12 - A King and Father

27 Tavorhel. The twenty-fourth day of the eighth month.

‘A letter from Maerila, your Majesty,’ a messenger said nervously as he entered the grand hall of Trellien, kneeling before the king before handing the letter to one of the king’s aides. Standing next to him were four delegates from the vassal state of Surneu who had just finished delivering their annual tribute of jewellery and goods, marking another year of alliance in this tumultuous war.

It was already a few weeks since the news of a Forester rebellion shook the royal court. Their original panic had subsided when General Arael informed them of the scale of the rebellion— far smaller than initially thought. However, it had been over a week since there was any news, and as King Tavorhel received the letter, he felt a sense of worry creeping up his back.

Still, he opened it, examining the text within.

Your Majesty,

This is a collective letter from the lieutenants of General Arael. We bring bad news…

Tavorhel’s face paled. His hands gripped the letter tightly, unable to accept the reality within the text.

‘Is something the matter, your Majesty?’ one of the delegates asked, assuming it was something pertaining to the tribute.

Tavorhel did not answer. He didn’t even look at the delegates, instead staring into space in disbelief.

How…?

The grand hall of Trellien was silent. The messenger trembled with fear as the king slowly placed down the letter. The advisors, usually bickering and arguing over the smallest policies, stood in place, not even daring to look the king in the eye. Even the king’s aides were filled with unease, barely maintaining their postures.

‘Is all of this true?’ Tavorhel asked weakly, hoping at least for some sort of mistake.

‘... Y-Yes, your Majesty,’ the messenger timidly replied.

It was only a few weeks since the Foresters in Eril rebelled against Trelven rule. The campaign down south in Prentdor was in full swing, the generals there still not notified of the news further north. Delegates from Trelven’s vassal kingdoms to its north and south had just begun to arrive last week, delivering much tribute to prove their loyalty towards the greater kingdom. They, too, had no idea of the rebellion. At least until now.

General Arael, the commander of the troops in Eril, was killed. A battle in the Trelvenese camp at Maerila, leading to hundreds of deaths, but more importantly, the defection of all Foresters in Eril towards the rebellion. This was a scale of humiliation unheard of since Tavorhel sat on the throne almost thirty years ago. But that wasn’t all.

Amovishel, the Crown Prince, his only son, captured by the Foresters, unknown if dead or alive.

Tavorhel collapsed onto his throne, dropping the letter onto the floor. His face turned pale, his muscles went weak, his mind spinning in circles, unable to accept the facts presented. His aides quickly propped him up, but that was all they could do.

‘How… How did this even happen…’ he mumbled defeatedly. The reports from Prentdor meant nothing to him at this point. If he could, he would’ve commanded the entire southern army to turn back and deal with the rebellion. Rhinn, Trelven’s mortal enemy for many decades, felt distant in his mind, a faraway kingdom to the east that held no importance compared to the loss of his son.

‘It’s over, it’s over…’

‘Your Majesty, please—’ an aide tried to lift him up to a proper sitting posture.

‘Off me!’ Tavorhel violently shook his arms away like a child throwing a tantrum. ‘One moment they say it’s a full-scale rebellion, the next they claim it’s just a small group of less than a hundred, and now you come here and say those one hundred Foresters captured the brightest star in all of Trelven?’

He slammed his fist on the table, nearly knocking over a box of jewels the delegates had presented earlier as part of their tribute. ‘Tell me, tell me whose fault this is, and who is now shouldering the consequences! TELL ME!’

The messenger yelped in shock, planting his head solidly on the ground as he prostrated before Tavorhel. The advisors shuddered, the front few rows taking a small step back in caution. The delegates looked towards the ground, making their presence as small as possible in this embarrassing situation.

‘Your Majesty, please, calm down…’ another aide softly advised. ‘The delegates from Surneu are still here.’

‘And delegates are more important than my son?’ Tavorhel roared. ‘Unlike what practically everyone here wants to believe, Amovishel is MY SON! The Crown Prince of Trelven is considered something to worry about later when in the presence of delegates from tributary states? ARE YOU MAD?’

‘Your Majesty, I’m sor—’

‘Take this clown away from my sight!’

Immediately, the other aides grabbed their colleague by the arms and forcefully began dragging him away.

‘Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Please no—’ the aide begged.

‘OUT! OUT!’ Tavorhel screamed, nearly reaching for the sword displayed behind his throne.

‘Please, your Majesty, stop!’ some advisors began to plead. ‘We need to focus on the matter at hand!’

‘SHUT UP!’ Tavorhel glared at them.

The advisors shrunk back, terrified of the king’s rare wrath.

They had always hated his son. Despite Amovishel’s brilliance, they hated his white hair. Despite courageously leading troops into battle, they hated how warrior-like he was. Despite his sacrifices for the kingdom, they doubted his loyalty to the bloodline. All because Amovishel was a mixed-blood.

His son was the product of an impulsive mistake, the only time Tavorhel fell to the temptation of lust. And yet, despite his infidelity and the staunch resistance from his advisors, the infertile queen still took Amovishel and raised him as her own, to the point where seeing him reminded Tavorhel of his spouse. His son was a symbol of guilt, of forgiveness, of love. It was the only remaining living proof of Queen Taien, the only woman Tavorhel truly loved.

And his advisors had the audacity to tell him to ‘focus on the matter at hand’.

‘USELESS! USELESS!’ He swept his arms across the desk, knocking everything off onto the floor. It was partly an accusation towards his advisors, but also a denouncement towards himself. As the king of the second-largest kingdom on the continent, he was powerless before the barbarism of the Forester rebels. He had managed to maintain stability within the kingdom until recently, but the moment his son was captured and kidnapped, he lost the fragile balance within himself. Even when he held so much power in his hands, he felt as if he was at the mercy of the strings of fate pulling him about, making a joke of his kingship.

Being a king meant only the title, the face, and the responsibility.

‘Your Majesty, calm down.’ Esiel’s voice rang clearly throughout the hall, snapping Tavorhel out of his trance. Unlike the others, he was particularly calm, staring straight into Tavorhel’s eyes without any fear. ‘Surely you don’t expect Amovishel to just magically appear here after you throw your tantrum?’

Many advisors glanced at Esiel in disdain. The man was disregarding Tavorhel’s face in front of the delegates, speaking to the king in such a rude manner. It almost sounded as if Esiel was schooling Tavorhel like the king was a child.

As Tavorhel looked at the mess he had created, he realised Esiel wasn’t that far off the mark. He had practically disgraced himself in front of his subordinates and the delegates.

‘Your Majesty, please,’ Esiel implored. ‘At least discuss ways to rescue the prince right now instead of losing your temper. I’m sure our kind delegates from Surneu won’t mind waiting a bit outside before we return to discuss further about our allied relationship.’

He glanced at the delegates. Without any word exchanged, the four of them stood up, bowed, and left the hall accompanied by the guards, leaving just Tavorhel, Esiel and the other advisors.

Tavorhel took a deep breath. ‘For starters, I thank Esiel for reining in my emotions. I admit I was very… intense earlier.’

‘Just my job, your Majesty,’ Esiel replied. ‘As much as I’m at odds with the Crown Prince, I’m also very distraught at the news brought from Eril.’

Tavorhel noticed Esiel had barely changed his expression.

‘Let’s… go through this,’ Tavorhel said, suppressing the frustrations inside. ‘Amovishel was captured, but we… don’t know his current whereabouts.’

‘Foresters usually never take prisoners,’ Esiel analysed. ‘To capture Amovishel means they most likely already know his identity. Being a public figure, this possibility is practically a certainty. They’ll probably be asking for a ransom as well, so we must be prepared.’

‘Uh, I suggest we reorganise the troops in Eril first before sending scouting parties, your Majesty,’ an advisor spoke up. ‘Without General Arael, the logistics there are a mess. It will be a huge risk if we hastily try rescuing Prince Amovishel now.’

‘No need,’ Esiel quickly answered. ‘I’ll lead a team and go.’

‘Esiel, you’re not even fully recovered yet,’ Tavorhel warned. ‘I can’t have you back on the battlefield so quickly.’

‘Your Majesty, forgive me for being rude, but who do you take me for? I’m not some old man who needs extensive medical care on a daily basis. And even if I am still unfit, who do you treasure more: your commander-general or your son?’

He turned to the advisors, a slight smile forming on his face. ‘Besides, those Foresters are long overdue for a lesson. They have no idea how foolish they are in kidnapping something they’ll never be: a human. In the end, they’re just tools who believe they can be something they’re not. And perhaps this rebellion can be a lesson for us all as well.’

‘Tch,’ someone scoffed.

‘I can take over the affairs in Eril for the time being, your Majesty,’ Esiel went on. ‘Essentially, I’ll continue what Arael was doing but with the bonus of trying to kill some animals. It won’t be too much of a burden.’

‘Esiel, how can you even—’ a third advisor accused.

‘But I’m right, am I not? Those Foresters still have the illusion of being human. It’s why they seem so successful till now. Once they suffer a single defeat, they’ll revert to becoming tools, tools for us to buy and use from the Guild.’

This was Esiel, someone both admired and disgusted by his peers in the court and on the battlefield. Admired for his loyalty and courage, disgusted by his extremities towards the Foresters. Extremities even for Trelvenese standards.

Tavorhel knew Amovishel hated him. Esiel could find justification to kill anyone with Forester blood, even a mixed-blood.

But what other choice did he have now?

‘Commander-General Esiel,’ Tavorhel solemnly said. ‘Get me back my son.’

‘As you wish, your Majesty,’ Esiel saluted with a smile.