Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1014: New plans(4)

Following the declarations, one could actually see the gears working in the mind of the surprised and bewildered prince.

Eldest son? Soria? He knew the lineage of the HighSpire as well as he knew his own border.

Nibadur had two legitimate sons and a daughter; the eldest, a boy named after his father, was barely twelve. There was no mention of a "Soria" in any of his memories, no whispered rumor of a third prince, let alone one who stood on the cusp of manhood. And it wasn’t certainly a custom to hide the heir apparent to the throne...

The bewilderment written across Sorza’s face only deepened until Zayneth let out a chuckle that broke the tension like a glass shattering on stone.

"My humblest apologies, Your Grace," Zayneth mouthed, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Soria is indeed the firstborn of the Spire, but he is not of the blood-royal sanctified by the temple. He is illegitimate, perhaps, but quite well-recognized by his father. It is entirely natural that his existence remained a stranger to your ears."

The tension in Sorza’s shoulders was replaced irritation. He felt as though he were being toyed with at his own high table. "I see. A bastard," Sorza spat "May I inquire, then, why the base-born get of Habadia is permitted to sit at a table meant for Sovereigns? Our discourse concerns the fate of states, Zayneth, not the whims of a shadow-child."

Soria’s face, previously smooth as polished ivory, furrowed into a labyrinth at the slur. He did not flinch; he stopped eating, his fingers lingering on the silver plate.

"I have already explained, Your Grace," Zayneth intervened "I am merely showing him the ropes. Soria’s father has ordained that the boy follow in my footsteps, that he may become the hand that serves his younger brothers’ reign. I can assure you, he is a brilliant student....’’ He turned to the boy as if he could amost foresee what he would say ’’...albeit a willful one."

"My apologies for the late introduction," the protagonist finally muttered. He tilted his head, his dark eyes fixated on the circlet of gold resting upon Sorza’s brow as if he were a jeweler examining a flaw.

"You must forgive my distraction, Your Grace.I should have presented myself earlier, that was an unforgibanle slight. It’s just.. I was simply mesmerized by the crown atop your head." He leaned in, his smile widening into an innocent one. "It is a truly magnificent piece of craftsmanship. It is quite surprising, miraculous, even, that the Prince of Yarzat saw fit to relinquish such a beautiful thing back to your keeping."

He rested a cheek on his palm, his tone turning sweet as poisoned honey. "It shall certainly be a storied relic for your future sons to inherit. What a fascinating history it will tell: a crown that has felt the warmth of so many different brows and hands in so short a time. One that traveled north in a conqueror’s sack, only to be returned through the... generosity of a neighbor."

He let the word "generosity" up quite a bit, reminding the prince that he wore his crown only because Alpheo had allowed him to keep it. "Truly, a beautiful piece, Your Grace. It looks almost as if it belongs to you again."

Sorza said nothing, though the audible grinding of his teeth and the frantic clenching of his jaw provided was loud enough to overturn the music in the hall. His knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of his chair, the gold of his crown feeling heavier than it had ever been.

Zayneth let out a dry, airy chuckle, raising a slender hand as if he were parting two brawling children in a nursery. "As Your Grace can see, Soria is a willful boy, perhaps dangerously so. It does not help his temperament that his father dotes on him with such singular intensity."

Sorza sneered, his eyes flicking to the boy with a venomous heat. "It is most certainly unique for a bastard to be granted such a ladder. It is a common truth, after all, that those of illegitimate birth carry the inherent wickedness and the thin, sour humors of the lower blood. Truly, His Grace of Habadia is too kind to allow such a weed to grow in the shadow of the Spire."

Soria did not flinch.

"If wickedness is a trait inherited from the common-born, then it must follow that one’s martial skill is only on par with the purity of one’s lineage. If that is the case, Your Grace, then the purity of Oizen’s blood must be quite thinned in water indeed, given how easily the ’lower-born’ Fox of Yarzat trampled your borders so many a time. I may be a bastard, but you tr—"

Before the final, crushing blow could leave the boy’s lips, Zayneth’s hand fell. It did not drop gently; it slammed onto Soria’s shoulder with the weight of a leaden shroud, pinning the youth to his seat. The rest of Soria’s reply died in his throat, swallowed back into his gut.

The envoy turned to the Prince, whose face was now as contorted and ugly as if he had been forced to swallow a turd in front of his entire court. "My deepest apologies for the friction, Your Grace," Zayneth said, his voice regaining its oily, diplomatic sheen. "But if I may offer a suggestion: perhaps it is time we return to our dealings before words are uttered by both parties that can never be unsaid."

"Both?" Sorza asked, his brow furrowing. "What could I possibly say that would be permanent? He is a bastard. That is a fact of nature, not an insult."

"And he is also my ward," Zayneth countered, his voice losing its warmth, turning cold as a winter cellar. "And a beloved son of my liege. I would advise you to give more weight to his father’s favor than to the perceived lowness of his blood. The Habadian tower has a long memory,after all."

The act of acquiescing tasted like ash in the Prince’s mouth, but the cold logic of survival began to override his ego. He recognized, with a sudden pang of dread, that he could not afford to incur the displeasure of who he searched to ingrate himself with. He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced his posture to relax. He would be the bigger man. He decided.

"Very well," Sorza muttered. "Let us return to the matters of men. May I offer my congratulations on the betrothal of Prince Nibadur’s daughter to the son of the Prince of Kakunia?"

Sorza was sound of mind enough to keep his tongue from wagging about the fact that the Kakunian groom was also a bastard and twelve years above his bethroted. It was after all in his interest to see such an alliance be formed.

"Indeed, it is a joyous occasion for both royal houses," Zayneth replied, his smile back where it belonged. "I am certain such a union will bring prosperous tidings to Kakunia, to Habadia, and, should His Grace truly wish for it, to Oizen."

At those words, the lingering bile of Soria’s insults melted away like spring snow. Sorza’s eyes widened, the greed for vengeance finally finding its anchor. The triangle was complete. Habadia in the east, and Kakunia ready to open his land for their arrival.... He finally had it. He finally had the iron ring he needed to choke the life out of the Fox of Yarzat.

Eleven years too late...but he finally had it.

He remembered it all.

He remembered the shame of being transformed into a "prize." After the slaughter of the first butchery of Aracina , he had been paraded through the mud like a captured beast, the "August Prize" of the Fox. Alpheo had displayed him for the eyes of commoners and soldiers alike, a trophy of Oizen’s shattered pride, stripping away the dignity of his lineage until Sorza felt smaller than the dust beneath the horses’ hooves.

He could still taste the air of that chilly night, at the second butchery, the exact moment the world he was used to live in had perished. He saw the javelins again, hissing through the dark , he remembered the sickening, wet thud as the iron found his father’s back, skewering the prince as effortlessly as a cruel child might pin a frog with a sharpened stick.

The image was burned into his retinas: the noble blood of his father pouring away from a ruined gut. He had watched, paralyzed, as the man who was his entire world slumped from the saddle, his body disappearing into the churning, uncaring rhythm of the galloping hooves who made paste of his bones...

The mask.... He could never forget the ceramic mask on his father’s broken jaw. He could still hear his mother’s sobbing as she laid eyes on it....damn that man.

But he would pay it back, every drop of that blood, every ceramic shard of that mask, and every mile of that long, humiliating parade.

Gods as his witnesses, he would do so.