User:RadRafe/Dynastie

I

In Palais Haut DesRosiers, the court of King Cline, rumour raced about as it ever did. But this time it flew silent, with anxiety hitched in its slipstream. Every face was creased, every mouth pursed. The news came at them like a curse from empty corners, and the governors and the ministers were suddenly revolted by the gaudy colours of their costume. The Crown Prince, last heir, was dying!

Jean-Claude DesRosiers, lying on his grand bed, was incapable of speech. Doctors were of no use. They had proclaimed the Prince's malady incurable. He was now in the hands of God.

Mirielle, Queen of Gremagne, sat next to her son. Tears streaked her face. Outside the window, birds sang. The joyful sound only made her torture more exquisite.

"My beautiful son, please take me with you. I can not bear to be left here without you," she whispered.

But his eyes were unfocused, his breath short, and he made no sign that he was attending to reality.

Mirielle craved hearing him speak again. His tutors had made him a skilled debater, and in health he was always arguing, in gentle but bold tones. Now he was as quiet as the larks were loud.

As she continued to look for the rarest movement of his cracked lips, the twittering turned into a taunt that echoed in her ears. She rushed to the casement and tried to bellow so fiercely as to unseat the little birds that perched on the oaks that ringed the window—and the little glaciers that perched on the mountains that ringed the palace. Such was the Queen's rage at the loss that was coming. But her throat summoned only a dry croak instead. She flopped to a heap on the floor and sobbed miserably in long, droning gasps. She felt as if she were kicked by her mount and would never breathe again.

A cluster of chambermaids and servants huddled at the closed door, listening.

Clouds drifted west and the sun, exposed, shone brightly into the room. Mirielle turned to see rainbows cast by the bevelled, leaded glass. On her son's face a glory pointed to his eyes, eyes that now were bright and focussed on her. She gasped, stood up at once, and stumbled towards him as dizziness clouded her sight. Her legs failed her, and she fell across the bed.

Mirielle awoke to a tugging on her hair. Turning her head, she saw her son's hand feebly stroking a stray strand. His index finger moved slowly along the quilt until it pointed to the bookcase on the far wall.

"What is it, mon cher?"

She crossed to the bookcase and searched the titles, finding nothing unusual. Most were scholarly volumes like Continental Birds and Beasts or A History of Diplomatic Relations between Gremagne and Her Neighbours. The rest were the short bright books from his childhood, which he had kept for the sentiment. She could not figure out what he wanted. She looked back uncertainly, to follow the line from his finger again, and discovered that he was once more inattentive and his hand had wandered.

A sound of frustration escaped her. “Mon cher!” she pleaded, back at his side, but she could not rouse him. More tears coursed down her cheek and fell on his sallow own.

Finally his eyelids fluttered and his gaze once more fell on his mother's anguished face.

"What is it? What do you want me to see?" Mirielle pleaded. There was a terrible urgency in his stare.

With great effort, the Prince parted his parched lips but no sound came forth. Mirielle dabbed water gently on them. "Please tell me." She whispered gently in his ear.

One word escaped the Prince's mouth in a papery rasp. "Behind." It was his last breath. The Prince's eyes closed for the last time.

Outside, the chambermaids pressed closer to the door hoping to hear some sign. Suddenly the door swung open. Mirielle stood there before them in icy stillness. "Begone, you harpies! Go tell your master. The Prince is dead!"

Mirielle stood still for a moment, her destiny now clear—yet monstrous.

II

A pair of travellers rode the well-kept way into Gremagne one crisp Autumn day. The sun shone on their backs, offering welcome but insufficient warmth.

"All I'm saying is we ought to have a view like this at home," one was saying. "Look, real mountains! With snow-caps!"

His companion shuddered and buried his face farther into his scarf, staring wilfully at his reins.

"Lizard. You should have spent more time outside growing up. Come on, look up. Take it all in, Leo, it's good for you."

Leo turned his grudging gaze to a chain of peaks approaching them, the range their destination lay on the other side of. "Nice," he grunted, and went back to chattering his teeth.

"Well, that just takes it. I swear you would yawn at fireworks. Here, a little poem might engage you. Let's see—"

"Eric," rumbled Leo, "cut it. I'm not in the mood."

"Leo, you've got to have fun. Don't you remember why you agreed to come? Hey. I bet you ten thalers you'll be grinning in less than a minute. I'll even offer ten to one. If you win, you'll be a rich grumpface."

"I don't want your money. Oh, fine. You're on."

Eric did not hesitate even a second. He straightened himself in his seat and spoke with his best oratorical voice.

Look you, the sky above us cracks
And we are bound for glory in a distant land.
With our worldly goods upon our backs
We obey our ancient ancestors' noble command.