‘The king is dead.’ That, he already knew. It is only now that he may say that he knows, as it is delivered to him on thick parchment and fine ink.
‘His son, From, will be returned to us within the month, and will don the crown here in the capital as King Gras in Epe.’ That, he did not know, and sorely wishes he could feign surprise, rather than feel it.
‘A month? Does his majesty’s blood grant him flight?’
‘Possibly,’ says Dowe, his secretary, ‘but he has elected to take the fleet across the Strait, then leave the line ships at Alderwarf, while his royal person will take a schooner up the Endris.’
‘He’s leaving the armada at port? What will escort the schooner?’
‘Other schooners, or skifs. There aren’t many more ships that will fit on the Endris.’
What’s the rush? With all haste the heir apparent hastens back to claim a title no ordinary man would touch with a barge pole. The crown is solidly his. Removing it from the vault at Basle Tower and placing it upon his golden hair will do no more for him now or in a year’s time. Already he has command of his subjects. Already the blood that runs through his veins tingles with an ancient power that blesses but a few select families in the whole wide world. It is all done but in writing. A coronation will be in order, naturally, it is prepared for. But not that prepared. The arrival ceremony must come first. A coronation will be at least six months in waiting. A month? He is not sure he can prepare the city for a new king in the month.
‘The king in waiting also expects the coronation ceremony to be ready upon his arrival.’
‘What?’
Dowe shrugs. ‘It’s what it says, unless my eyesight betrays me.’
‘Heavens. Does he think the crown will grow legs and run away?’
‘Perhaps he thinks there’s been plotting while his lord father was out touring.’
He shakes his head. Someone has whispered something in the prince’s ear. But who? And what? Most disturbing of all: why? His command of nature makes clear his divine right. No man could claim royalty while a single person of the Epe bloodline can carve out a gorge in a field with a casual though, or calm a storm that wracks the coastline of their nation, or incinerate an army with a motion of their hand, cooking gentlemen inside their suits of metal.
Unless, and this thought hits him like a diamond tossed from a great tower, unless Prince From, who would be King Gras in Epe, seeks to crown himself before the world sees he has no magic in him.
Paddy Dobson
8th March 2021