Chapter Thirteen: Lessons

The days after the summer festival were quiet, almost as if all those involved were so shocked at the ending that no one had words to speak about it. No one demanded classes or presence for a couple days, in fact, it seemed to be encouraged to rest, to sleep, to recuperate while the High King and his court discussed what had happened. The whispers about the white wrists loomed over everyone. 

Walric couldn’t sit still for long though. Soon he found himself getting back onto his routines without any push from anyone. A quiet frustration had begun to bloom that he had not been invited to participate in the meetings his father held and the self doubt was so thick he could taste it. It wasn’t long before he had found himself out on the training grounds with Derric and a long sword in his hands as they sparred. 

Though he would rather be sparring one of his brothers, who seemed to actually want to take a chunk out of him, Derric was mediocre at best. He knew that Derric had been told many times that if he actually harmed the prince that he would suffer considerable consequences, so everything was more reserved. Walric, though annoyed, decided it was more valuable to work on his footing while he sparred his squire. 

“My lord,” a servant ran out onto the field, looking very much out of place with his pristine garments meant for servant work inside the castle. “His majesty requests your presence in the map room.” 

The thrill that surged through Walric was electric. Whatever his father thought about him after the very public and very tragic appearance must’ve calmed down enough to get an invitation once again, and the map room was his favorite room. 

Walric tossed his sword to Derric, who grabbed it at the wrong end and hissed as the sharp blade sliced his palm, but Walric didn’t care. He all but ran back inside the castle. He ordered the servants to dust him off as quickly as possible and then leave before they were even done. As he climbed the stairs and walked down the halls he tried his best to place his damp hair back into place and shake off the sweat that coated his face. He had done all he possibly could do as he got to the door and the servants opened the large doors to show a dimly lit room with one bright chandelier in the center of a large table. The table wasn’t one to sit at, or dine or read through documents. This table held a map, a large map with Korvethis at the center. The map was raised and showed the topography of their world, and little figures were used to map out where their and other armies were. There were also small pins that carried the snake of their family crest, stationed in almost every city in every country; he knew those were his mother’s shadows. There was a reason that foreigners called Korvethis the Iron Veil, his father controlled the armies, but his mother controlled the secrets. He was glad he didn’t have to follow in his mother’s steps. Armies made a whole lot more sense to him than the war she played. 

His first realization was that there were only two other people in the room. His father, High King Malrik stood behind the map watching him come in, but the other sat at a side table. His mother, High Queen Lioraen, sat lady light, holding a handful of papers in her hand, looking as though she did not see what was happening around her. 

“Son, come to the table.” High King Malrik boomed. 

Walric increased his pace, giving his mother a small nod, which she in turn gave back, before he walked up to the map. He looked at the countries closest to his beloved Korvethis. Veyran and Dravain to the north, Aurelune, Castrille and Thaloren to the south, water on the east and west. 

“Tell me, Walric.” 

Walric stepped closer. “Yes, father?” 

“If Korvethis were to face a threat tomorrow, which kingdom would concern you the most?” 

Walric studied the map. His eyes left the large eastern border, across the sea where the countries were bigger than Korvethis. “Qarthos.” 

Malrik nodded once. “Why?”

“They have the largest standing army of any neighboring kingdom. Their iron mines keep them well supplied and their generals have a reputation for expansion. If they chose to march, they’d have the numbers to make it costly.” 

Malrik was silent for a moment. “Would they?” 

Walric frowned. “Their army is nearly twice the size of ours.” 

“It is.” Malrik confirmed. 

“So they are the greatest threat.” 

Malrik finally looked at him. “Tell me, Walric…where would they feed an army?” 

Walric blinked. “Their own stores.” 

“For how long?” 

“I…” He looked back at the map. Malrik waited. “The pass through the Black Pass would take weeks.”

“It would.” 

“The supply ships would have to follow.” Walric began to realize.

“Yes.” 

Walric's eyes traced the two most common ship routes that both led to Korvethis. “They’d bottleneck here.” 

Malrik gave no praise. “And if those supply ships stopped arriving?” 

“The army would slow.” 

“And then?” 

“They’d begin rationing.” 

“And then?” 

Walric took a heavy breath. “They’d have to retreat…or starve.” 

Malrik inclined his head ever so slightly. “So tell me again.” 

Walric looked back down at Qarthos. “Perhaps they aren’t the greatest threat.” 

“Why?” 

“Because they cannot simply use the size of their army. Geography fights for us.” Walric explained. 

For the first time, a faint smile crossed Malrik’s face. “Better.” Walric couldn’t help but feel a small surge of satisfaction. Malrik turned back to the map. “Most princes see soldiers. Kings see grain.” Malrik moved a carved stone marker from Qarthos to the eastern edge of the map. “Very well.” His finger rested on another kingdom, closer to home. “Then answer me this.” Walric waited. “If Korvethis wished to expand its borders, which neighboring kingdom would be the easiest to conquer?” 

Walric leaned over the map. “This one.” His finger settled on Aurelune. “They have fewer soldiers than anyone around us. Their walls are old, and they have little in the way of natural defenses.” 

Malrik nodded. “So we invade.” 

Walric hesitated. “Yes.” 

“We win.” Malrik said matter-of-factly. 

“I believe so.” 

“And then?” 

Walric smiled slightly. “The Kingdom is ours.” 

Malrik raised an eyebrow. “Is it?” 

The smile faded. “We would control it.”

“Would we?” 

Walric looked back to the map while Malrik folded his hands. “Tell me, what happens the morning after your victory.” 

Walric considered. “We establish a governor.” 

“One governor.” 

“...yes.” 

Malrik shifted. “Over how many towns?” 

Walric counded silently. “Eight.” 

“How many villages?” 

Walric sighed. “I don’t know.” 

“You should.” Silence filled the room. Malrik continued calmly. “Who collects their taxes?” 

“The governor.” 

Malrik nodded. “Who settles disputes between their nobles?” 

“The governor.” 

“Who repairs the roads.” Malrik tilted his head. 

“...the governor.” 

“Who feeds the widow after the war?” 

Walric frowned. “The crown.” 

“With whose grain?” Malrik asked. 

“Ours.” 

Malrik let the answer hang. “And if their people resent Korvethis?” 

Walric’s eyes dropped to the map.” They may rebel.” 

“They will rebel.” 

“We station soldiers.” 

“Forever?” 

“No.” Walric said louder than he meant. 

“So eventually those soldiers return home.” 

“Yes.” 

“And then?” 

Walric was quiet for a long moment. “The rebellion begins again.” 

Malrik finally gave a small nod. “Conquering land is simple.” He rested one finger on the border. “Keeping it is expensive.” 

Walric stared at the map differently now. “So…sometimes victory costs more than defeat.” 

A flicker of approval crossed Malrik’s face. “Now you’re asking the correct question.” 

Walric looked up. “What is that?”

Malrik met his eyes. “If a kingdom can become your ally instead of your burden…why conquer it at all?” 

Walric’s gaze drifted toward another neighboring realm. “A marriage.”

“Perhaps.” 

“A trade agreement.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“A mutual defense pact.” 

Malrik smiled faintly. “Three victories.” 

Walric frowned. “Without drawing a sword.” 

“Exactly.” Malrik’s hand drifted across the map until it rested on another kingdom. “Nisen.” 

Walric followed his gaze. “A peaceful kingdom,” he said. “Rich farmland. Strong trade.” 

“And no desire for war.” 

“So I’ve heard.” Walric grumbled. 

Malrik nodded. “If Korvethis required something from Nisen, how would you obtain it?” 

Walric answered almost immediately. “We would negotiate.”

“How?” 

“We would offer favorable trade.” 

“If they declined?” Malrik quickly asked. 

“We could improve the offer.” 

“And if they declined again?” 

Walric frowned. “...then perhaps they do not need what we’re offering.” Malrik said nothing. The silence stretched. Walric studied the map again. “We could offer military protection.” 

“From whom?” 

Walric hesitated. “They have no immediate enemies.” 

“So protection has little value.” 

Walric nodded slowly. “No.” he thought again. “We could ask another kingdom to pressure them.” 

Malrik turned his head. “Would that make Nisen grateful?” 

“No.” 

“Loyal?” 

“No.” 

“Friendly?” 

Walric sighed. “No.” 

Malrik folded his hands behind his back. “So try again.” 

Walric looked at the painted rivers winding through Nisen. “They export wheat.” 

“They do.” 

“We import some during poor harvests.” 

“We do.” 

“If we become their largest customer…” 

Malrik remained expressionless. 

“...they would depend on our trade.” 

“And?” 

“If they depended on us…” Walric stopped. Something clicked. “They would begin considering our interests alongside their own.” 

Malrik’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in displeasure, but in recognition. “Continue.” 

“We wouldn’t command them.” 

“No.” 

“We wouldn’t threaten them.” 

“No.” 

“We would simply become too valuable to ignore.” 

A faint smile touched Malrik’s face. “And if, years later, we requested a concession?” 

“They would be inclined to agree.” 

“Why?” Malrik pushed. 

“Because saying no would risk everything they’d built with us.”

Malrik nodded once. “Exactly.” 

Walric’s confidence grew. “A treaty would strengthen that relationship.” 

“Yes.” 

“A royal marriage is stronger, still.” 

Malrik’s smile lingered. “And children born from that marriage?” 

Walric looked up. “They would belong to both kingdoms.” 

“They would.” 

“So neither kingdom would wish to endanger them.” 

Malrik looked back down at the map. “What began as commerce became kinship.” 

Walric smiled. “And kinship is harder to break than a treaty.” 

“Very good.” For the first time that morning, Malrik placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You are beginning to understand that influence outlives victory.” 

Walric straightened just a little beneath the praise. “I’ve been trying to learn.” 

“I know.” 

Walric fidgeted for a moment before he spoke again. “Had Elora remained,” 

“We discuss realities, not possibilities.” Malrik cut in quicker than Walric saw coming. 

“Of course, father.” Walric agreed. There was a silence that settled while Walric grasped onto a piece from the map in Nisen and moved it closer to the border, closer to Korvethis.

Across the room, Lioraen quietly folded the letter she’d been pretending to read. Neither of them had noticed she’d stopped looking at the page several minutes ago. She watched her husband, then her son. The words themselves were wise. Peace purchased through trade and marriage was certainly better than peace purchased through blood; but it wasn’t the lesson that unsettled her. It was the ease with which Walric had begun anticipating his father’s thoughts. He no longer argued. He no longer questioned. He searched only for the answer that would earn that quiet nod of approval, and Malrik, perhaps without even realizing it, had begun rewarding not curiosity, but resemblance. 

“Thank you, Father.”

Malrik gave a single nod. “You’ve earned your morning. Continue studying the western kingdoms. We’ll discuss them another time.”

Walric turned toward the door. As he passed his mother, she offered him a warm smile. “You’ve done well.” 

A flicker of relief crossed his face. “Thank you, Mother.” Then he was gone. The heavy doors closed behind him. Silence settled over the map room. 

Lioraen remained seated for a long moment, her fingers resting on the folded letter in her lap. Malrik had already returned his attention to the map, shifting carved markers with practiced precision. Finally, she spoke. “He doesn't challenge you anymore.” 

Malrik didn’t look up. “He understands.” 

“No.” That single word caused him to pause. He glanced towards her. “He wants your approval.” 

“Is that so terrible?” 

“It isn’t…until it becomes the reason he thinks.” 

Malrik rested both hands on the edge of the table. “Every son seeks his father’s approval.” 

“Not forever.” The room fell quiet again. Lioraen rose and walked to the map, stopping opposite him. “You used to enjoy it when he argued with you.” 

“I enjoyed when he was wrong.” 

A faint smile touched her lips. “No, you enjoyed discovering how he arrived at his conclusions.” 

Malrik considered that. “He no longer needs to wander so far.” 

“That’s what worries me.” 

He studied her expression. “You believe I’ve made him obedient.” 

“I believe you’ve become the measure by which he judges every answer.” 

Malrik folded his hands behind his back. “Would you rather he ignored my counsel?” 

“I would rather he learned to disagree with you when he is right.” 

The king’s gaze drifted back to the map. “A king who questions every decision accomplishes nothing.” 

“A king who questions nothing becomes dangerous.” 

His eyes lifted. “To whom?” 

Lioraen met them steadily. “To himself.” 

Neither spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the fire against the far wall. After a long moment, Malrik moved a carved marker from Korvethis toward Nisen. “So…” 

Lioraen watched the piece come to rest. “You think he’s ready.” 

“He understands influence.” 

“He understands your influence.” 

Malrik looked at the carved marker between them. “He’ll need a wife before long.” 

There it was. Not a question. Not a hope. A decision already taking shape. Lioraen’s gaze settled on the tiny banner that marked Nisen. “Have you chosen one?” 

“I have possibilities.” 

“And have you considered what Walric wants?” 

Malrik’s expression softened just enough to betray surprise. “I have considered what Korvethis needs.” 

Lioraen sighed quietly. “Sometimes those are the same thing.” She looked toward the closed doors through which their son had departed. “Sometimes they aren’t.”

Neither moved. Between them, the raised mountains and rivers of the map stretched across the table like the future itself; beautiful, complicated, and impossible to cross without leaving something behind.