Knight's Choice

Soup splattered across the kitchen floor as Iliya’s wooden spoon clattered into the heavy iron cauldron. Just a pine cord popping in the hearth, where she’d been preparing a late supper for the royal family.

“Aught well?” Laelan asked from where he sat near the ingle. The armor he’d been oiling lay in a forgotten heap before him. Just the two of them in the large kitchens this evening; she’d dismissed her staff immediately after dinner, given the misadventures of the day.

She turned toward him, the shimmer of flame off her pewter ewers matching the glint of his thick silver hair. “My lord…”

He shook his head, tilting his wooden stool back to toddle precariously on two legs. It was an anxious habit of his, and Iliya feared he’d topple into the large fireplace. At her soft gasp, he righted the seat with a loud bang, causing the earthenware jugs to rattle on the hooks above. His voice gruff, he answered her unspoken plea, “Don’t ask, love. I don’t have an answer.”

Iliya set her spoon on an iron griddle, crossing to lay one gentle hand on his shoulder. She’d loved him from the moment she’d laid eyes upon him, when he’d first come to the castle as a young knight to serve His Majesty King Corain. The fact that she was a peasant serving in the kitchens was irrelevant, as was the fact they’d both been wed.

He let out a soft snort and reached up to pat her hand. “We did what we had to do.”

She nodded slowly, letting her eyes fall to the fire. Despite the chill of the ancient limestone castle, nobody would want supper tonight. She’d just had to do something to create normalcy in the face of Corain’s death.

Her mind shot back to the dreadful scene, tears dimming her vision. As mistress of the kitchens, she’d served His Majesty over the past fortnight as his illness rapidly progressed. No idea what overcame him; he was only in his mid-forties, far too young for a wasting illness. As he was confined to his huge canopied bed for the majority of that time, she and his valet tended him every moment. And that afternoon, as she’d poured out soup for him, his breathing became ragged—

She’d jumped at once for the embroidered bellpull hanging against the dark walnut panels of the wall. Laelan, standing guard, opened the door and shouted for the chirurgeon. From there, everything happened in a blur: the healer, the archbishop, a half-dozen nobles and a half-dozen knights, and the lads…

Lads. She shook her head with a sad smile. Corain’s three sons were grown, the oldest now twenty-three, the wee ones both nineteen. Yet they were her lads, since the moment Her Majesty the Queen passed seven years before.

Corain drew his last gurgling breath; the sudden silence roared in her ears. After a horrifically long pause, the chirurgeon reached out and closed his eyes. The archbishop began to murmur a prayer. Those gathered for their king began to softly weep and sniffle, the men clearing their throats and the women reaching for handkerchiefs from their lace-dripping sleeves.

A small knock at the door. When not one of the lads spoke to grant entry, Laelan reached over to open it. A young page slipped into the room and looked about, then crossed to bow to Quen. “Your Highness my lord, the acolytes from the cathedral have arrived to prepare the body.”

A small, collective intake of breath sounded from the nobles.

Quen’s head rocked back a quarter inch and his jaw tightened. “Grant them entrance.”

The page bowed again and hastened back to the door. A shiver of foreboding tickled down Iliya’s spine. She searched the space, taking note: the nobles shuffled uncomfortably, glancing towards Quen, then to the Archbishop, then back to Quen. 

Anxious, she sought out her lover.

Laelan’s eyes locked on hers. The level of unease in the crease between his brows… They’d both known this day would come, as they knew what Corain wanted. Despite what would likely be best for the nation, despite what the Court expected, despite the lads’ personal preferences… Her heart broke, knowing that hearts would be torn, destinies set in unexpected directions. Heavens, she’d do anything she could to protect all of these men she loved.

Laelan raised his left brow just barely.

Iliya shot him a tremulous smile and the barest shrug. His moustache twitched slightly with his own wry smile. He squared his shoulders, closed his eyes as if praying, and cleared his throat.

And then Sir Laelan, God help him, did the right thing. 

He dropped to one knee before the middle lad, Kir, and exclaimed, “The king is dead. Long live the king!”

Horror struck the middle lad’s face, even as the rest of them—his brothers included—dutifully echoed the motion and the proclamation. “The king is dead. Long live the king!” She’d whispered her own words past the knot in her throat, torn between grief for the monarch she’d loved so dearly and worry for the future.

She looked to her lads quickly. Tears streaked Joktan’s cheeks; Quen himself swallowed hard. Yet he’d known this was how it would be from the time Kir was born. Iliya herself had explained to him that his parents’ failure to wed before his birth invalidated any claim he held to the throne. Kir, as the eldest legitimate son, would be king. Kir, the one with no desire for power, the one with little interest in government, the one who’d sooner hide behind a book than speak to another. Kir, the one least suited to rule.

She turned her attention to the others present. The lords and ladies shot each other quick glances. After all, everyone had expected Corain to name Quen his heir despite the customs to the contrary. Quen… he was the one with the temperament and skill to rule.

Kir blinked several times, staring around the room, his face going dead white. “Oh, shite.”

Joktan snickered, even as Quen gave him a dirty glare.

“Well, truly,” Joktan observed. “Those are his first words as King?”

“Oh, sod it,” Kir protested, “Would you all rise?”

As they did, Iliya realized they all regarded Laelan with a certain level of suspicion. Fierce protectiveness for her lover rose within her breast. But before she could argue, the archbishop stepped forward. “His Majesty King Corain, may God rest him, set forth his wishes. They have been followed. The acolytes must prepare the body, and I must prepare for the funeral and the coronation.”

“Oh, shite,” Kir repeated, and Quen whacked his upper arm.

“Quen is better suited,” Laelan stated now, bringing her back to the present.

His voice was soft and filled with regret, and she looked to see tears standing in his eyes. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hugging him close. “Aye, he is.”

He shook his head against her, slowly lifting his arms to embrace her waist. “Kir… he’s a good lad, but he’s…”

When he’d hesitated quite a while, she completed, “He’s a lodestone for misfortune with no sense of diplomacy.”

Laelan let out a snort, not moving.

“What, my lord?” she asked, stroking his hair.

He hesitated. At last, his voice almost inaudible, he muttered, “But I made the choice. Had I bowed to Quen, they would have accepted him.”

She didn’t have an answer. Her eyes simply traced the pattern of the braided onions hanging from a metal hook upon the wall.

“Speak?” he requested.

She drew in a soft breath. “Kir is legitimate. Quen isn’t. The law is clear, and Corain never said otherwise.”

Laelan snorted. “Aye, I ken that. But… Did we do the right thing?”

“We did the only thing we could,” she answered, stroking his hair again. “Kir must be king, as we’re to help him through it.”

Laelan let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “That doesn’t make it easier.”

“Whoever said it was easy was a liar,” she answered.

Laughing, he brought one hand to his lips to kiss it. “You’re a great comfort, love. So now…” He stopped on a sigh.

“So now,” she stepped back from him, tucked her henna-red hair beneath her kertch again, and swiped away her tears, “Now I take a bowl of stew up to His Majesty the lad, whilst you check in on Quen and make sure he’s faring well enough. Betwixt the two of us, we’ll make decent royals of them yet…”