Chapter Three: Close to Power

Walric had been in the middle of afternoon tea when his squire burst through his door. “Your Highness!” 

Walric groaned as he saw the smaller boy run in with so much energy. Walric hadn’t even taken off his cape before sitting down in his chair. He was exhausted, so many meetings and gatherings and lessons. The boy had no understanding of what was required of him. Derric Veynar, his young squire; the way the boy was thrust upon him to be his ward was almost as painful as all the talk of arranged marriages. 

“What Derric?” Walric was short, leaning his head back and rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “I swear, if you ran in here like that for some new Lady in court I will banish,” 

“It’s your father, your Highness; High King Malrik.” Derric said, trying to stand in a proper salute, but his heavy breathing made him wobble. 

Walric hesitated with his annoyance for a while. “I know who my father is Derric, you need to complete your answer before I decide what to do.” 

“I…apologize, You Highness.” Derric took a big gulp of air. “High King Mal- your father…has requested your presence in the privy chamber. There has been a dispute brought to his Majesty over some matter with a trade vessel.” 

Walric’s unsavory attitude seemed to melt away. His father, ruler of all Korvethis, needed his help with a dispute brought to him. This was his time to show everything he had learned in his studies with the Grand Marshal Torvane. He didn’t remember getting up, or leaving his quarters. He barely noticed the trek to the privy chamber, only because he started perspiring and had to stop for Derric to pat his forehead dry with a handkerchief. 

But as he turned the corner to the two large wooden doors where two guards stood by, he could feel the anxiety rush. The guards saw who he was and grabbed the handles of the doors and pulled them apart. All the anxiety that he was feeling got tucked away as he saw his father ahead, at the far end of the privy chamber, in his throne sitting stoic as two men stood before them. There were a few others in the room. Servants of each man, his father’s personal guards, but that was about it. It was a lot smaller in occupancy than was the throne room only a few days before.  

As he walked in, his cape swayed behind him, his chest tall and his boots clacked on the stone floor, the people in the room stopped and turned towards him. He kept a strong, serious face on, settling into the role he had been taught to wear. Yes, his father was the High King, but he also had King in his title, and some day he’d be ruling all of his subjects. They needed to be confident in their future ruler. 

“Your Majesty.” Walric said to his father, stopping just in front of the pedestal and bowing. 

“Come, come.” Malrik ushered him up with a flick of his wrist. Walric jumped at the order and took two steps at a time. Probably too late for anyone not to notice, he tried to calm his excitement as a shot to prove himself, and turned into the stoic son he was taught to be. 

Though he had his own seat beside his father’s throne, he did not sit. He knew that if it were an option his father would’ve called him in at the beginning. Instead he stood to his father’s left, hands draped one on top of another in front of him, his back straight and knees slightly bent. When he looked at his people, he only met their foreheads, a tactic that was given to him straight at the beginning. 

There were two men standing in the center of the room with the crowd around them. It seemed like they had been waiting in silence for a while now, probably for about as long as it took him to get there. And though they were both in the spotlight, it was obvious that they stood at very different levels in society. The man closest to him was someone he knew for most of his life, Duke Ryathor, a man of little words; though when he did speak it was important to listen. He had broad shoulders, dark hair streaked with silver at the temples. His beard followed suit and was kept short and neat. His dark eyes were unflinching. His dark clothing gave an aura around him, almost as if he was a void…that perhaps should be avoided. 

As Walric looked towards the man farther away all he could compare him to was a withered piece of leather, like something the sea had taken, used and returned. His skin seemed to have been burnt by the countless hours at sea that it was a shade of orange. His salt and pepper hair was oily and looked to have been pressed down to give the thought that he cared for it. His clothes were faded and worn. Walric wondered if this was really the best outfit the man had. 

The audience was silent as Walric took both of them in. He then looked back at Malrik who gave him a nod to proceed. Walric took a quiet breath to steady before he began. “Please state the reason for this grievance.” 

Duke Ryathor inclined his head just slightly. “Your Majesty. Your Highness.” His voice was even and measured. “A shipment under my authority was lost at sea. Goods of considerable value.” 

Walric nodded once. “And the cause?” 

“A storm,” Ryathor said. “So I am told.” His words held no belief in them. 

The captain shifted where he stood. It seemed to Walric that salt dust came off with the movement. “It came faster than we could turn, Your Highness,” he said “We did what we could. We…my sons were on that ship.”

“You lost the cargo,” Ryathor interjected, though his voice did not rise. 

The captain swallowed. “Yes.” 

Silence came and stayed. Walric could feel his father watching him from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak or give any direction. He waited. 

“The lord seeks compensation?” Walric asked. 

“I seek…accountability.” Ryathor replied. He paused and let the silence envelope the room before he continued. Calmly he said, “If loss is permitted without consequence, then loss becomes expectation. Is that what our great country of Korvethis finds acceptable?” 

Walric subtly shook his head before his gaze shifted to the captain. “You claim no fault?” He could see his father shift in his seat at the question. He cursed himself silently. He should have made it a statement. 

The captain shook his head. “No, Your Highness. We followed every protocol. The storm,” 

“Does not absolve responsibility.” Ryathor chimed in. Still calm. Still certain. 

Walric felt that he finally understood. This was not about the storm or the ship, or even the cargo. It was about precedent. He glanced at his father for a brief moment. High King Malrik had not moved. He made no indication of a preference, he wouldn’t. Walric knew that this was a test, his father would not help him. He expected it of his heir. 

Walric turned back. “If the loss stands unaccounted for,” he paused before he said the rest. He could side with the captain, Ryathor would not need to suffer the consequences as much as he assumed the sea beaten man would, but what would that mean to his father accepting his chance at ruling? Walric let out a shaking sigh, “then trade becomes unstable.” The words felt heavier as he spoke them. 

The captain’s hands tightened at his sides. “Your Highness…” 

Walric could hear the plea in the man’s voice and could feel the shake in his throat from the choice he was going to make. It wasn’t the one he would have chosen, but it was the one expected of him. There was a shift in High King Malrik’s seat and Walric felt the demand of his choice intensify. He chose not to look at the captain again. “The burden falls to the captain.” The words landed, they were final. 

There was a release of breath from the room that Walric hadn’t felt before. 

Ryathor bowed his head. “Of course.” 

It was only then that Walric allowed himself to look at the captain. The withered man did not protest, he only nodded his head once, as if he had expected nothing else. Walric felt a sharp twist in his chest. The captain had found a spot to look at on the floor, his unkept hair hung over his eyes. Walric wondered if he would have anyone to go home to with his sons’ gone, or would he even have a home after his decision. The regret hit him like a wave, but he let it pass as he looked back at his father. 

“Good.” the High King said. Just one word, but a word with so much meaning. Walric bowed, relieved that he had proven to his father that he could be the ruler he needed to be.