"Even peace may be purchased at too high a price."
Benjamin Franklin
…
…
Princess Henrietta sighed as a worker read off the proper flowers which would be used by the people to toss at the bride and the groom, and her gaze drifted out towards the window. In two days she was to be wed to the Emperor of Germania, forging an alliance between the nations that would protect her small country. It would insure peace within the realm of Helgekinia for a long period, perhaps for the rest of her reign.
You think you can keep your crown through peace, through a fair and just rule. You are utterly doomed to fail, princess.
No. He was wrong. He had to be. She knew what his realm was like. He never ever received legitimacy from Brimir or whatever his people worshipped, so he always had to prove himself to the people. And he answered the people's wishes by fighting wars over and over again, until eventually his kingdom was destroyed when the other nations rose up against him.
His people may have wished for war, but hers did not. And even if they did, she would protect them from their desires, and would preserve the peace. That was supposed to be the role of the ruler above all. Making the people happy was one good, but preserving a peaceful land would be the highest award she could obtain. So she would cast aside her own wishes and marry and forge an alliance with Germania. One which would keep the peace she desired.
"Your Majesty!"
She was abruptly startled by one of her courtiers who asked the princess what she thought about the new wedding dress. She had returned the first dress – it was too ostentatious, too frilly for her own tastes, and the gemstones which had been placed in the bridal veil were hideous. Now she was wearing something that was plain and pure white, something which was a sign of devotion, of devotion to-
What, exactly? Devotion to her husband? To her nation? Where did her true loyalties lie to? It was expected from the princess that the nation must take the highest priority, but could she state with total confidence that was indeed where it lay? It was amusing that all of these thoughts were occurring to her on her wedding day, which she knew was supposed to be the happiest day of any ordinary girl's life. But a ruler could not afford to be ordinary.
As the workers droned on and Henrietta thought to herself, none of them initially noted the messenger who had walked into the preparation room. His pose erect and confident, he had to clear his throat before they realized his presence.
"Your Majesty, an ambassador from the Albion Reconquista government has requested an immediate audience from you. He declares it to be matter of the gravest urgency."
Henrietta sighed. She thought of ordering the messenger to send the ambassador away. She wished to deal with the Reconquista as late as possible, not least because she knew it was all but certain that without the Germanian alliance, Albion would likely seek to invade her country. Even with the Germanian alliance, she could not rule out that they would do so. No one could tell what the new government's values were, one which had probably just finished murdering the last remnants of the Royal Family.
Wales's face flashed before her mind, and she suppressed it. Even if she did not want to deal with the new government, it would be nice to receive him as a courtesy, and it would get the blasted wedding planners out of her hand. She inwardly smiled at the thought. To wish to deal with an ambassador as opposed to wedding planners, that was more like a ruler than a woman.
"Tell him I will receive him. Everyone, please leave at once. Matters of state must be conducted by me."
As the courtiers and messenger left the room, the ambassador strode in. His long brown curls and mustache reminded her of Wardes, who now that she had come to think of it had gone missing for the past several days. That was a matter she should attempt to attend to after this meeting. Still, she could not deny that his manner of dress was both elegant and proper, though the red shirt combined with appropriate ruffles were covered with a black travelling cloak, one which he apparently did not wish to remove.
The ambassador bowed in the presence of the princess, and then moved to kiss the fingertips which she chose to offer to him. It was a courteous and formal gesture, and he did not linger on her hands for too long like had occurred with some ambassadors of the past.
"My greetings, fair Princess of Tristain. I am Charles Fleetwood, and I have been appointed by Emperor Oliver Cromwell as the newly appointed ambassador to Tristain."
He spoke flawless Tristainian, but Henrietta could not suppress a grimace. She was meeting far too many rulers whom were giving themselves the title which only a supreme ruler of Helgekinia should possess. While she now knew three people who were calling themselves Emperors, she had not even attempted to take the mere title of Queen, even though she knew she could have done so with nary a whisper of discontent. Rulers were becoming overly ambitious these days.
"I am honored to meet you, Ambassador, and hope for long years of peace between our nations. My messenger told me that you had an urgent matter to discuss. Is it to report that you have succeeded in destroying the Royal Family of Albion?"
Fleetwood was apparently quite a skilled diplomat, she noticed. He simply stared at her with a blank expression, but she could tell it hid the thoughts of total surprise.
"Well, that is a most interesting statement indeed, your Majesty! I had actually believed that you were aware of the news I was about to give you. Perhaps it is for the most that you do not know, as it would be the best ways of preserving our past good relations."
Despite the words, it was clear from his tone that he was disappointed, and that the fact that the Princess had not known was bad news for Albion or for himself. Still, he continued to speak.
"As I am sure you know, your Majesty, two nights ago, the Reconquista succeeded in defeating the last remnants of the Royal Family. We are now free to pursue our gracious liberties as a result of the many sacrifices made by our soldiers."
"So, the Crown Prince Wales has perished?"
She stated the question with a flat tone, concealing the heavy sorrow in her heart. She had thought of dealing with Wardes after this man, but instead she would probably need to weep after hearing the news that her lover was dead. But she then noticed that Fleetwood had not bothered to even conceal his expression of surprise this time.
"Well, now I am truly shocked! I had supposed you knew about all the affairs which occur within your nation, but I was truly mistaken! Hopefully, this should make our conversation much easier."
Henrietta chose to ignore the slight while Fleetwood cleared his throat and continued.
"It appears that the Crown Prince of Wales did not possess the courage to fight for his throne to the end. While his soldiers were fighting for their honor and his, he slipped into a small boat in the night and fled Albion. Our last reports indicate that he has fled to Tristain and has sought refuge in your country."
Henrietta could not believe what he had just said. The crown prince? Here? Surely he was not thinking of seeking to be reunited with her? Was he perhaps hoping that by going into exile, he could reclaim his throne someday?
She had to calm down. No doubt the ambassador was not finished talking here.
"Well, needless to say, the request of the Reconquista government is obvious. It is necessary that the Crown Prince of Wales be returned to his country. He will be granted a fair trial, but he must be made to answer for his crimes which caused the people to revolt."
"What are these crimes?"
"I am sorry Princess, but those matters are not for those who are not of Albion, even for one who commands as much respect as you do. He must be taken to Albion, where we will be the ones whom shall judge him for his crimes. I am sure that a princess can understand how important it is that every fugitive from the law receives justice."
Henrietta shook slightly from hearing that word, the ideal which even as she held to, another Emperor had castigated her for her devotion to that ideal. She ignored it and responded.
"If I am to send a man to another country where he will be tried, it is then my responsibility to know. You must inform me."
"Oh, it is not something that you should be concerned about, princess! I am sure no one would judge you if you returned him to us."
"The Prince would judge me. And justice is something which can, must, apply to all people. I must know exactly what he has been charged with before I am capable of making a decision."
Fleetwood gave an amazingly disarming smile as he held out his hands helplessly.
"Your Majesty, I know from the bottom of my soul that you are a woman of great integrity and honesty. But even if I was to ignore the principles which I have talked about, I must return to my master Cromwell to receive a comprehensive and exhaustive list of the Prince's crimes. By the time I would have returned, the Prince may continue his fugitive run and go somewhere where the arms of the law would not be able to reach. And the people cry out for the prince's return as soon as possible, so that he may face a firm and speedy justice."
"I am prepared to wait for as long as it takes. You may go back to Albion and receive this list from your lord."
"But I have already discussed why it would be to our detriment for us to do so!"
"Then I will not release the Prince to your custody. I must insure justice for all, no matter whether your government wishes for a speedy inquisition into the prince's activities."
Fleetwood glowered at these statements. It was clear that he was beginning to lose his patience. However, he once again smiled as his hands entered the pockets of his well-made trousers.
"My Princess, my Lord Cromwell must insist that the Crown Prince be received into our custody."
"And I insist that the Lord Cromwell must provide with an official list of the Prince's crimes so that I may judge whether his crimes are worthy of returning to Albion."
"With all due respect, your Majesty, it is quite presumptuous for a ruler of one nation to dictate whether our nation has executed justice regarding our people. You are not a citizen of Albion, after all."
"It is no longer so when that man has entered my borders. I will not repeat myself. The Prince will not be released into your custody without an official list of the crimes which has been accused of."
Fleetwood chose this moment to give a deferential bow, but even then his eyes flashed with frustration.
"I shall do so. But I must warn you, your Majesty. Cromwell is not a man who is easy to forgive perceived slights. He may possibly do something unexpected as a result of your decision."
"Are you threatening me, Ambassador?"
The chilly voice by someone who was a Triangle-class water mage would have made any of her courtiers shrivel with fear. But Fleetwood was a man of experience, one who had seen many things across the world. He simply reacted to Henrietta's question by maintaining the bow.
"I am just a messenger who is supposed to represent the wishes of my master Cromwell and so I cannot foresee his actions. I just know from my long association with him that he may take offense to your decision, and he may do something to the detriment of your nation."
"Ambassador, I believe we have nothing more to discuss. It would be best if you take your leave and return to your lord."
She strode off, leaving Fleetwood alone. He made no move for a moment, and then smiled for a moment as he strode off with the cloak whirling over him. He had fulfilled his mission, as he had actually never believed Henrietta would return the Prince. It simply sufficed that Albion would now have a sufficient casus belli for a future campaign against Tristain. Part of him felt like informing her about Wardes's betrayal, but he had no reason to do so. She would find out on her own in due course.
Henrietta in the meantime entered the throne room. The messenger she had dismissed was waiting, almost if he knew that his services would once again be needed.
"Find Agnes and Wardes at once. Bring them back to me as soon as possible."
"There is no need to do the former, your Majesty. I am here."
The princess turned around at the sound of the voice. Agnes, the captain of the Musketeers, was standing in the doorway of the throne room. And the Crown Prince was waiting behind her, along with a host of his remaining generals.
...
Louise sighed as she looked at the building the – plane, her partner had called it –was located in. The behavior of her servant had truly grown odder over the past five days. Sure, he had always liked to read. But ever since he had found those books in the strange language, he spent hours in that machine with the books, going through details and at times trembling in excitement at something he had discovered while he was in there.
It's not like he barricaded himself in the room. He would emerge during mealtimes, and would talk with Siesta's father for long periods of time, discussing agricultural techniques and ways in which he could improve his farm. Yesterday, Napoleon had had a long and animated discussion with her father, eagerly proposing some new method of plowing which the farmer had observed with great interest. And he had hardly forgotten the evil training. Every morning, at dawn, he would shake her until she awoke, and then the two would go out and run long distances, which always culminated either when they returned to the farmhouse or when she simply collapsed. The distances weren't growing longer, but there were good days and bad days, and while the amount of times the latter occurred was naturally lessening, they were still there. Apparently, tomorrow morning he had figured something to do with her wand skills and so they would practice over that.
The more she thought about it, even if you ignored the reading, he was a strange person. He would never hesitate to brag about his military exploits if asked. At one dinner, when one of Siesta's siblings had wondered about what he did in wartime, he pulled out a piece of paper and avidly described and drew out one of his battles, a place which he had called Austerlitz. No one on the table even understood a third of what he was discussing, but it didn't matter to him. The process of showing his accomplishments was good enough regardless of the audience or their reaction. Yet while he liked to talk and boast of all he had accomplished, Louise struggled to simply decide that he was an arrogant, self-centered man. He had helped Siesta's father out, and then there was what he had done with her. He never stopped believing in her, and while he continually berated her these days for not running fast or hard enough, she thought back to the day when only snickers resulted after her third failed summoning. To be yelled at and insulted, Louise believed, was a far better thing than to be ignored.
Turning away from the building, she gazed outwards at the sun which was beginning to set. The field in which she stood in was lovely, making the courtyard in the Academy, with its neatly trimmed grass and bushes look pathetic in comparison. Tall, billowing grasses and golden wheat swayed in the wind as the hues of the sun turned red as it descended. Going here, she felt, truly had been a boon, both for herself, for the maid whom had reunited with her family, and for Napoleon who had appeared to find something which amazed and consumed him once again.
It was then that she saw the horse and the rider. It was a chestnut horse, brand new and in the prime of its life, but the man on top of the horse was also of note. He wore new woolen clothes that would be considered fairly fine for a commoner, with a brown coat and trousers combined with a red vest which somehow matched well. His hair was white, and nearly gone, but he had an expression of happiness and rejuvenation. He slowed down as he approached Louise, and then wiped the sweat off of his brow.
"Hello there, miss. I am in the village of Tarbes, correct?"
Louise responded with an affirmation, and the men stopped the horse and dismounted. He stared at her for several seconds, and then glanced at a sheet of paper he was holding.
"Are you Valliere?"
Now it was Louise's turn to stare. While the man was dressed well, he was a commoner, and a complete stranger at that! How did he know her?
"H-How do you know whom I am?"
"Your partner described you to me. Your pink hair really does help in making you stand out."
"Partner? Wait, do you mean Bonaparte?"
"That's the one! You really are a bright young one. I'm sure you know whom I am?"
"What?"
The man looked puzzled, and then brought a hand up to his hand as his brows furrowed.
"Well, I had assumed he had mentioned me, but it's nothing important anyways. Name's Andre Giono, printer and – what was the word he had used – journalist extraordinaire! I am pleased to meet you, Napoleon's partner?"
His voice was jovial, but then he did something that Louise utterly, totally, could not believe.
He stuck out his hand.
He-He wasn't expecting her to shake hands with him like they were equals, was he? A commoner? Not bowing to her? Who was this man who did not defer to the proper social mores, and what was his relation to Bonaparte?
Giono noticed that she had made no move, and once again furrowed his brows. But before any of them could say or do something, a voice broke out.
"Ah! Giono! Excellent timing!"
Apparently her partner had left the hanger for once, and it was clear that he had been expecting the printer. Giono brought his hand down, and then strode over to Napoleon. The two laughed upon seeing each other and shook hands heartily.
"Great to see you, Boney! You know, I absolutely cannot thank you enough for helping me with your letters! I was surprised to see you how much you knew about to implicate that corrupt Chilan bastard!"
"It was nothing. I just knew some friends in my time; they taught me how to do those sorts of things! I see things have been better since you were stuck in that demonic inn!"
Well, Napoleon thought to himself, it's not like the lawyers and bureaucrats in the Committee of Public Safety and the Directory were friends, but they taught him propaganda and journalistic techniques well enough. He continued speaking anyways.
"Still, we have much to do anyways! I have something to show you, something which will no doubt surprise you."
As the two men walked towards the plane, Louise couldn't help but feel a tinge of anger. Her partner had been so worried about letting her near the plane, as once when Louise had knocked on the back door of the plane, he had simply asked to leave. But he had no troubles letting in someone whom to her was a complete stranger? Besides, what would Siesta and her family say?
...
It turned out that their family had no objections. Giono was apparently a decent wealthy man, and he had paid Siesta's father well. Not for the plane, which was a family heirloom and was not for sale under any conditions, but for the right to borrow and return the books as well as sleep in the building the plane was located in. While Napoleon would leave from time to time to help Louise and Siesta's family, Giono by contrast never left that building at all. The only time anyone aside from Napoleon had seen him leave there, he had inquired to Siesta's father about possibly purchasing a residence in the village, only to be told that it would be necessary to deal with a nobleman, Count Verand, to purchase land from him. Giono had not taken that reply very well, and so he stayed in, somehow getting the nourishment necessary to do… whatever he was doing in there.
As Louise paced outside the building, wondering what was going on in there, Napoleon sighed. The information of a hundred years was something which was an incredible gift to him, and yet at the same time it was so inadequate. Most of the books were scientific by nature, dealing with plans to create all sorts of fantastic devices, but devices which nevertheless generally remained generally limited in wartime. Even those inventions which he could tell would be incredibly useful in war, such as what they called railroads and radios, required resources which he didn't have and which he doubted any particularly single wealthy individual possessed. It would require the resources of a nation to create these tools which would permit him to create a wonderful new army for conquest.
That wasn't to say the books were completely useless. The information was useful as it was, and there were a few books on military tactics. Napoleon had found a manual on how to fly this plane, and it even possessed a limited amount of that fuel called "petrol" so it could still be flown to some degree. Still, he was completely uncertain about how to make more, though understanding the principles of flight was good. There were also books on guerilla techniques, which seemed to be a largely modernized version of what those damned Spaniards had done to him for over 4 years. He had a better idea of how to run those operations, as well as most importantly, how to counter them.
But ironically, it was the presence of the literary works which for now presented the most value. And it was all because of Giono, whose respect and devotion towards him meant that Napoleon was sure that he would keep these texts a secret. Napoleon had elected to teach the printer the Latin alphabet, and the speed which he had learned it caused the Emperor to realize that it was possible for any individual of sufficient intelligence to figure out the Latin alphabet by himself, especially given how similar Helgekinian and French were. Giono had achieved wealth and status to some degree with his expose of Chilan, but Napoleon had fermented another scheme, one which would make Giono and by extension himself, wealthy. It had been extremely irritating to be forced to borrow from Louise to send the letters and to obtain clothing in the end, and his plan was to fix this problem and gain a greater degree of independence.
He glanced over the printer, whom was hard at work. The plan was simple. Giono was currently translating a copy of Don Quixote in Helgekinian, and when he returned to Tristania, he would publish it as his own work, no doubt reaping spectacular profits especially since he would be his own publisher. In exchange, the two promised to split the profits evenly. Giono was an honest and earnest man, and Napoleon did not believe that there would be any problems with the arrangement for now. If Giono got too arrogant, he could always find another printer.
Another three days later, Giono declared that he had to return to Tristania, and so he left, carrying a copy of Don Quixote as well as The Three Musketeers. His work had been going slowly, partially out of the inherent difficulties in translation, partially just because Giono had spent hours just reading some of the literature, while completely ignoring the scientific works. This honestly perfectly suited Napoleon just fine, as even if Giono did reveal the source of the literature works, it wasn't that important. The scientific works were what he valued. Admittedly, he himself had tried reading some of the literature which had been published, but while some of it was fascinating, others he had found repulsive. He had, without the knowledge of Siesta's family, chucked a book calledThe Stranger by some fool named Camus into a fire he had built, viewing it as utterly pointless and confusing. It was a small book anyways. Completely unlike a book called War and Peace, which he had also chucked into the fire for far too many reasons to name.
Still, as he looked back at the piles of book now out of their shelves and laying about on the floor, he did feel a shred of annoyance that there were practically no books on history. Somehow he possessed this giant library, yet still did not know how much longer he had to live. Perhaps it was better not to know. Still, he was 45, and despite his unparalleled genius, his long years of conquering probably meant that he had most another 30 years. Just the fact that he had managed to keep a longer life span than Alexander was to some degree an accomplishment. He still needed an opportunity, one which he absolutely knew would come given what Destiny had already offered him, but it would be better for it to come sooner rather than later.
So, while he would wait for that singular moment, he sighed and flipped open another book dealing with these planes.
...
Fouquet looked out the ground below her. Her job was finished. The Staff of Destruction was now in the hands of the Reconquista, and the money she had received was enough to keep the orphanage running for at least a year. Wardes and she were currently aboard the Lexington, the flagship of the Albion navy. It truly was a proper ship of the line. The Lexington, a great black ship, possessed over 200 heavy cannons in a vessel which was 450 feet long, and with two major windstones in the bottom of the ship, its speed was incredible of a ship of that size, even though its maneuverability was a severe and inherent problem for a ship that size.
A door opened behind her, and she could hear Wardes stomp out behind her. She turned around, and saw him fiddling with the Staff of Destruction.
"Are you sure this is the true Staff, Fouquet?"
"Of course. I saw the pictures before I took the job, so I know perfectly well what it looks like. Are you telling me that a mage as powerful as yourself is unable to get it to work?"
Wardes grimaced at the thief's jibe, and proceeded to run his hands all over it. The Staff of Destruction was unlike any magical artifact he had ever seen. It was too large to be a staff, and seemed designed to be carried over the shoulder rather than held in one's hand. Its greenish-brown color was also of a design he had never seen before. Nevertheless, he hoisted it on his shoulder like he apparently was supposed to and continued looking for an activation sigil.
"Wardes?"
"Yes, Fouquet?"
"You mind if I ask you a question?"
The traitor took his eyes off of the Staff and appraised the thief for a moment before returning to his task. Fouquet took the opportunity to continue.
"What are you after anyways? You were the Captain of the Tristanian Griffin knights, a figure of high position within your kingdom. What is someone like you hoping to gain by betraying your nation?"
Wardes paused to snort at the question. He then answered, though he never stopped working at the Staff of Destruction during that moment.
"I know why you are a thief, so you want to know why I'm a traitor? Sure, why not. Let me ask you this, Fouquet. What does it mean to be a figure of high position within Tristain?"
Fouquet tilted her head.
"I don't understand what you mean."
"Becoming a figure of high authority in Tristain is nice, I'll admit. The people respect you, the princess respected me, and I was beloved by pretty much everyone who met me. It was a nice feeling, and probably one I'll never get back again.
But at the end of the day, Tristain is dying. It's a small country, one which can only thrive through political intrigue and diplomacy. The princess merely hopes for peace, a world where her country can go unnoticed by the bigger countries surrounding her, Gallia and Germania. It's just like how commoners scurry about underneath the gaze of the nobles, doing whatever they can to avoid attracting attention because they know a noble could easily take away their properties and lives with a flick of a finger. It's a state of affairs that won't be able to last. Someday, probably within a hundred years, Tristain will be absorbed by one of those two countries, and her military will be forced to swear allegiance to the armies of one the great nations. All I'm doing is moving ahead of the curve, and casting my alliance with one of the greater powers."
"But then why Albion? Sure, it's protected by the powerful fleet it possesses. But given the fact that the rest of Helgekinia is annoyed at best with what it did to the Royal Family, there's absolutely no reason to cast your lot in with them. Tristain may fall within the next century, but Albion could fall within the next decade."
Wardes gave a thin smile at Fouquet's response.
"Who said anything about me allying with Albion?"
Fouquet was struck dumb by that question. It couldn't be that Wardes's real intention was an alliance with-
BANG.
The abrupt and sudden noise threw Fouquet back, but even then she realized that the Staff of Destruction had finally casted a spell. She saw… well, something shoot out of it, travel at an insane speed…
And then the fast moving object struck the Main-mast of the Lexington. There was a terrible, shuddering noise for several seconds, and then the tall mast, all 150 feet of it slowly began to tilt right and then with a final terrible groan collapse to the side of the ship, ripping through the upper deck.
"ARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
While Fouquet could hear screams of horror from where the mast had collapsed, there was one right next to her, and she whirled around only to see Wardes howling in pain. Even Fouquet was horrified by what had happened to his right arm and chest. They had been badly burned, and his travelling cloak and mage robes were gone, leaving a mass of broken, black and red skin. He did not even attempt to conceal his pain, as he screamed from the horrific injuries he had just sustained. Lacking anything else, Fouquet removed her cloak and wrapped it around Wardes, and dashed off. She needed to inform the captain of this ship to descend, though no doubt he was already doing it given what had just occurred to the Albion. Though as she ran, she couldn't smile to herself. It appeared that Wardes had figured out how to use the Staff of Destruction after all.
Meanwhile, what the wizards called the Staff of Destruction but which other people would call a M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapon or LAW, continued to smolder, almost seemingly to take pleasure from the destruction which had been wrought from its one and only shot.