil rode through the city’s open gates still ensconced in the Mistran troops. His visit was obviously anticipated by the populace, and the streets were lined with curious onlookers. Most just stared, their expressions ranging from curiosity to fear, but a few called out abuse at the foreign king, and one or two even spat onto the road as Basil rode past.

Some of the members of Basil’s delegation made noises of outrage at this treatment of their king, but Basil mainly just felt grieved. It wasn’t unexpected—or even unreasonable, he reflected, picturing the hostility many of his own people showed toward the Mistrans. But he’d never been spat at before. It was a painfully personal reminder of how far the two kingdoms had sunk into conflict. They’d never been close allies—there had been tension over the border for a century, long before the armed conflict began—but how had they allowed things to deteriorate this far?

Picturing his inflexible father, Basil reminded himself that he knew exactly how. He set his face in grim lines. That was what he was here to fix.

When they reached the castle, Basil got his first look at the man he knew must be King Lloyd. He was a tall man, his crisp white doublet striking against his dark skin, and his unmoving posture giving him a regal and unyielding air. To his left stood an elegant woman, dressed in a gown as fine as any of Basil’s mother’s, her ears glinting with understated jewels. This, undoubtedly, was Queen Liana.

To the king’s left, another figure stood. Like her parents, her dark skin glowed warmly in the afternoon sun, and she was dressed with great elegance. The soft pink of her gown became her excellently, with open sleeves that trailed all the way to the cobblestones below her feet, and delicate embroidery lining the scooped neckline. Basil reflected irrelevantly that if Lord Baldwin knew with what detail Basil had assessed the gown, he would probably once again proclaim him an unusual eighteen-year-old. This time it had nothing to do with being king, however, and everything to do with having twelve sisters.

In spite of her elegant attire, the young woman was unadorned except for a thick chain that disappeared below her gown, and a tiara, which Basil didn’t need in order to identify her. This had to be Princess Wren, King Lloyd’s only surviving heir, and Mistra’s future ruler.

When Basil dismounted, a groom appeared immediately to lead his horse off, and he saw with approval that the man was speaking soothingly to the animal. Hopefully the Mistrans’ suspicion of Entolians wouldn’t extend to their steeds. Basil couldn’t escape being punished for his father’s decisions, but there was no need for his horse to suffer as well. Turning to the Mistran royals, Basil bent his upper body in a swift bow.

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