4,756 words
Summer, 1035
Things need to move quickly.
The peasants have finished sowing the fields. You've secured your reign by placating your burghers. You've demonstrated the wisdom of your rule by striking a blow against the Eluctable. Mostly importantly, however, you've orchestrated a rallying cry for war against Saraqusta. Every day, people speak about the treachery perpetrated upon the former king, your father, by the elfbloods. They poisoned him. They feared his skill in the field so much that they resorted to such cowardly tactics. They must be punished.
It is a message that strikes a deep chord with basically every level of society. The people cry out for war.
And you're going to give it to them. The call has been raised. Your men have been called to war. Seven hundred men at arms from the freemen, three hundred cavalry of your nobiles and equestrians, four hundred crossbowmen from your towns and cities, and a soon to be determined number of irregular levies. You're going to make a call on that when you decide which mercenary company you're hiring. You're currently putting out feelers for that and awaiting responses. Beating Saraqusta without bolstering your ranks with at least one company of mercenaries would be... difficult.
The sound of pounding hammers can be heard at all hours of the day in Alfida as smiths work to do repairs for people who procrastinated the maintenance of their equipment. Armorers are making sure the rivets are all well and good, fletchers are mass producing bolts, farriers are making fresh new horse shoes for your cavalry, and tailors are busy making a fresh new batch of gambesons for your footmen.
Everyone is getting ready.
For your part, you're busy preparing a more long term project for the kingdom. The state of laws concerning magic in your kingdom are an embarrassment. Your father was not a mage and had no understanding of how mages actually operate. His corpus of restrictive regulations make it impossible to practice magic in your kingdom without running afoul of some kind of law and making yourself liable for a fine. Of course, this isn't a problem for you since you're the king, and your 'court mage' (like you fucking need a court mage but you thought it would be awkward to fire the man) Alfonso is similarly exempted from most of them.
However, two mages, one of which is brilliant and the other of which is talented, are not sufficient to accomplish your ambitious. Plus, it insults your pride to be a MAGE KING and have the worst laws imaginable for mages. Your peers back in the university are probably laughing and sneering at the incompetence of your administration.
No longer!
You are composing a brand new codex of laws, the Alonso Codicis Legum Magicarum!
... Ok, the title could use some work. Using old imperial could be a little too pompous.
Anyway, as a True Magus, you have a solid grasp on what magical regulations actually accomplish something and what magical regulations just put up red tape for the sake of security theater. Take for example, the routine inspections of magical laboratories. The idea behind the regulation is a perfectly good one. It stops mages from cooking up dangerous substances and experimenting on human subjects without consent or oversight. Yet the actual regulations are entirely counterproductive.
They are a massive headache.
It is extremely tedious to have an inspector from the capital come by, disrupt your studies, and poke their noses in where they don't belong. Your laboratory is the single most sacred and private place to you. If a mage cannot do research in peace, he cannot create.
But, of course, mages need oversight... because many are lunatic megalomaniacs who have become untethered from reality due to their constant manipulation of it. So how to solve the problem?
Simple, require financial reporting and establish a body of collective information on research. Mages won't give away all their secrets, but they love to boast! Especially to get one over on each other. You just need to give them a public outlet with which to chase the respect and envy of their peers and they'll tell you what they're up to. And if they don't and you see they're spending large sums of money?
Then the crown inspection comes.
Mages need to be regulated, but they need to feel like they aren't being regulated. Such things require a gentle touch.
"My king?" Uncle Enrique interrupts your thought process and you realize you've been staring blankly at the parchment for several minutes. You blink your eyes rapidly and rub your face. Your cheeks are a bit sore. You've been clenching your teeth again.
"What is it, uncle?" you ask.
"Ahem. You have some petitioners seeking your judgment," he answers, his voice strained, "And they're rather insistent."
You turn and glance over your shoulder at him and sigh. "I'm sure they are, Uncle. I'll be down in the throne room in a moment."
Enrique nods and retreats out the door, shutting it behind him and leaving you alone in your library.
You stand up from your desk and stretch your back. Sitting in a chair all day hunched over a desk writing isn't as fun as it sounds. And it really doesn't even sound fun, does it?
You take a few moments to shake the dust off your mind. When you sit thinking about a problem for a really long time and suddenly stop, it can be disorienting. The brain needs a minute to catch up with the body.
Once you're confident in your footing, you stride forward and make your way out the door and through the keep.
Servants, nobles, and other castle denizens bow and curtsey as you pass, their hands placed across their chest in a fist, the symbol of fealty and submission. You return the gesture in kind with a respectful nod of your head, a symbol of appreciation and acknowledgement. It's a simple exchange.
When you reach the throne room, your first petitioner is already there. He's a man familiar to you. Velasco Aguilar. He owns a considerable amount of land but not enough to reach the top echelon of society. Probably... half as much as Uncle Enrique. Which still makes him a rich man in Alfida and a large landowner certainly. You owe him some measure of respect.
"Lord Aguilar, a pleasure to see you. How have your lands been treating you?" you greet the man warmly.
"Your grace, my lands are doing well. Thank you for inquiring. But there is a pressing issue which has come to my attention that requires your adjudication," he answers forcefully, already irate. A vein on his forehead is bulging and he's red in the face.
"And what matter would that be?" you ask curiously. You have a guess.
"The HARLOT that I have called a wife for the past decade whom I have provided all manner of comforts and treated with utmost dignity. I have caught her in the act of fornication with that swine Pedro of Elvira. I beseech you for permission to challenge this adulterer to a duel to restore my honor and I ask that the boy I believed to be my son is formally disinherited!"
This is... begrudgingly you must admit, a matter worthy of royal attention. You are in a state of preparing for war so an honor duel between two of cavalrymen needs to be approved by you, and the matter of disinheritance is a serious one. A child is in danger of being legally declared a bastard.
Rulership can be such a chore. You have to adjudicate matters that don't concern you one bit, you have to do it fairly, and you must pick a side to have their life ruined.
You lean back in your throne and rub your forehead. "How did you catch the affair?"
"At the birthday celebration of the bastard I called my son! I caught her fornicating with him in a closet!" he declares, his eyes threatening to bulge out of his skull. The man is so angry you're worried he might have a stroke right here in your throne room. He isn't standing terribly far away from where your father was walking when he had his. You could call it the 'circle of life'.
"And what makes you suspect the affair has been going on long enough for young..." you search your mind for the name. You were introduced to the boy once while touring the kingdom upon your return home, "... Pedro... is not your own?"
Velasco Aguilar grits his teeth, his nostrils flare, and he spits his words out through clenched teeth, "She confessed! I asked her how long and she said for six years and the boy is only five years old! I dispute his paternity! The boy is not of my seed!"
Hm, no wonder the guy is so angry. And the wife seriously named the kid after the guy she was cheating on him with? That is too audacious. You feel for Lord Velasco. The Gods have been cruel to curse him with such a wicked wife. The least you can do is let him fight the one cuckolding him.
"I will grant this duel, but disinheritance is a serious matter. You would have the boy be rendered a bastard on mere suspicion?"
Velasco Aguilar's lips draw up in a sneer. He snorts and spits on the floor, the wet smack drawing the eye of everyone present. "He is no son of mine!"
"... well the matter will be settled in your divorce proceedings. I will cede this matter to the church," you decide, "My deepest sympathies, Lord Velasco, and I wish you luck in your duel. Do not spit in my throne room again, however, or you will be reprimanded... physically," you add that last bit just to drive the point home.
He bows his head, "My apologies, my king. I have duly reflected on my actions."
"I have no doubt. You may go," you dismiss the man and wave him off.
As soon as Velasco Aguilar steps down, the next petitioner steps up, or should you say petitioners. Before you stands two knights of your realm- Sir Roberto and Sir Juan. The two men look irritated to even be near one another.
"Sir Roberto, Sir Juan. Respected knights of the realm. It pains me to see two noble gentleman at odds with one another. State your dispute so it may be resolved peacefully and you may make peace once more as you should," you beckon them forward and shower them with flattery. Hopefully, it'll make them more amenable to compromise. You can't afford your knights to be fighting with each other when your fight with Saraqusta is drawing near.
Sir Juan steps forward, his hand resting on his belt where his sword would be if he were not disarmed. He's a man in his early forties. He's bald on top but has a neatly trimmed beard of the same salt and pepper color. "My king, I have discovered upon last week's vesper of silence taken with my brothers in arms that Sir Roberto possesses stolen goods belonging to me."
"Ahem, my king," Sir Roberto steps forward to defend himself, "I must make clear that this item was not stolen from the good Sir Juan. I acquired it during last winter's raid into Saraqusta."
"You acquired it from the wretched elfblood who stole it from me!" Sir Juan shouts.
Sir Roberto's face turns bright red and his bushy black eyebrows narrow in a glare, "Alas, it is true, but this shield be my rightful bounty as spoils from our raid, my king. There is no law for return of property!"
"A shield?" you ask. What could be so valuable about a shield unless it's enchanted. Does one of your knights have an enchanted shield?!
"Indeed, my king," Sir Juan bows his head, "It is a family heirloom passed down for generations blessed by the Goddess Death for a vow taken by my thrice great grandsire. It is far more durable than a regular shield and repairs itself through divine magics."
"Do you have the shield?" you ask.
"Of course, my king," Sir Roberto steps aside and allows his squire to walk forth and present the shield. It's a kite shaped shield made of a light, almost yellow wood with an iron rim around it. What differentiates from any other shield is the charred black laser-like engraving of a raven perched atop an upright sword with its wings outstretched, the symbol of Death. That and its perfect condition despite its purported age leaves no doubt concerning the divine blessing of the item.
You rub your chin, thinking over the matter. Technically speaking, Sir Roberto is within his rights. The spoils of war belong to the victors. Sir Roberto won the shield fairly by shedding elfblood... blood. Sir Juan has no legal grounds to reclaim it. However, you are a king, not a slave beholden to laws. If you believe a law results in an outcome that is unjust, you don't merely throw your hands up and apply it like an automaton. In this instance, you believe Sir Juan losing his family heirloom shield is an injustice. Yet, Sir Roberto's contribution cannot be ignored for without him, the shield would still be in the possession of your enemy.
A vexing conundrum. What is fair? What is just? What is right? These are difficult questions that cannot be investigated in a traditional way. That's why you much prefer your study of magic to the study of laws. It's so much cleaner.
Alas, you must make a decision. You hope that it will leave both men satisfied.
"You have done the kingdom a great service in retrieving this divine artifact, Sir Roberto," you begin by complimenting him. He's a very prideful man and a good leader among your knights. He deserves recognition.
"Thank you, my king. I have dedicated myself to the glory of our cause and to the defense of the kingdom," he bows his head.
"Sir Juan, I am sympathetic to your plight. It is a superb item, one that even I would be proud to pass on to my children," you state to the second knight so he knows you are not ignorant of the gravity of his plight.
"It is an honor to have the king's recognition, your grace. I thank you for your kind words," Sir Juan nods his head.
"I will solve the dilemma for the both of you," you declare, "Sir Juan, I cannot simply have Sir Roberto give you the shield back, however, I recognize that you have a kind of claim on the item despite its lawful acquisition by Sir Roberto. My decision is thus— you are given the opportunity to pay a fair price of three hundred silver for the shield to Sir Roberto to compensate him for the loss of his bounty."
Sir Roberto's eyes nearly pop out of his head at the declaration and he immediately begins to protest. "Three hundred silver, my king?!? But the shield is worth at least five hundred!"
You cut him off. "Five hundred would be the price of a king's ransom. I'm giving you the chance to profit greatly, Sir Roberto. Be happy with the silver. Three hundred is the price. It is all profit to you."
He looks like he wants to argue further, but he bows his head and relents.
Sir Juan looks troubled by the price even as low as it is. "My king, I do not have three hundred silver."
You figured as much. It's a lot of money. "You will have a year to procure it. Until then, the shield is Sir Roberto's. Do not despair, Sir Juan. We march to Saraqusta soon and you may yet acquire an item of similar value. Fortune favors the bold and I know you to be a bold and skilled knight."
Your praise makes the man beam with pride and he accepts your judgment. "I will find the money in coin or in kind and pay the good Sir Roberto what he is owed, my king. You have my word."
"Then the matter is settled. Go now in peace and I look forward to seeing you again on the campaign," you nod your head and wave them away. They bow and turn to leave, and the moment they're out of earshot, you sigh. You hope that will keep them from each other's throats.
"I will hear the next petition," you declare loudly as you settle back in your throne.
A middle aged man with a deeply receded hairline and sunweathered skin steps forward and kneels before the throne. He is dressed in linens dyed a common shade of green with a tree bark that grows natively around here. His cap is made from more more expensive cotton and has a pattern vaguely resembled the coat of arms of a freemen commune.
"My king, I come on behalf of the people of Calea to beg of your aid. A week ago our granary was sacked by rats. Now some weevils burrowed in through the rat tunnel and we lost half the grain we had left. Our folks can't make it to the harvest with what we have left unless we slaughter a good bit of our livestock. Then we'll be poorer forever for it. If we could get some help from the crown, we could buy some grain from the markets and keep ourselves held over until the harvest."
Pestilence is a recurring problem for people and their grain, isn't it? This is a good opportunity to institute a broader systemic change to address these sorts of issues. This is the first freemen who has beseeched you for aid after an unlucky bout of pestilence, he will absolutely not be the last. Commoners have a way of organizing themselves through horizontal relationships like the communes to endure the worst effects of a bad harvest, but when it strikes a whole community, only a national-level safety net can help them.
So that is what you will build.
"I see. Your plight is, tragically, not an unusual one. I will make you whole, however, from henceforth, you and all the other communes will be enrolling in a royally sponsored insurance. You will pay every season and the next time something like this happens, you will be taken care of from the pool of other insurance payers. Do not get lazy, however. Your payments will rise if you are a poor steward of your grain," you announce.
The peasant is surprised, but not unhappy, with the verdict. He nods his head and thanks you profusely, "We will do right by the insurance, my king, we promise."
"See that you do. My steward will see the funds delivered to your commune," you order.
"Thank you, your grace. Long live King Alonso!"
"Long live King Alonso!" the rest of the people in the throne room chant.
You smile and accept the praise. It's nice to be appreciated. Of course, the adoration of the masses is a fickle and fleeting thing. They'll just as likely turn on you when an episode of misfortune strikes them that you could not possibly help them with.
The rest of the afternoon is spent listening to complaints, requests, and other issues. None of them are terribly important. Most of it is artisans complaining about their increased workloads, feuding with suppliers about contracts and prices, and other such nonsense. By the end, you're exhausted, but unfortunately, you still have more to do today.
Your personal workshop is already set up for the scrying ritual. Lord Fernando has been entrusted with collecting information about Saraqusta, but as a True Magus and a king, it behooves you to lend your magic to the effort.
You've already discovered that the wards against scrying in the royal palace of Saraqusta are lackluster. They've only seen fit to block out the council chambers and their library (which contains all their census records too), but of course, much business is discussed outside of council meetings.
You enter your workshop and prepare some ink and parchment along with a quill. You may need to write down some of the information you end up overhearing. Your memory is good. It borders on perfect for certain things. But it never hurts to be extra sure.
Then, finally, you cast a long range scrying spell. A window rends open in space showing images and playing sounds from within the palace in Saraqusta. It's a room you've never seen before. A large bedroom, the sort of lavish one fit for a noble lady.
The woman inside the room is clearly an elfblood. She sits on her bed dressed formally in her queenly regalia. A long dark blue dress held with shoulders straps that display a plunging neckline and bare her shoulders. Threads of gold weave a pattern of a roaring lion across the body of the dress. Long wavy platinum blonde hair spills across her back and two braids tied with silken thread frame her face. Her face is largely obscured by a veil dyed a brilliant ultramarine with exotic lapis lazuli dust mixed into the dye. Her eyes are an elven shade of purple. You've heard of half-elves inheriting elven traits that neither of their half-elven parents possessed through means that are not understood.
Image
Inside the room with her is a half-elf man who looks to be around thirty five years old which in half-elf terms means he's closer to seventy. He shares many traits with her, his eyes are the same color and he has the same wavy hair though his is brown. He's also wearing royal garments with a capelet and a red doublet that goes down to his knees and is tied with a golden sash. Your first thought is that this man is her father or something but that notion is quickly dismissed with her first words to him.
"They are not taking the threat seriously enough, uncle. This is an invasion. A threat to us all," Queen Aiza of Saraqusta complains, her tone laced with frustration.
"Rest assured, dear, we in the garrison are treating it with the severity it deserves. Already we have learned much of the whelp's plans. He has put out a call for mercenaries. We know the kingdom has remained stagnant under the Devil's leadership. They cannot be able to call up more men than their last incursion and this time they do not have the Devil leading their armies. A True Magus he may be, but I fear no man in the open field save his sire," the older man assures her. You presume him to be Amir Walid Bajjah. He was the archnemesis of your father. He once called the man 'a worthy opponent'. The old man never had such high praise for any other commander that you know of.
The two of them share this exchange in Mezweshi elven. You are fortunate to have learned many languages in the Grand University. Tartessian is your mother tongue, then there is Old Imperial, Mezweshi elven, and Armagvois which was the language spoken by the common people in Emporia.
"They are accusing me of killing the king. He could rally the wicked northern barbarians to his cause if they believe him. What then?" Queen Aiza asks.
The older man shakes his head, "He'd be a fool. The other taifa will join us. We have nothing to fear, little Aiza. The whelp is young and impetuous. He seeks to secure his rule as men often do— with success on the battlefield. I will defeat him on the battlefield and his rule will collapse. You may yet be ruling as queen of Alfida before the decade's end."
Queen Aiza does not appear convinced. She crosses her arms and turns her gaze to the side, her eyes narrowing. For a moment, you think you've been spotted, but then she huffs and looks somewhere else. "I still don't like it. The timing... so soon after my mother was killed. I don't like it. I should attend the campaign with you. I will display my magic and my critics will be silenced."
"And how do you expect the whelp to react? Would he not simply target you on the battlefield if you're present? I will crush his armies, but his pride is wounded, and a cornered animal is always more dangerous," he warns her.
Rude. You are no animal. Of course, if the queen did participate, a surgical strike against her would simply be good strategy. As far as you know, Aiza has not even reached the level of Adept. The best she could hope for is holding you off for a minute before your vastly superior magic overwhelms her.
Queen Aiza is clearly unhappy with this. She fiddles with the golden sash on her waist, picking at loose threads and digging her fingernails between the folds. She purses her lips and lets out a sigh. "So be it. You will keep me updated about the enemy's numbers. I will decide before the army leaves the garrison whether I am coming. A mage of my skill could make the difference between my head on a spike or the human's."
The Amir would like to argue with her further, but he thinks better of it. He's known the woman her whole life and knows better than anyone how stubborn she can be. "As you say, my queen. Is there anything else?"
Aiza shakes her head and stands up. "That is all. I require some privacy. Court was... exhausting today."
Ah, misery truly loves company, does it not? You can relate to Queen Aiza's sentiment. Court was exhausting today for you as well.
Amir Walid bows and departs, leaving the woman alone. Once he's gone, the queen pulls her veil aside and rubs her face. Her expression is troubled. She paces the length of her room, her hands balled into fists and her shoulders stiff.
"He will be defeated. His people will desert him the moment he suffers a loss. It will be alright. Uncle resisted the Devil for decades. His son will not prove a threat. He will not. He cannot. He does not have the experience," she says aloud, muttering to herself.
After a minute of that, she turns towards a painting on the wall and stares at it, her mouth pressed into a thin line. It is a portrait of her and her mother. Queen Aisha and Princess Aiza. Mother and daughter. The portrait is splendid. An artist signature is written on the bottom right corner and it's a name you recognize. A fully elven master artist from the elfhold of Jaburkar. He charges a commensurate price for his skill. The details are superb, highlighting the family resemblance between the two half-elven women.
"This is my home. He will not take it," Aiza declares before marching toward a side door and slipping through it. You wonder where she's going and direct the locus of vision to trail behind her. She walks through a narrow hallway into a tiled room containing a marble bath. She's already begun undressing as she enters and drops her dress unceremoniously onto the floor, letting it pool around her ankles. She steps out and walks towards the tub.
You really should stop watching. This is voyeurism. An illegal use of magic.
"Mother of Life's tits, those hips," you mutter to yourself, unable to tear your eyes away.
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Aiza's body is shaped like a near-perfect hourglass as if a statue of Life had been given... life. Her hips are wide, her stomach is flat, and her breasts are the sort of size that could fill your palms with a little extra to spill over. Her skin is flawless and unblemished by either stretch marks or scars. You watch her run her fingers through her silky blonde hair as she settles into the steaming bath, the water reaching up to her neck.
You are absolutely not going to spy on her bathing.
Begrudgingly, you must admit you want to.
But you will not!
With a herculean effort of will, you collapse the spell and the voyeuristic window disappears leaving you alone in your workshop feeling... worked up and ashamed. You shouldn't have seen that. You can't believe you let it get that far.
"Gods, Ramon is right. I do need to get laid."