Within his palace suite, Dolwillen Mánfeld clutched the stone in his pocket and squeezed. His arm burned and his headache finally scuttled from his brain, letting him think.

According to Áberd, the King would: ‘summon his Grace when he had the time’. It was preposterous.

The King walks the palace gardens every morning, I will catch him then.

Dolwillen slept.

A servant dressed him in a gold braided tunic. Dolwillen strapped Beceorfan to his side, a short cavalry sword that widened at the tip, and left his chambers.

After several minutes of arduous stairs and innumerable corridors, Dolwillen reached the cloisters surrounding the palace gardens. He circled around until he found an exit where the cloisters merged with an arbour.

Dolwillen wandered beneath the vaulted greenery. The overhanging vegetation muted the intense, morning light with a green tint. Gravel crunched beneath his feet like tiny, desiccated bird skulls. Dolwillen smiled and stomped a little harder.

He found the King kneeling on a worn velvet cushion before a rough granite tombstone tucked beneath a huge wisteria, laden with drooping clusters of blue flowers. Sunlight pierced through the wisteria’s swaying boughs. The granite and the king’s cheeks glistened. There was no valet, no Sir Wylde, and there were no guards.

Perfect.

“Good morning, Sire.”

“What is it?” said Firgen, without turning around.

Dolwillen scowled, “Your valet said you agreed to meet me.”

“Bugger off.”

“I need to discuss the succession with you, Sire.”

Firgen stood, wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, straightened his tunic, and turned, “You have one minute. Speak.”

“Make me the heir.”

“I asked for a demonstration of competence,” said Firgen. “Your son has failed, good soldiers died, and you are yet to lift a finger. Even the dullest peasant would grade you incompetent.”

Dolwillen’s shoulders curled forward and he approached the King, “My estate is in the best position to provide the most benefit to the stability of the kingdom.”

“Meaning you have the most money, the most troops, and grow the majority of Rícewelig’s wheat. Did I miss something?”

“What more do I need?”

“Threats can only take you so far. There is no personal honour, trust, or martial prowess in what you propose and I am unconvinced your region’s wealth is related to your stewardship. A King needs support, Dolwillen, he cannot rule alone. You must prove you are better than everyone else if you wish others to follow.”

“That is what food, money, and soldiers are for,” said Dolwillen. “Your absurd competition is causing chaos. Give me the throne and you can abdicate today.”

Firgen laughed, “Who said I was abdicating? I will name an heir, nothing else.”

Dolwillen growled.

“You were happy enough to compete when you thought you could win,” said Firgen. “You claim wealth entitles you to support and influence. Use your money and soldiers, attend to your citizens, prove your leadership, and demonstrate your worth.”

Dolwillen drank from his hip flask. The King watched him, judging.

Stubborn, doddering bastard.

“I don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” said Dolwillen.

Firgen straightened his posture, looming over Dolwillen, “There are only so many different ways I can say this: make the people believe they are better off under you than any other citizen.”

How dare the King look down on me!

Dolwillen grasped the hilt of Beceorfan to steady himself.

He blinked.

An unyielding grip encircled his wrist, locking his sword in its scabbard. A plain belt knife licked his throat. Firgen leaned closer, tickling Dolwillen’s ears with his words.

“I see before me a weak, tactless, goose-brained drunk, spouting the logic of a weasel. Don’t think your status will save you should your unfortunate habit of holding your sword in the presence of your betters be left uncured. Learn some humility, train your mind and body, then perhaps whatever foul humours ail you will pass, but should you come whining at me again in such a decrepit, unfit state, not even the Gods will save you.”

Firgen stepped back and sheathed his knife.

Dolwillen quivered. He tried to draw his sword, but his arm wouldn’t move properly.

What’s wrong with him? The wrinkled bastard is old, yet fast and skinny, but strong. Dolwillen’s world drained of colour and noise. He sucked down great gulps of air, frothing spittle caressing his brandy moistened lips.

The King has sat on his throne for years. It’s my turn.

“If you won’t give it to me, I’ll take it,” said Dolwillen.

“Is that what you whisper to your sheep?” said Firgen.

Dolwillen’s leg spasmed and he fell. His world shattered into many faceted shards of spinning images. He hovered above his spasming body.

What is wrong with me?

Firgen tucked his cushion under his arm, stole Dolwillen’s flask and poured the brandy over Dolwillen’s face. Firgen slapped Dolwillen a couple of times, shrugged, kicked his head, waited five seconds, then sauntered off, whistling a sea shanty.

Dolwillen reached for the stone in his pocket but his hand couldn’t touch it. His real body stopped shaking. He tried again while imagining moving his real arm.

Dolwillen snapped back into his body. He lay still, face down in the gravel, breathing brandy. He squeezed the red veined, yellow stone in his fist. Magic pulsed up his arm and his dizziness faded. Scarlet sparks fountained from his pocket as Dolwillen pictured Guntard’s screaming visage.

He smiled.

Rubbing his bruised head, Dolwillen considered the King’s words: ‘Make the people believe they are better off under you than someone else’.

I can do that.