Page 9 of Kingdom of Feathers

“Cede land to the Mistrans?” roared the king. He coughed again, but waved off his wife’s approach with an impatient hand. “Never would I consider such a thing!” he wheezed. “What possible reason could we have for handing them a victory when our forces haven’t begun to be depleted?”

“Haven’t begun to—” Basil drew a deep breath, his own temper starting to stir. “If you don’t like my map, Father, maybe you’d be more interested in this.” He slammed another parchment onto the table, glaring at his father’s furious face.

The king glanced down at the list of names, his brow creasing. “And what is it I’m supposed to be interested in?”

“This list,” said Basil acidly, “represents all Entolian casualties since the war began almost six years ago.” He lifted the paper, revealing a small stack of several more beneath it. “Six hundred names, Father. Six hundred lives lost, six hundred families torn apart. And that’s only half!”

“Nonsense,” the king contradicted, his voice a little gruff. “Last count I heard was in the five hundreds. It can’t have more than doubled since then.”

“I was referring to the Mistran lives lost,” said Basil curtly. “Although when it comes to that figure, I’m only speculating, of course.”

The king made a scornful noise in his throat. “The Mistrans aren’t my responsibility.”

“But the Entolians are,” Basil said, jumping instantly on this opening. “And too many of them have already suffered for this pointless war. We must end it, Father.”

“You heard what I said to the council,” the king said grimly. “I intend to end it.”

Basil ran his hands over his face in frustration. “Father, my proposal would give us access to almost half the ore. That would enable us to—”

“Almost half!” the king demanded, once again rising to his feet. “You’re suggesting we give away the greater portion to Mistra?”

“Better to mine half of it than none,” insisted Basil. “Which is how much we can access while a battleground remains in place above it.”

“It’s not about the ore,” snapped King Thorn. “It’s about ceding our sovereignty to a ragtag bunch of—”

“I’m glad we agree, Father,” said Basil tartly, pushing himself to his feet as well. “It’snotabout the ore. It’s never been about the ore. It’s about what you’ve suffered. And I imagine that for the Mistrans it’s about the death of their princes. And no amount of fighting, no amount of territory, will redeem either of those losses. All we can do now is prevent further death and destruction!”

“THEY are in the wrong!” The king slammed one hand down against the polished tabletop, causing an inkwell to rattle.

Basil steadied it absentmindedly, inured to his father’s explosions of temper.

“Them, Basil!” the king raged on. “Not us! We will not yield to them! I don’t want to hear any more of this traitorous proposal. And if you wish to attend future councils, you will show me more respect!”

King Thorn’s burst of emotion had taken the inevitable toll. He was wheezing as he glared at Basil, his eyes daring the prince to argue further. But for all his bluntness, Basil knew when to refrain. He met his father’s look steadily, but said no more.

Apparently satisfied, the king turned on his heel and strode from the room, the steward bobbing along anxiously in his wake.

Basil let out a breath, lowering himself back into his seat with a rueful glance at his mother.

“That went well.”

“What were you thinking, Basil?” the queen chastised him, without heat. “The weather’s been so cold this last week, he’s hardly slept. I thought you knew better than to distress him when his pleurisy is troubling him so much.”

“I was thinking that unless someonedistresseshim, pleurisy or no, we’ll find ourselves in the midst of open war,” said Basil dryly. He frowned at his mother. “Surely you don’t think it’s a good idea to mount a proper invasion?”

Queen Lucille sighed. “It probably won’t come to that. He only asked for a proposal.”

“You heard him, Mother,” Basil protested. “Winter is almost past. He thinks himself safe for another year, and he’s ready to march on Myst.”

“Well, he’s not safe,” said the queen sharply. “Infections can take root at any time, and it’s not good for him to be excited. I would expect you to have more sympathy, Basil.”

Basil ran another hand over his face, then tugged his fingers through the light brown waves that fell just above his ears. “I do have sympathy, Mother, you know I do.”

He was silent for a moment, dwelling with discomfort on his many memories of the illnesses that too often gripped his father in the colder months. The damage to the king’s lung had never fully healed. Not only was he prone to catching every illness that passed through the castle, but he always took infections extremely hard. Too many times Basil had sat by his father’s bed, wondering if he’d be an underage king by dawn. For all his father’s bad humors, Basil didn’t want to lose him any more than he wanted to claim the king’s throne. But there was no denying that one day—and perhaps sooner than they all hoped—he would have to claim it. And the less of a mess he inherited that day, the better.

“I don’t want to distress him,” he said, his voice more moderated. “Of course I don’t. But we can’t indulge his whims to the point of war, Mother.”

“We’re already at war,” the queen said simply. “And if you think you can convince your father to walk away from the conflict, you don’t know him.”

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