Son of the King – Chapter II
"As Much Mine As Yours."
Pemmer Har rem ir Tibe, cousin to the king, shrunk into the shadows of the palace hallways. Leaning behind the door frame of the king's inner chamber, well hidden from view, he observed the king closely. His madness was never more evident that now, when he was in kemmer, as was the case at this moment. Argaven paced furiously back and forth mumbling unintelligibly beneath his breath. He rubbed his cheeks briskly with the palms of his hands, hunched into himself.
"My lord, King," Tibe greeted him, drawing himself up from the darkness of the corners of the palace. He stood a head taller than his cousin Argaven, his frame more muscular, his face more angular. He was wrapped generously in dark furs, the redness of his velvet tunic peeking out seductively from beneath the pelt, a golden ring upon his forefinger – the emblem of his new station. Argaven turned on his heel, looking into Tibe's dark eyes.
"You are in kemmer, Lord. It is not wise to spend all your energy so unwisely. Please, sit and rest. Allow me to pour you a mug of beer."
Argaven stood in his pace, arms akimbo. His face was distorted into a countenance of shock mingled with disbelief. Who was this Tibe? A hearthmate, a cousin, but still a slave to his royal desires, surely! But yet, this new man, this subject, this cousin, dared address him so informally; dared to command his very actions – his, the king's! All the same, he was right. It was useless to spend his energy so uselessly.
Tibe filled a mug to the brim with beer and gave it to the king, who, upon accepting the vessel willingly into his hands, quaffed the golden liquid eagerly. "Where is the one to whom I've pledged kemmering?" the king queried, resting the beer mug in his lap. He wiped flecks of foam from his mouth with his sleeve. Tibe clasped his hands together before him.
"My Lord, he has been sent for post-haste. Until then, I would insist that you relax. You are so – so excitable! Please, drink more. It's good for your strength, of which you will undoubtedly need every iota. You know better than I that Karhide is in dire need of a prince." The faint trace of a smile played his lips as the king continued to drink his beer.
A shuffle of feet echoed in the hall behind the king and the prime minister. Tibe turned and left the king alone, descending once again into the shadows of the palace to confer with the guards for whom he had sent.
There were three of them, dressed in their respective uniforms, archaic foray guns strapped to their shoulders. "My Lord Tibe," the commander began, "all has be dealt with according to your instructions given."
"Excellent. Thank-you, gentlemen," Tibe responded, smugly satisfied. The three left his audience in tight formation, their guns bouncing joyfully against their backs as they walked away. Tibe turned around and gazed into the dimly lit anteroom where the king sat, one leg slung over the arm of a chair, his body weight settling into the cushion of the seat. His head bobbled side to side, intoxicated.
Tibe began to remove his jewellery – the ring, his silver necklace; he removed his overwhelming furs and blazing scarlet tunic. All these things he tossed neatly into a corner. He re-entered the king's inner sanctum clad only in breeches, bare-chested and bare-footed. He, too, was in kemmer.
Tibe moved up closer to Argaven. Once upon the man, he extended his hand to stroke his cheek. The king stirred beneath his touch, cradling Tibe's hand to his cheek. "I am here to keep my pledge of kemmering to my Lord," Argaven said, raising the pitch of his voice. The king smiled weakly, "Ah, Moren!" he called, succumbing
You are a fool, Argaven, if you would presume for even a minute that I would not take this chance! thought Tibe to himself. You will bear my son, and he will be as much my son as yours. After all, the kingdom is now as much mine as it is yours!