Minus four. Or… is it minus three? Shit. No, wait, recount.

Zanac re-tallied his cards, his thoughts sputtering and dying halfway through his hand. He couldn’t retrace the game, his memories trailing off into middling impressions by the fourth round of play. Raeven was leading, and would sweep their best of five with one more win.

“Are you going to play or-”

“I’ll play! I’ll play…”

I have a mithril lance in hand… and a two-stack. What’s on the field? One, four, and a… No, he has to have a three in hand. Could I pull a five off top-deck? I’ll get a draw, and I can burn the lance if I need a second chance.

“Your Highness-”

“Keep waiting.”

Shit. No, I’m minus three. If he has a six in hand, I’ll get dismounted. I can’t draw a five then a seven. What’s the field card? An eight? That’s fine, I need the flexibility.

“I’m waiting.”

“ And you’ll keep waiting as long as I damn well please! ”

What if I lance? I don’t have any support. No shield, no mare, no helm. Play the lance.

“Lance, mithril.”

Raeven licked his lips, splitting off just over half his hand and laying the cards out.

“Iron mare, deadeye, burn a copper lance to change stance.”

Zanac looked in stunned silence at the three cards Raeven had just set down, trying to figure out the play. Opening his mouth to object, he suddenly hung, realizing that between the order of execution and the edge case function of the cards, Raeven’s play was perfectly legal. This was too much for him, dropping his head in capitulation and tossing away his hand. Raeven had too much tact to gloat openly, simply sweeping up the loose cards and shuffling them back into the deck. Zanac languished, at once stunned and impressed at how thoroughly the Marquis had separated him from his coin. He had never met a better ‘Joust’ player in his life.

“You’re vicious at this game.”

“It’s my vice. I have been booted out of the table in every single merchant exchange.”

“Are you serious?!”

“Every single one. I consider it quite the achievement.”

“I’d say. Which one was the hardest?”

“Higara, followed by Yirel.”

Yirel makes sense - all the Drell do is wager their drinking money and die - but Higara?

“Really? Higara? I don’t really associate E-Pespel with good gamblers.”

“Ship captains from Robel. All they do is play when underway. Dauntless, impossible to bluff-”

“Hold their liquor.”

“That, too.”

The pair were in a gameroom, spacious despite it containing only one table. The windows were wide, casting the lawn of Raeven's city manor in beautiful relief. It couldn’t compare to the lawn of Valencia, though it did have quite the befuddling water feature: a fountain that sprayed not in a static stream, but in a swirling pattern. Zanac had found himself continually caught by the thing, looking out the window and pondering how it worked.

That thing has to be running on magic. How much did he even pay for it? Well, with how he plays this, I’m sure coin is no object.

“Raeven, Let me in on your secret.”

“You know the counting logic, yes?”

“Honors one through three are plus one, four through six zero, seven and nine minus one; valiant cards and eights are minus two; chivalries minus three.”

“That’s the conventional wisdom, yes, but it’s wrong. Shields are minus one, deadeyes are minus four.”

Zanac blinked. Raeven’s words went completely against the conventional wisdom, but if his previous play counted as any sort of credential, he ought to be listened to.

“You aren’t speaking in jest, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Why tell me, then?”

“You don’t have the skill to pull it off at a real table.”

Zanac chuckled, his opposite doing likewise.

“Fair enough, I don’t.”

Their previous worries about being seen commingling had been overcome by a general desire for each other's company, and thus the pair had decided to damn the consequences and meet at Raeven’s home anyway. They had taken a cavalier attitude to the whole affair, but not enough to forgo the barest tools of information security. Zanac had taken a circuitous route to get there, going to the previously used restaurant before quite literally leaving through the back door and boarding the marquis’ carriage.

For a Marquis, I must admit this place is less than I expected. Calling it “practical” would be an unwarranted insult, however. It is merely restrained.

Raeven finished up his shuffle and stuffed it inside the deck box. By snapping his fingers, he caught the attention of the lone maid in the room, who immediately went to the bar to fix the pair drinks. In a surprising point of disagreement between the two, their whiskey preferences were entirely incompatible: Zanac had a love of ryes; Raeven nurtured a fondness for single malt. The clinking noise he now heard compounded this divide further; for a reason beyond Zanac’s comprehension, Raeven preferred his drinks chilled with ice. The maid returned, swapping out the empty glasses at the table for the fresh pours she had just made. Waving his hand noncommittally, Raeven warded her off,and after a bow, she left the room. With that sorted, and with a swift swill of his drink, Raeven resumed the conversation.

“I’ve heard rumors, Prince, that your brother has been caught in a sort of all-consuming rage.”

Zanac kept himself from flinching. The subject of his brother was not one he relished in. He was now unbearable, every unique and mundane facet of his personality made aggravating through the lens of the sixteenth. The way he smacked his lips while chewing, his odd predilection for picking at his cuticles; even the little things irritated Zanac. He wanted to scream every time he passed Barbro in the hall; he wanted to drag his brother out onto the lawn and name him a traitor; he wanted to draw the blade of a palace guard and strike Barbro down. He barely managed to do more than wander back to his room and wordlessly rave in private. His response to Raeven’s veiled inquiry was measured and cold.

“Have you now?”

“As I’ve heard it, after a violent rant, he struck a maid. Of course, I wouldn’t necessarily believe such excessive gossip, but-”

“It’s true. I was there.”

Raeven seemed to lag.

“Oh, really now?”

“Yes.”

Raeven ever so slightly cocked his head, eyes fluttering upward before returning to his default steely stare. The gaps between words in their exchange began to draw out, Raeven spending some time thinking before responding.

Igana, you’re being too curt. He’ll sense something’s wrong. Well, he already has.

“So, then the details. I heard - again, secondhand - that she made some mistake in serving his meal. That’s not necessarily what happened, but-”

“Exactly as you spoke.”

“But surely the rumors of it being over improper seasoning-”

I can’t stand this dance. The way he only enters into conversations where he already knows the answers. Maybe… maybe this was too hard for him to believe, but his web is too strong otherwise. Agh, I can’t do this right now.

“Marquis, why did you invite me here?”

I forget, sometimes, that all this is pretense. All this subtlety and backhandedness; clever words and jokes, games of cards, base socialization. Political gamesmanship is exhausting. It’s unbearable.

Raeven paused, mouth wavering for a time. He turned out to the window, eyes dancing on objects locked away in the farfield.

“I’m looking to advance my station, a relationship with the second prince is advantageous for that.”

Ah, I didn’t expect an answer with such candor. Good… I guess.

“And what’s in it for me? For you, getting in with a prince provides you a significant degree of security, but for me? I don’t see much cause in standing alongside a marquis-”

“No, actually, that was a lie. I don’t know why I invited you.”

It was Zanac’s time to go quiet, his words and the ill intent they carried dying on his tongue. Raeven continued anyway.

“I wanted to see you say no. I wanted to see you refuse my offer, maybe find some trite excuse, and then let the last month run cold. I wanted to see you come to me with an utterly foolish idea, something not spectacular in its flaws, but middling and boring. I’ve hoped night after night that I would find something, that tomorrow I would learn some key fact about you to turn me away.”

This isn’t an act, is it? This is him, speaking without forethought or mask.

“Why to turn me away?”

“So I- so I could bury the Vaiself line. Finally sit and mourn it.”

“Bury it? Surely you know we’re five children to the man? Our line is long from dead.”

“In my head, to finally cede the point that Re-Estize had rotted out from the core.”

“And why did you want that?”

“I’m not sure.”

Raeven burrowed his chin in his palm, once again stroking his face when there was no hair to stroke.

“Do you trust me, Your Highness?”

“Not yet.”

At least, I haven’t shared what I should have with a person I trust.

“Then I should endeavor to fix that. Your Highness, you know what I get called by courtiers and by the broader nobility, yes?

“Snake?”

“Close. It’s a euphemism for ‘snake,’ that being ‘independent’. It’s something for people to call me while I weave between both sides. I will not deny that moniker, it’s fitting for what I do.”

“What you do.” Something about that bothers me.

“Are you speaking of a mercenary’s avarice in your heart? But for power instead of gold.”

“All men know such a thing, Zanac. Would you deny that you carry the same desire in yours?”

“I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“And, in any case, that’s not what I was speaking of. I do weave between sides, I do pit them against each other for profit, coin, and political bargains alike.”

What he does, not what he is.

“‘Do’. Not ‘am.’”

“What?”

Zanac widened his eyes, gasping his next words without thinking.

“You’re not an independent, are you?”

The space died, Raeven's face going cold. Zanac instantly realized the impropriety of his words, and then the futility of trying to take them back. The moment had suddenly turned sharp, visible tension and panic in both their bodies. Zanac's mind flurried and sputtered, his thoughts not resolving into words but a general slurry of emotion. In that mire, he came upon an uncast resolve: that he oughtn't retract his question, but let it hang unwavering in the air. Raeven broke first.

“That’s… perhaps a matter of opinion.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I would deny-”

"Deny, but you will not unmake it. Your loyalties lie not with yourself, but with my father. With House Vaiself, and with the line.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“No they aren’t. You know that just as I do.”

“A-apologies, I do know.”

“Marquis… you- you’re four of six, aren’t you? You have loyalty to the system, loyalty to the titles and forms of this nation.”

My Gods. That- that it’s four against two, and not three facing two facing one. He’s the strongest among them, too. His adventurers to match any under the purview of the guild, his house forces to rival Boullope’s, his wealth to rival Blumrush’s. His influence from striking out on his own, he’s on our side. He’s on our side!

“Zanac, I am the man-”

“Bullshit! You are, aren’t you? That’s the cause for the questions. Isn’t it? A battery of all things testing my fitness as a ruler and-”

“Enough! Enough. It’s true.”

Raeven stood out of his chair, grabbing his glass as he did so. He walked over to the window with an odd tension to his gait. Swirling it, he took another sip, peering out into the afternoon sky afield.

"You’re right, Your Highness. I am aligned with the King. I truly am. I've spoken before about character not mattering, but your father is a good man. I see that in him - every desirable personal quality: senses of valor and honor; he has candor, but more importantly knows when to shed it; loyalty to country not just as it exists but to how it should exist. He’s patient, knowledgeable, and always willing to take the best path as he sees it, even if it comes at personal hardship. He isn’t exceptional in our history - not like the namesakes of you or your brother. He isn’t some new purveyor of policy, sees no holes in our nation to patch or fill over, but such a thing is too much to ask for.

He is a man who has held the line for forty years; kept the Empire back and the north in our hands. When he was thrown into the crucible of leadership at your age, he survived, and so did the nation. Crisis after crisis he has disarmed, dismantled, or dispelled. Year after year he has snatched from the flames.

But he is old, Zanac; he's losing his grip. He has exhausted himself by bearing the crown. Where once he took up his sword and stood proudly to lead the people of this kingdom to war, where he took us against the Empire again and again, he can no longer. He is withering, and Re-Estize will wither with him if we let it. Wither and rot.”

Zanac had no words.

Marquis Raeven, this is who you are? Dishonest men cloak themselves in honesty - that’s rote - but I’ve known of none that do the reverse.

"The Black Night seems to typify that. Twenty-four dashed against twelve, with nary a word to say for it. No accusation, no calls for blood beyond the general. Yes, it was Eight Fingers who fielded the men, but they have no need to kill the king… murder your father - at least, by themselves. There’s an outside influence, there has to be.”

What is he saying? He’s speaking of the Black Night? He’s speculating to me, not pressing for information- or maybe he is, but not strategically. There’s desperation in his voice; he really wishes to know, doesn’t he? Not for his future or his plans but for himself.

“Marquis-”

I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him! He’s- even if he’s- no… wait… even if he’s in our faction, he’s too much of a risk… right? Or, or am I just being a fucking coward?

“Someone to pay for it, someone to provide capital, intelligence, weaponry, support. Gazef was lured away by a false message - surely there’s a leak in the city guard. Whom else does that implicate?”

I am one. I am the worst kind of white-livered dog. Gods, here I have a- have um… someone I’m pretending is my friend, and I’m keeping that from him. I’m not honest with him. I’ve built our relationship on a foundation of lies, of political gamesmanship. It's not simply unbearable, it’s unacceptable.

“Raeven-”

I need to tell him. It’s the one thing I can do, even if it ruins everything else.

“Tactically, it’s the only option. Twenty-four entered without raising an alarm, twenty-four who were upon us before we had a damned clue. That’s not possible without some traitor - without some mole in the palace, letting them slip past defenses and fortifications. Any redoubt should have found them, but no. Secret passages or perhaps skulks.”

"Raeven, it was my brother."

Raeven seized. He blinked several times, mouth quivering.

"You say such not as fact, but as speculation?"

"That night, he took me away from the revelry - literally dragged me away from the proceedings - and had me drink Liar's Temperance. He asked me then, in his room and with his man present, what the challenges would be to his rule. I answered the basics, and he pushed. I realized he was not speaking of a hypothetical, but a coming reality. He spoke openingly then.”

“Of what?”

“I stopped him before he could elaborate. I couldn’t bear to hear such vile words. I suppose… I suppose now that was a mistake.”

“Zanac, why?”

“I- I’m not sure why. He spoke of my father, of him holding onto the throne for too long. I couldn’t believe it when he said it, I still can’t understand it.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s what he said to me.”

“But- but there has to be something more.”

Zanac slowly shook his head. Raeven shrieked.

“What?! But, he’s the first in line! Gods, Zanac, I thought you were the culprit of this! It was the only thing that made sense, you leaking the location of the passages in exchange for the throne.”

The door shot open. Two maids burst into the room with concerned looks on their faces, rushing in to find their master agitated and enraged. The more senior of the two opened her mouth to speak, but Raeven cut her off tersely.

"Leave us!"

They both froze in place, bowed, and exited, gently closing the door as they did so. He swirled his glass, stopped to think for a moment, then slammed the remainder of his drink in a single swoop; Zanac found this course of action wise and did the same. It went too quick, and with some hesitation, he sprung up and went to the bar to refill his drink.

“But his wrist?! Wasn’t he assaulted? Or-”

“Self-infliction.”

“Gods.”

“I don’t know that for a fact. Just speculation.”

Zanac uncorked the rye, and with mild surprise, managed to refill his glass without spilling it.

“The council chambers, the vomiting. You mean to say-”

“He felt guilty? I’m sure he does."

Setting it down and slapping the cork back in place, Zanac snatched up the single malt in his dexter, undoing the cork. Tossing it dejectedly back onto the bar, he grasped his drink with his free hand and wound through to Raeven.

"That fucking dog! He- he would order the assassination of his own fucking father?!"

"I think he- think he was manipulated into it."

"By whom?!"

"I'm not sure."

"There aren't many fucking options! It has to have been Boullope! That son of a whore-"

"Son of a bitch."

"Yes! Gods above! May He of the Winding Fissure swallow that man whole!"

Zanac flashed the bottle in consolation. Raeven held out his glass and let the prince serve him.

"I was thinking it may have been El-Nix. Put him on the throne, weaken us for the upcoming war."

"You think so? Any prince gullible enough to fall for that- that… it's unimaginable! It makes no sense! He was destined to have the crown! Have the throne! Why put any of that in question?"

"I don't know. I don't know, Raeven.”

“Someone must have poisoned his ear, led him to this course.”

“But to fall for such words; it’s madness.”

“A mad crown prince. What a horrible thing to say… Eight Fingers was there.”

“He had the full support of Eight Fingers.”

“True. Who else? Obviously a backer in the House of Lords; at least, I would hope.”

“I believe so, he would need significant resources.”

“Gods, was what happened at Carne his doing?”

Zanac lurched. The idea of the assassination on Gazef being a related event had yet to have crossed his mind. He felt exceedingly stupid for missing the connection.

“Are you saying he’s in league with Slane?”

“I think it’s possible, Your Highness.”

“Gods above.”

How many nations are bearing down over our head?

"It's selfish. Petty."

"Impatient."

"Impatience… To think that a man like that would be your brother."

Zanac placed the bottle on the window sill, the thump punctuating their conversation. Their words drew off, both taking sips of their drinks, as they watched the clouds move overhead.

“Who else knows?”

“I think- I think perhaps my sister.”

“Renner?”

“I- I believe so.”

“Wait, wait. Gods, she was attacked too, an assassination-”

"I know."

“Her pauper-cum-knight drove off an assailant. He- he wanted to have her murdered too?”

“I don’t understand it either.”

“But didn’t she run to him in the after? She did, my maids reported as such; then, he smacked her. And… her later motions in the council room. Why- why- why any of it?!”

“That’s… that’s how I feel.”

“Why?”

“Something in her eyes, the way she spoke that night. She spoke to Lord Keveleos in the council. Her words were… calculated. I can't make sense of them.”

“You dislike her, don’t you?”

Stop being pointed, would you?

“There’s something about her. It’s like she’s not all there…

"Or maybe she’s the only one of us who is."

Need you say such disquieting things?!

"The way her eyes follow me.”

They're never hard, just evaluatory. Almost predatory - a predator in disguise. She’s like a storybook monster. A feyish thing, or perhaps felish.

“And so she knows?”

“She knows, she has too."

“I… if any of that is true, I think- I think I see why you think her an abyssal thing.”

Zanac finished his third drink for the afternoon, setting down his glass and leaving it.

“Something like that. In any case, enough of my sister.”

“Agreed. I'll- er, rather, you'll have to speak to me in length about her; what you see in her… behaviors. I think I've seen glints in the dark. Actually, enough of this dark speculation in general. Your Highness, I must speak.”

“Of what?”

"I once had doubts - no longer. That you would be here, that you would choose to speak to me about things so black and repulsive… I can have no further reservation. Your Highness, I- Gods above, may they strike me down if any of what I say is spoken dishonestly, I- I... I wish to swear fealty to you.”

Raeven dropped to his knees, head slung low. Zanac blinked unbelievingly.

“Fealty?! How is that- is that even possible?”

“Not proper fealty - not that of a vassal to his liege - but something more mercenary.”

“Mercenary? You mean the fealty of an adventurer?! Raeven, I think you’re spending positively too much time with your men!”

“Perhaps.”

“But, I’m the second prince!”

“And you’ll have the throne.”

“Godsdamnit, look at me! Need I remind you of the order of succession?”

Raeven’s head shot upward, a sardonic look in his eye.

“You needn’t! You’ll have the throne. The crown needs to be yours; it is yours! I will do everything in my power to get you it!”

“I don’t want to be king! I don’t want to be a regent.”

“It’s my turn to curse in the name of the Gods. Zanac, you’re twenty-two, and yet you have the wisdom and tact of a man double your age. You possess the wit and the-”

“No, Raeven, you misunderstand. I- I decided then.”

“Decided what and when?”

“That- that darkest of nights. In the council room, watching him vomit, I decided then that I could not let Barbro take the throne. If that was possible without bearing the crown, I would do everything in my power to do it.”

“But it’s not possible.”

“Then- then that’s a reality I have yet to face. A reality that I’m facing now. I don’t want to be king, I truly don’t.”

Zanac shrunk. Nothing made sense. He tried to retrace the events of the summer to any cause in his memory. A month and a half ago, Gazef was nearly slain at Carne. Somehow, that had escalated into nearly forty additional dead, chaos at a palace that had not seen violence in living memory, and his brother asking him to help murder their father. Worse, all this was bookended by events that had no clear connection to one another, yet were too densely packed to be unrelated. Abominations seeped from the woodwork, E-Rantel threatened with destruction twice over, and the emergence of new heroes in the east. Now, as a consequence of that, he now had the third force of the Kingdom on his knees, begging to bind himself to him. It was a complete non sequitur.

“For what it’s worth, I never wished to say such a thing either.”

“You won’t have to bear the crown.”

“I won’t, but I’ll do everything I can to lighten the burden. Forgive me, I’m unsure of what to say. I’ve never done something like this before.”

“Didn’t you swear yourself to my father?”

“I did, but not like this. By the time my House’s mantle was passed to me, he had already lost his agency, mired in the tug and pull of court politics. His kindness was something he learned through his errors, a growth of character. He needed to break the bravado of youth, something utterly different from what you have. You match him skin-deep, or perhaps a span into your flesh, but the core of your being is different. You have a sort of cynicism, one you must now temper in duty. Better, you came to that realization yourself. I can find no better man to be the next regent of Re-Estize.”

Zanac peered down at Raeven, tears in his eyes. These were words he never expected to hear. It was overwhelming. He swallowed, asking the question that had been stabbing him from the beginning of this turmoil.

“And how do I know you aren’t baiting me along, as was done to my brother?”

“The Gods be my witnesses, my Prince, perhaps alliance would be an easier term to swallow, but that would be untruthful. I am uninterested in parity; such a thing matters nothing to me. I need security, I need the assurance of a liege to his vassal, not the mercenary binding of a partnership. Do you understand, my prince? I am asking more of you. Please.”

The faintest of smiles grew on Zanac’s face, a sudden mote of hope for the future appearing in his heart.

“Then, with the Gods as my witnesses as well, I accept.”