I Know Who I Have To Be

Rich heard slight murmuring as he approached the great hall of the keep. It had taken him a while and he had gotten lost a few times, but with enough effort he had managed to get to where he needed to be. The grand doors positioned at the far end of the hall from the entrance were now open, revealing a long banquet hall. Centered in the middle of the room were various figures gathered around a long mahogany table.

Centered at its furthest point was the Sire, sitting idle in his chair as he drummed his fingers along the armrest. To his immediate right stood the grey armored man Rich had seen in the woods, who offered a warm smile at the prince’s appearance.

To the left of the Sire was a vacant seat, covered with a white cloth. Wildflowers had been pushed through the cloth, covering the chair in an elegant floral arrangement. Further away from the Sire sat a weasel of a man, tall and lanky with a colorful puffy outfit. He had a mustache that curled inwards on both ends, like some sort of silly caricature. He eyed Rich with a wild stare, his grin creaking up his face. The closest on the left was an older woman, covered in deep cobalt blues. A white coif covered most of her head, only leaving her face exposed. Her eyes remained closed, almost as if she was asleep.

To the right of the Sire sat a dark colored man with golden studs ordaining his nose and cheeks. He sat in full green platemail, with ebony chainmail underneath. Resting on the wall behind him was a long polearm with a golden spearhead. Beside him sat a man with long flowing black hair. He sat proud and tall, holding a wooden staff with a fish carved at the top. His clothing somehow felt the most royal of those assembled, deep purples and flowing blues contributing to the makeup of his robes. Finally, closest to the door sat a man with deep green leathers and cured hides. A quiver of arrows sat leaning against his chair, and his boots looked muddy and worn. Of all those gathered, the final man with the muddy boots cast the most aggressive glare to Rich and Arrow.

The Sire motioned to his left impatiently, and Rich hurried over to take up the position next to his chair.

“Finally the boy arrives,” The Sire sneered. “Get through your reports quickly. I do detest seeing you sitting idle when there is work to be done."

With a quiver and a hand placed onto his lips, the man with the curled mustache spoke up.

“Of course, Dilyniant Sire! The coffers run low, LOW! But worry not, for the PEOPLE still eat, still work, still weep! I’ve raised the collected tax on the Far Colonies, and soon the local villagers as well! Without a doubt your pockets will be LADEN with shimmering gold…” the man said, breaking out into incessant snickering. The Sire listened along, nodding slowly.

“Ensure we have a large enough fund to run the summer tournament. We must not let our culture be extinguished simply because times are hard.” He said. With a wave of his hand the laughter from the man stopped, and his eyes fell to the woman in blue.

“Matron Mother,” he said.

“The faithful stand tall behind their King, Your Highness. As does the Mother Above. We have been graced with nutrient soil and fat livestock as the reward for the winter’s hardships,” the woman said. She kept her eyes closed through the report, and leaned back against her seat. Next, the gold-studded man spoke with a booming voice.

“Your Regalness has drawn many to take up the sword in these times of war! Recruitment is up nearly double what it was since last spring,” he barked. The Sire smiled.

“That is wonderful news indeed, General. This is why I summoned you all. Our war effort is not over. Continue to do whatever you all day to ensure our victory against our foes... Now tell me, Huntmaster… How goes the quelling of the rebels?” The King said, his eyes scraping down the table to the man with the muddy boots.

“The Easterlands were rich in culture. Their remnant defenders find themselves never lacking support from the underground. Our occupying forces are harried at every turn…” the man said, breaking out into a hum as he studied Arrow from a distance.

“Perhaps, My Liege, it is time to consider sending the royal army to our new colony in the east,” the General said. “There is only so much rebel-hunting rangers and scouts can do when faced with an uprising.”

“Silence yourself, brute. If your soldiery could count beyond the number of fingers they had on their hands I’d consider using them as shields and nothing more. The Easterlings are sly and tricky. Lies run in their very blood!” the Huntmaster exclaimed. The General stood far too rapidly for somebody wearing full metal armor, staring down the table at the origin of the insult before the Sire waved his hand about.

“Enough, enough!” he called out. “Huntmaster, you have until fall to get rid of these tricksters, or else I will send the army in. Magus.”

The others calmed as the man in purple robes smiled wide, showing a bright smile as he began to speak.

“Excellent decision my King! Now, about funding for a magical institution that I could use to edu-”

“Enough,” the Sire cut him off as quickly as the others, his voice dull. “Continue to supply the General with whatever he asks. We have no use for combat spells in an educational role.”

Rich frowned and reached a hand down to pat Arrow for some semblance of comfort.

So much is wrong. Some of these guys seem alright but, a war against another kingdom? The Huntmaster is clearly a hateful man. I should say something.

“If I could have your attention!” Rich blurted out. All eyes fell on him, with the Sire turning in irritation.

“I think we should try and do better by the people. Maybe this war needn’t quash the locals. Maybe we can cut spending elsewhere instead of raising taxes! Tournaments are fun, but is it worth being hated over?” He smiled as best he can, though the only support he received was a cheerful bark from Arrow.

“If we are finished, My Lord, I will return to the East.” He said, picking up his quiver and marching out. One by one the others left too, save the Matron in blue robes. The Sire stood, turning to Rich with a disdainful expression.

“Must you mock me further boy? Whatever has gotten into you ends today. One more moment of embarrassment, and I will lock you away like you lock away your little wife.” He sneered, turning with a flare of his hand. He marched out of the hall, leaving Rich staring at nothing in particular.

Primitive minds, so worried about power and image they forget basic morals. He thought. Though his eyes were drawn to the wave of the still seated Matron.

“Come, Prince Fulcher. Your heart is pure, and your ideas have merit. You will make a good King, when the time comes…” she said with a smile. Rich walked over and took her beckoning hand, sitting down in the seat beside her.

“Pray with me, Prince. Let us bring our minds back to your mother, and mine before her.” she whispered. Rich followed along, closing his eyes awkwardly as she held his hand. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he simply sat quietly and waited. After a moment, he felt a familiar warmth coming from her fingertips, similar to that of the woman who healed him.

Before he could react, the Matron ripped her hands away. Rich opened his eyes to see her own gaze upon him. Where eyes would normally sit, the Matron had a sea of swirling blue energy. Her face contorted in horror as she stood up suddenly, looking down upon him.

“You are not Fulcher. Your bond to the Mother is… who are you?!” she demanded.