Albert
"Your uncle is a good man, son. ... He's really my strength. If it weren't for him, this country would fall apart."
It's what my father used to say, long ago. Before policy became corrupted, and when he relied on the people's support. Before he began to drink and required the assistance of paid ministers and advisors to run the country. Before he squandered Serdio's resources and the treasury went bankrupt. It was before tension rose between he and Uncle Doel. … Before he was murdered.
Of course, I didn't know any of it at the time. I was a mere six-year-old boy, concerned with pretend sword fights and which of my friends to knight when I became king.
For all his faults, however, my father was a beloved man, respected and adored by his subjects. Though he was accused of being many things throughout his lifetime-a coward, a drunk, an impossibly weak leader- I looked up to him. Idolized him. Everyone did.
Before my mother died, Father was the epitome of the perfect gentleman. He was intelligent, ambitious, generous: he was honorable. After Mother passed, however, he became an entirely different person. In a mere seven months, my father's beloved Serdio had fallen into disarray. It was suddenly like nothing mattered to him at all any longer.
I must admit, when I officially took the throne at age fourteen and the country split in two, my father's advisors doubted my own capability as a leader. I suppose it's another testament to how poor things had gotten. Having seen year after year of famine and corruption, Minister Fiztgibbon had become inundated with complaints from the people and riots borne of desperation and need. At my coronation ball, he insisted that my succeeding Uncle Doel would be a return to the hell of my father's reign. He still tells me stories of my father's legacy of misgivings: tales of treachery and deceit, crimes against the people of Serdio; I usually stop him. I prefer to remember my father as the honorable man he once was.
Thank the gods for Minister Noish, though: he still speaks about my father as though he were a saint. As he was before everything happened. Noish faithfully ruled the country in my father's absence and upheld the family name. Perhaps later it was Noish's unshakable devotion to my father's good reputation that turned the people of Sandora against Uncle Doel and won the war.
It's difficult to say exactly what originally altered the family ties and caused Uncle Doel to go rogue. Some say Doel really had the people's interests at heart; others say he was only thirsty for power. Regardless, though, the rift between my father and his younger brother was impossible to deny. My uncle made his choice. He rescinded his loyalty to the Crown and defected. He broke away from all he'd ever known and loved ... and set into motion the tragedy that changed Serido forever.
It wasn't long past dinner when Carlo, the King of Serdio, and his son sat in the throne room of Indels Castle. Carlo worked tirelessly-reading, editing and rereading-a speech he'd prepared for the upcoming Festival of the Harvest, and six-year-old Prince Albert sat on the floor at his father's feet, playing quietly with a set of wooden figurines.
Footsteps sounded on the marble steps outside the room, and halted as they hit the carpeted floor at the foot of the throne. Carlo looked up, over the rim of his reading glasses, and set his speech aside.
"Good afternoon, dear brother."
The man who spoke had a voice as cold as steel, yet smoother than silk. His dark, curly hair lay neatly against his head and a carefully trimmed goatee framed his stern mouth.
Prince Albert jumped to his feet, eager to know what was happening, but his father laid a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him back to the floor. Albert slumped amidst his toys, but scarcely took his gaze off his father and their visitor. Carlo narrowed his eyes.
"What are you doing here, Doel?" he spat, turning to face the stranger. "I thought you'd found solace elsewhere."
"I have," Doel replied, raising his eyebrows. "In the city of Kazas, to the south."
The king shifted in his seat and leaned forward. "I see … The very city where I stationed you as governor."
Doel nodded once and took a few steps forward, glancing about the room. His eyes lingered on the stained glass panels above the doors to the balcony.
"How lovely," he remarked. "Those must have cost a fortune." He shot a look at Carlo over his shoulder.
"I'm sure you haven't come to discuss the decor."
Doel's mouth curved upward into a smile, though it appeared more like a smirk.
"You're shrewd, Carlo."
The king's expression was severe. "Then what is this about?"
Doel took a deep breath, folded his hands behind his back and faced the throne, though he avoided the king's gaze.
"I wish to make amends," he said, loudly and clearly.
Carlo laughed—a hollow, gravelly sound, low in his throat.
"I refuse to make amends with those who continually undermine my authority," he growled.
Doel snorted. "Indeed. I only undermine your authority because you retain so very little of it."
"I am the King of Serdio, brother. A title bestowed upon me for my birthright as the firstborn."
"And it's such a pity that your age has not granted you competence."
Carlo narrowed his eyes, and he held the arms of the throne in a white-knuckle grip. "That's treason, Doel. You dare speak out against the Crown of Serdio?"
Now was Doel's turn to laugh. "You're deceiving yourself, Carlo," he said. "The people are unhappy. They're starving to death, and you refuse them food. They lack decent homes, and you refuse them shelter. They have barely enough money and supplies to sustain their families, and still, you tax them to the last penny. Your governors run amok; the ministers are corrupted and … Something must be done."
Silence fell between the two. Cold, vicious silence. The brothers stared at each other, neither willing to give. Albert merely watched, sensing the agonizing rift growing between his father and uncle.
Finally, Carlo relaxed.
"If you've come to make amends," he said, "I hardly see what sense it makes to berate me and my policies. I only do what must be done."
Doel nodded. "Very well, brother. I will keep my opinions to myself, though it pains me to see the country struggle so. Come. Take my hand. I offer you my apologies and blessing."
A smile creeping onto his face, the king stood and breezily made his way down the steps from the throne. He didn't wear his cape today; its absence made him appear more gaunt and scrawny than usual. He stood in stark contrast to the man before him, who was both short and stocky and wore a maroon cape.
Doel extended his right hand to Carlo, dropping the left one to his side. Carlo wondered at the strange tautness of the man's left arm, but thought twice; Doel had always been stiff and pretentious, if not a little awkward.
Doel smiled warmly. The king reached to take his brother's hand, and Doel grasped it in a firm, friendly handshake. Carlo pulled his brother toward him in a forgiving embrace, but in the next instant, Doel's left hand whipped forward, lightning fast, and crippling pain ripped through the king's chest and abdomen.
As if in slow motion, Carlo stumbled backward, his knees buckling and his torso collapsing inward, racked with pain.
"Father!" Albert screamed. "Dad!"
He leapt from his spot near the throne and raced to the top of the steps.
The king turned and hobbled forward a few steps. One ... two ... three ... He attempted to halt his son with a hand held forward, but his arm dropped limply to his side. He didn't even have the strength to break his fall when he tumbled face first to the granite floor.
"FATHER!
Albert dashed to Carlo's side. The king rolled weakly over, one arm folded beneath him ... and the other clutching the handle of a knife whose blade was buried deep in his chest. Blood already oozed from the wound and colored the front of his doublet crimson.
Tears leaked from the corners of the young prince's eyes, and all he could do was stare at the cruel weapon protruding from his father's torso. Carlo released his grip on the knife and more blood leaked out, swiftly now.
The two younger royals watched the king struggle, battling for his life, but with every shaking breath, Carlo's spirit ebbed like the morning tide.
Carlo reached up slowly, his arm wobbly and unsure. He stroked his son's cheek, brushing the boy's flaxen hair from his eyes.
"Albert, my son …"
Albert took his father's hand and pressed it to his cheek. His tears leaked onto the limb, drawing faded streaks in the blood caked to the man's skin.
"Albert ..." Carlo groaned.
He opened his eyes and turned them upward. He struggled to focus, but there was no mistaking at whom he directed his gaze.
"Doel … why?"
Albert jerked his head to face his uncle, a man once so admired and revered for his bravery, intelligence and fairness. This … this was hardly fair.
Doel bit his lip, and he trembled visibly. Albert opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Doel turned on his heel and dashed from the room, the hobnailed soles of his boots echoing down the corridor. The only sounds in the room now were Carlo's agonized breaths. Albert gripped his father's hand fiercely … and Carlo's spirit fled with the setting sun.