"The life so brief, the art so long in learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly—by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous operation that when I think on it I scare know whether I wake or sleep."—Geoffrey Chaucer
The Interest
It was a new and unpleasant feeling for Jon to not be happy to see his oldest and best friend, Gary of Naxen, walk into his private study, which, far from being a refuge from the pressures of ruling was where they were most intense since there was no need for pretense away from public scrutiny, because he knew that Gary wasn't meeting him as a friend, but as a Prime Minster.
"Let's start with the good news first." Jon pinched the bridge of his nose as Gary sank into an upholstered chair and settled a tower of documents on the gleaming mahogany table with a rustle. The rolls of parchment were precariously perched and on the verge of toppling over just like the realm Jon was now supposed to be ruling. Swallowing the hysteria that suddenly rose in his throat, because he would not descend into insanity as his father had, even if the prospect of riding off a cliff to escape the stresses of kingship sounded dangerously appealing at the moment, Jon added grimly, "Assuming there is any, of course."
"There is," Gary assured him, rummaging through the stack of scrolls. "I just have to dig a bit to find it. Ah, yes, we have received word of projected harvest yields from more fiefs today. The lords of Vikison Lake, Runnerspring, and Rosemark have all reported that they anticipate average crop yields."
The idea that average crop yields were considered good news rather than no news was just a bitter reminder that there was a famine in the realm. A famine he had caused when he held the earth together with the Dominion Jewel, the energy for that powerful magic feat sapped from the seeds planted by peasants who were probably currently cursing his name as they faced starvation.
"How many fiefs sent their anticipated crop yields to us today, Gary?" Jon clutched the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white as polished ivory.
"Ten," answered Gary, who sounded as if he might have memorized the information. Perhaps he had. Ever since they were children, Gary had possessed an extraordinary memory for facts, figures, and details. "Five report projected yields fifteen percent lower than average, and two report an anticipated harvest ten percent less than usual."
"That means seven of ten fiefs are dealing with an impending famine." Shaking his head, Jon sighed. "That's not good news. Try again."
"Lord Imrah of Legann has sent word from Port Legann on the status of his negotiations with the Tyran bankers." Gary's forehead furrowed as he pulled out another piece of correspondence. "He writes that he has managed to drop their interest rate for the loan to the Crown from thirty-six percent to twenty percent…"
"Which is still extortion." Jon scowled.
"Bankers are sharks, Jon." Gary's tone was dark. "If they smell blood, they attack. Unfortunately, we do need their money if we hope to avoid a devastating precipitous drop in population due to famine, which obviously would not only damage the realm in the present but in the future. It can take years for a realm to recover from famine but even longer to recover from a marked decline in population. Population drives the economy and vice versa."
"I realize we need their money." Jon's scowl hardened into a full-fledged glower. "Worse still, they realize it, and that's why they are exploiting our desperation to charge such exorbitant interest rates."
"What are you suggesting?" Gary arched an eyebrow in a gesture that made him resemble his stern father too much for Jon's comfort. Maybe everybody was doomed to become their father, Jon thought and shivered despite the blazing fire in the hearth. "Should I instruct Lord Imrah to walk away from the negotiation table or threaten to do so?"
Jon paused to internally debate the merits of such strategies, and then, deciding for what felt like the hundredth time that day that he had no notion what to do, he replied crisply, "Lord Imrah is the great tactician, not me. Tell him to do whatever he deems necessary to lower the offered interest rate another five percent. Fifteen percent interest rate is ludicrously high but not outrageously so though mind you I have no idea how we'll pay back the interest without taking out more loans from somebody else, which might beggar the kingdom again."
"You're right but let's not worry about tomorrow's problems today." Gary, busy scribbling a note on Lord Imrah's letter, did not glance up at Jon. "Today has enough problems of its own without borrowing any from tomorrow."
"True." Jon massaged his throbbing temples. "We will be borrowing enough from the future without borrowing tomorrow's problems as well."
"Such wisdom, sire." For the first time that evening, there was a flicker of humor in Gary's chestnut eyes.
Needing a best friend more than a Prime Minister at that moment, Jon responded with a wry twist of his lips, "Believe it or not, Gary, I have been doing even deeper thinking than that."
"Ah, and what would be the subject of these exalted contemplations?" Gary chuckled, abandoning his papers as he focused his entire attention on Jon.
"Marriage." Jon leaned back in his chair, conjuring an image of Thayet in his head, because just thinking of her made a soothing warmth blossom in his chest. There was a woman born to be queen: poised, smart, and breathtakingly beautiful. The only question was if she would consent to being his queen. He still didn't know—and his ignorance both titillated and infuriated him—whether she agreed to dance, ride, and generally be in his presence because she had friendly or romantic feelings for him or if she was just being polite to the ruler of the kingdom where she had taken sanctuary.
"Marriage." A dreamy cast overcame Gary's brown gaze, and, without asking, Jon knew that Gary was reflecting on his new wife, Cythera, who already had the pink roses of her first pregnancy blooming in her cheeks though she had not yet started to show in any other fashion. "A marvelous institution. We are truly indebted to our ancestors for devising it…"
"I was hoping to discuss marriage to a particular woman, not marriage in general." Jon cut off Gary's mooning musing in favor of his own. "A king needs a queen. We should find one for me."
"I suppose we should start searching for a princess with the brain damage required to agree to marry you." Gary smirked as Jon rolled his eyes in a manner that was leagues away from regal. "I heard the most scurrilous rumors that one of the Gallan princesses was dropped on her head as a baby, Jon, so perhaps she is the perfect princess for you."
"Speaking of heads, I have the overwhelming urge to boil yours." Jon emitted an undignified snort, and then went on haughtily, "Not that you deserve to know, but I'm considering a princess from Sarain, not Galla."
"I know." Gary's demeanor was so smug that Jon battled the desire to throw a scroll at his snickering face. "The whole court knows, Jon. You haven't exactly been subtle in your interest in the charming Princess Thayet. Just order a ring made and propose to her already. You won't shock anyone, and this realm could use the excuse to celebrate that a royal wedding provides."
"We won't be able to afford a lavish party." Jon's lips thinned, because if the kingdom was reduced to borrowing money to feed its people, coins should not be wasted on elaborate weddings and feasts. He would not be the king who hosted grand celebrations while his people worried about their next meal.
"We will and we must." Gary's chin lifted in a way that announced more plainly than words that he would not back down. "It's a matter of state, where the people must see their king and queen strong and happy. There must be some grandeur and rejoicing even in times of struggle, because people need joy, and, more than that, they have to release the tension hard times create in ways we provide, or else they will do so in ways we cannot condone such as crime or even revolt."
"Fine." Jon was too tired to argue about being paraded in costume in front of the country again, and if Thayet was parading beside him as his queen that would make whatever ceremony the state demanded perfect. "Don't go planning the wedding yet. Remember the princess in question hasn't even consented to the marriage."