Epilogue
Faron
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Councilman Gregor spat the word like poison on his lips, “your blatant disregard for policy and tradition has been downright insubordinate and has left many of us wondering if you’re even fit for the throne.
” The bloated and balding man stood proudly, as if he had already won the argument.
His swollen finger jabbed a page on the ledger in front of him.
The sneer he directed at Faron should have been treasonous.
“With all due respect, Councilman,” Faron threw the title back at him, “our kingdom would benefit more from an alliance providing lumber and wool to house and clothe our people, not from steel. The alliance that you insist on will provide enough metal to outfit every citizen with a weapon and suit of armor. Do you plan to declare war on the three kingdoms at once? Or did the eastern kingdom promise you something else with my marriage?” Faron splayed his hands on the table in front of him.
The wood beneath his fingers helped ground him.
Gregor’s contributions to the council were always self-serving.
Despite being part of the group that appointed Faron’s father to the throne, Gregor would better serve the kingdom in his grave.
Radomir leaned forward in his seat, waving for Faron’s attention. “What Councilman Gregor means, Your Majesty, is that our kingdom has thrived on adhering to certain… expectations.” He nervously searched for Gregor’s approval.
Faron threw his hand toward the east. “You call this thriving? The people are starving, their homes are collapsing on top of them, or worse—they’re living on the streets.
Gangs have taken root in our port and corruption and violence are rampant.
No one here is thriving except the so-called nobility.
” Faron sneered. The pair disgusted him; Gregor, the boorish fuck and Radomir, his sniveling pet rat.
Gregor scoffed. “We’re handling the situation in our port. You’ve been told not to concern yourself with the matter, and you would do well to listen.”
“You’re handling nothing!” Faron shouted. “As the king, I demand you turn your sights from foreign affairs and fix the mess you’ve made.”
“You’re in no position to make demands, boy.” Councilman Mackenzie didn’t bother to stand from his seat to deliver the veiled threat. While he claimed his hunched form hindered his mobility, Faron knew it was a farce so he wouldn’t have to pay the proper respect to his king.
“Calm down, Mackenzie, before you make a fool of yourself.” Connell waved a shaking hand at his fellow councilman.
Faron gritted his teeth against the insult he wished to sling at Mackenzie, allowing Connell the room to speak.
The elderly councilman had been the chief advisor for four separate monarchies, and he respected the man more than anyone.
Over the last decade, his old age had forced him to relinquish much of his power on the council, but he was still the most venerated member.
Connell pushed himself forward in his chair with difficulty, his frail arms shaking with the effort. “Your king is concerned, as he should be. And, while breaking his betrothal without our knowledge was ill-advised, and deploying the guard broke our laws, he had good reason.”
Radomir cleared his throat. “Our laws are in place to protect the monarchy, Connell. If we allow these actions to go unpunished, we risk him making a decision that destroys the people’s trust. We’ll lose the loyalty of the guard, and all our livelihoods could be forfeit.”
“Oh, come off it, Radomir. Did you rehearse that pile of horseshit or is Gregor’s hand so far up your ass, you’ve become his puppet?” Raedan admonished.
Faron didn’t bother hiding his smirk. Out of all the council members, the short-tempered noble was Faron’s favorite.
Raedan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
“If you dickheads would shut the fuck up for once, perhaps we can all agree on a solution and get out of here before your miserable wives finish fucking the steward.” The auburn-haired councilman delivered the insult with a straight face and a glint in his eye.
Faron thanked the gods that Raedan’s position on the council could not be revoked thanks to a link to the old bloodline. His fiery disposition and penchant for speaking his mind endeared him to Faron, especially in recent months.
Radomir puffed his chest like an angry fowl readying an attack, but Connell stood from his seat, silencing the room. “The issue at hand is that we now have a regiment questioning the decisions made within this chamber, a dead soldier, and a would-be ally that is now threatening war.”
Faron deflated. He expected a fallout, but war? They would never survive.
“We will meet with the soldiers, display a united front, and pay respects to our fallen man.”
Gregor huffed and received a glare from Raedan.
“There is nothing to be done about the betrothal. Lord Niktovaz will never agree to another contract.” Connell met Faron’s gaze when he added, “That particular agreement no longer served our kingdom anyway.”
Faron sighed. Even with Connell’s admission, his own actions brought trouble to Meladair, the full scope of which had yet to be revealed.
“We will open negotiations with the eastern kingdom to repair relations. We do not have the resources to offer as a concession, therefore a marriage alliance, under different conditions, will be our goal.”
“Councilman, if I may,” Faron interrupted, “if we were to acquire resources by other means, we may be able to appease the eastern monarchy and repair our alliance.”
“As much faith as I have in your intentions, Your Majesty, a mountain of resources and gold could not undo the damage to Lord Niktovaz’s ego. And, being a distant relative to the eastern monarchy, they must take the slight as a direct insult. Marriage is the only solution. It is decided.”
Two hours later, Faron left the chamber ready to ask Tal if she would incinerate Gregor.
The prick didn’t even attempt to hide the fact that he had his sights set on the throne.
If he thought he could get away with it, Faron would have thrown him out the window.
Hells, he’d been ready to throw Connell too.
The elder may command respect, but he stubbornly refused to listen to Faron.
That is, until an hour after arguing, when Faron presented the treaties he’d been working on.
And still, Gregor pushed his own agenda.
The squabbling continued. Nothing was gained, but it was a start.
Some days, he didn’t care if he lost his title. He never should have had it in the first place. If he had remained Lord Faron of Dohaern, someone else could worry about ledgers, alliances, and the threat of being overthrown. And he would be free to marry a woman of his choosing.
Faron rounded a corner to find a sullen Waylon leaning against the opposite wall.
“If I had known you dragged me out of my house to listen to those self-important assholes drone on about themselves for hours, I would have told you to eat my mother’s cooking.” He pushed off the wall and joined Faron as they made their way to the palace’s exit.
Faron shivered at a childhood memory of something resembling bread that stunk of feet and tasted like dirt.
Waylon’s raised finger stopped him from commenting.
The king gave his friend a once-over. Stubble had begun to grow on what was usually a clean-shaven face.
His clothes looked like they’d been under his bed for ages—and smelled like it too.
The shadows under Waylon’s eyes gave away the sleep he’d lost, as did the sharper angles of his cheekbones and near-sickly pallor of his skin.
“I dragged you out of the house because you’ve ignored me for almost two weeks. ”
Waylon shrugged. “I’ve been studying.”
Faron would have laughed if the lie wasn’t hiding something darker. “You needed to get out of that house.” He sniffed. “But maybe you should have bathed first.” Faron laughed when Waylon shoved his shoulder. “You’re coming to the tavern with me.”
“With Tal, you mean.” Anguish twisted his friend’s features.
“With everyone. They’re meeting us later.” Waylon hung his head, shaking it, but Faron spoke before he could offer an excuse, “I’m not letting you back out this time.”
“Fine.” Waylon fixed the buttons at his wrists. “But I need to stretch first.”
The pair emerged from the training yard two hours later. Faron’s lip was bleeding and swollen, his bare chest gleaming with sweat. Waylon sported a new black eye.
“Wait until I tell Tal how you screamed like a child.” Faron jabbed his friend, happy to see the light return to his eyes.
“You threw me over your shoulder! And you ruined my good shirt.” Waylon fit two fingers through a tear over his heart.
“That thing has seen one too many deplorable acts and should have been burned long ago.” Faron avoided his friend’s half-hearted punch to the stomach. He grabbed his own shirt from a wooden fence post and pulled it over his head.
Waylon fidgeted with the damaged shirt. “The least you could do is replace it.”
Faron shook his head, a smile on his lips. “I’ll buy your drinks tonight.”
“You buy my drinks every night.” Waylon gripped the fabric by his abdomen, tugging on the hem. “I could always just go without.”
“Do that and the commotion you cause will definitely start a brawl.”
Waylon shrugged. “It’s not easy being this desirable. Besides, unlike you, I don’t have someone to warm my bed every night. I’ve got to improvise.”
Faron plucked a handful of flowers from a bush as they walked toward the palace kitchens. “Is that jealousy I hear?” He smiled at the bouquet, thinking of the cutting remark Tal would offer as thanks for the gift. The woman hated to be treated like a lady, and he loved her even more for it.