Chapter 3
The tumultuous echoes of the outraged Council coasted through the room and Edward, seated wearily at the head of the table, held his face in his hands.
"We must act!" cried his treasurer, Mihaelo. "What kind of people are we— what kind of kingdom are we— if we laze about while our enemies prosper?!"
"They are strong, Mihaelo, and we mustn't be rash!"
"We are stronger!"
"What of the women? The children? What of the feeble, who cannot fight, or the elders who have already done their duty by the rest of us?"
"Ah, be quiet, Lorenzo. You know as well as I that our women fight just as viciously as our men. I say if our enemy's women fight like men, then we take them down like men!"
A chorus of protest rang out.
"Surely violence is not the only way. My King, please, see reason…"
"Do not presume to sway him!" Mihaelo rose from the table. "You've done enough whispering in the boy's ear, poisoning him with your liberal nonsense. He hardly knows his own mind as it is! Do not make it worse!"
Edward, feeling a prickle of annoyance, lifted his head and scowled.
"Sit down, Mihaelo," he barked. The man, glaring, turned to face his king. "You've overstepped yourself. Mind to whom you are speaking, and even more importantly, about whom you are speaking, lest you find yourself tossed out for your impudence."
The man's cheeks flushed red and, spitting with rage, he lowered himself mutinously into his seat, the hushed murmurs in his wake betraying the Council's shock. It was rare for Edward to command silence, and even rarer for him to threaten expulsion. That was what the Council liked about their young king— despite his inexperience and his anxious self-doubt, he was a kind man, a good man, who was the measure of both his mother and his father. Edward was smart. Edward was sensible. Edward was fair.
"We cannot, in good conscience, kill innocents," said Lorenzo, pink with pride now that Edward had quashed his opposition. "It is true, my King, that there are many dissenters among them. Dangerous men… evil men…"
The table murmured its agreement.
"But there are also children— little children who know nothing of the sins of their fathers, who would grow up hating our children for what we have done."
The Council bristled.
"We do ourselves no favours and we do our children no justice if we steep another generation in the hatred of war. It is true, Mihaelo," Lorenzo conceded to his adversary with grace, "that some might call it liberal— foolish, even— but if we are to heal from these great wounds, we must begin to reconcile with the few who are willing to hear us."
And after a moment of silence, Lorenzo raised his goblet to his lips to signify a vote, and drank deeply..
Ten of the eleven remaining Councillors— all but Mihaelo— banged their own goblets on the table and drank from the heady, bitter wine, their silent ballots irrefutable in the hush. Edward glanced at Mihaelo, whose surly countenance belied his displeasure and gave a mental sigh, knowing that some way or another, he would have to make amends with the prickly man or only the Gods knew what new mischief he would cause.
Mihaelo was a sour man, as had been his father before him after Edward's own father had refused Mihaelo's sister's hand in marriage over thirty years prior. Mihaelo's family was old and proud, and the memory of this slight had trickled down to the next generation, where it would fester and stew if Edward could not get it under control.
When all twelve Lords looked to him, he cleared his throat and stood.
"So be it," he said, the ceremonial words ringing through the hall. The Council might have voting power, but their will did not become law until Edward deemed it so. It was the King's prerogative to make his own decisions, should his conscience dictate it, though it was rare for any monarch to do so. In living memory, no King of Marolando had ever rejected his Council's advice, even if he disagreed…
"Eleven to twelve," Edward continued. "Your motion of peace and healing has passed. Go forth and spread the word."
And with his dismissal still in the air they scraped the chairs against the stone floor, clinked their goblets against the wooden table, and murmured in hushed, excited voices from the antechamber until Edward was left blissfully alone, his temples throbbing and the bitter taste of reprimand still on his tongue.
He did not like to do it. He did not like to rebuke men as old as his father for speaking to him in ways any elder might his junior. But as King, what choice did he have? Young though he was, he was the Father of the People, the Leader of the Masses. He was the Maker of the Law and the Keeper of the Peace, as had been his father and grandfather before him. He was the figurehead to whom the people turned in their time of need, the one to whom decisions were left and counsel was given. Most of the time, Edward's frustration was kept in check. He listened, as his father had taught him, and exercised patience, as his mother had shown him. He was not hasty. He was not rash. He was not angry, or sullen, or cruel, but when prickly men like Mihaelo insisted on insulting him and offending the order he had created in the wake of his father's untimely death, his temper grew short.
And so Edward sat, irked and frustrated at the head of the long, wooden table, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the armrests as he blew out a breath, trying to fathom just what he'd have to do to appease Mihaelo this time.
Mihaelo had always been headstrong, even in the days of Edward's father, when both men had been strong and spry in their shared youth. He had always been a vocal dissenter, a constant voice of opposition even in the most arbitrary Council sessions, and Edward resented him for it. He hated the way the man would fight, questioning even the simplest of rulings, arguing his case even when he had no hope of success, after he'd been struck down by another frustrated Lord. Men like Mihaelo always pushed until everyone was weary, exhausted by the constant discord that ran taut like a bowstring, connecting them together while at the same time, driving them apart.
Had his twelve Councilmen been appointed experts instead of ordinary citizens elected by their peers, Edward was sure he would have been rid of Mihaelo long ago.
"My King?"
There was a loud, commanding knock on the door.
"Come in, Emmett…" Edward sighed, rubbing his eyes with the butt of his hands. He felt his cheeks pinken at the sound of his title— what right did he have to such an address from his oldest and truest friend?— but all thoughts of embarrassment fled when the man himself strode in, serious and grim.
"You must come," said Emmett. "Quickly."
"What is it?" Edward rose at once. His father's sword— his constant companion ever since it's owner's death— hung from his belt like an anchor, and he gripped its hilt reflexively. "Where is Jasper?"
"He is safe, praise be," said Emmett. "Shaken, but safe…"
Edward felt the colour drain from his face.
"Shaken?" He strode quickly to his friend's side. "Why? What has happened? It's not… them?"
"No," Emmett grunted. "Not the Others. At least, I don't think so. No… this is something else."
"Tell me." They rushed from the great hall. "Has he been hurt?"
Edward would never forgive himself— and more importantly, his parents would have never forgiven him— if Jasper came to harm under Edward's supervision.
"He's fine. Not a scratch on him, though it might do him some good to be knocked down and taste the dirt."
"Then what? Do we need to ready the men?"
"No…"
"Emmett." Edward gripped his General's arm to halt him. "What's wrong?"
"I…" Emmett shook his head. "I don't really know."
"What do you mean?"
"I…" Emmett stood tall. "Come. It's best if you see. I wouldn't do it justice..."
"See what?" They began to jog. "Where is it?"
"At your aunt and uncle's house," said Emmett softly. "It was the closest, and we needed a healer…"
"Emmett…"
"Come, brother." Emmett clapped him on the shoulder. "There's no time to waste. As it is, she may not last…"
"She?"
But Emmett was already running, and Edward, hot on his heels, sprinted after.
A/N: As per reader requests, I've updated the last chapter with translations of all foreign words. Any chapter with non-English dialogue will be translated at the end of future chapters.
Also, if you're interested, I've created a map of the island to help me keep things straight. I've posted the map on my Weebly site (moonchild707 . weebly . com, navigate to the menu bar at the top, hover over "more..." and select "The Island"). If anyone is curious, the map was made using an app called Procreate (on my iPad), and the text was created using InkPad 2.