The Swan Songs

Eobald the Younger, formerly King of Tretovortania, pulled at his burlap robe to discreetly get at a particularly insistent shoulder itch. When he grunted, the abbot glared at him, and Eobald cast his eyes to the dirt path in shame. To his dirty, dirt endirted feet, covered in so much dirt and so little silk.

“Be at peace, child,” said the abbot. His abbot now, because now the former king was a current Aspirant Listener of the Gentlest Wind. “The time will soon come. For now, comfort yourself with the sacred song of the swan.”

As if on cue, one of the wretched hell birds honked, and where the abbot closed his eyes in some kind of divine bliss, a bone rumbling tremor ran down Eobald’s spine. Why they were sacred he had no idea. They had ponds dedicated to them all over the monastery grounds, and the bloody bog vultures never shut up about it. It was ha-honk ha-honk HONK! all day and night with them.

And they were nasty. He covered his right hand with his left, remembering the last time he was on feeding duty. One of the blasted shithawks came right at him, trying to tear his fingers off. Ended up stealing all the bread and his feeding bowl too.

“Isn’t that divine?” asked the abbot.

Eobald gave him a tight-lipped grin and nodded.

“Well, we’ll have time enough for contemplating their divine song later,” said the abbot. He motioned to the round wattle-and-daub visitors’ hut at the edge of the monastery. “I believe you have a visitor.”

It was all Eobald could do to refrain from sprinting into the hut. Inside he found a plain wooden table with two plain wooden chairs, a beat up copper teapot and a pair of the cracked clay bowls that passed for teacups in the monastery. And as the windows had neither glass nor shutters, the squawking of the swans tore through the hut. But most important was the man sitting on the other side of the table – a dashing young chap, in glorious silk attire dyed rich yellow and blue, and wearing a golden crown so encrusted with gems it splattered rainbows on all the walls from the sunlight it reflected.

Randalfric the Conqueror, current King of Tretovortania and Her Territories.

Eobald’s son.

“Your Majesty,” said the abbot, bowing painfully low and painfully slow, really squeezing out every last ounce of protocol, which they didn’t otherwise have much cause to practice in the monastery. Eobald felt his whole body tense as he resisted tapping his foot. “As per your request, might I present the young Aspirant, Eobald Swan-Witness.”

Eobald bit his tongue, and as soon as Randalfric gave the slightest motion, he dove into the chair opposite his son.

“Aspirant,” said the abbot, dragging the word out. He produced a tiny silver bell. “When I ring this bell, I shall suspend your vow of silence.”

Eobald nodded eagerly. The abbot raised the bell, and Eobald felt the tension starting to leave his body. The abbot raised the bell a little higher, a little slower, and the tension hesitated. The abbot raised the bell just a smidge higher yet at a surprisingly even slower pace, and the tension came back with friends.

Finally, just as Eobald feared he was going to snap – a bone, the table, the abbot himself – the bell emitted a gentle silver tinkling.

Eobald let out a ragged breath.

The abbot smiled, and bowed to Randalfric. “You have one hour,” he told Eobald. “Then you’re on cleaning duty. The statues of the saints are just drenched in birdshit, and they’ve been baking in the sun all day.” Then he departed.

The men rose and hugged.

“Father!”

“Son! Oh, by the Holy Mountain, is it good to see you. And is it ever good to talk again!”

Randalfric slapped him on the shoulder. “A vow of silence! My own father! Incredible!”

“Yes, it’s true. They… they do that here. Apparently.”

“You have no idea how proud we all are of you back home,” said Randalfric. “Eobald the Younger, the man who not only conquered Lagmarnia, but who also brought peace to the Six Valleys, and who united the Unruly Dukes. A man who conquered the realms of men, and then threw himself at the feet of the gods, to learn of their infinite wisdom!”

“I… yes…”

“A living saint! Did you know, that’s what they call you?”

“No, we don’t get much news in the monastery…”

“And to think, Uncle Bradovic called you mad! He said – What kind of a man would willingly give up the crown of Tretovortania!? What kind of lunatic would trade a life of luxury and riches and power and feasting, for a life of porridge and hard labour high in the mountains!?”

“Hmm…”

“I’ll tell you what kind of a man – my father! A man who saw past the petty illusions we surround ourselves with in daily life, and who sought something deeper, something greater. A connection with the infinite wisdom of reality!”

“Er, yes, well…”

“And I admit – with not a shred of shame – I could not do the same! For I am weak, father. I am too used to being swaddled in the trappings of power, and luxury, and – oh, right! And to give up women! Wow! I don’t think I could ever do that, even for all the grace of the gods.”

Eobald groaned.

“I admit all this is beyond me. But, I am proud – proud – to stand anywhere near your enlightened shadow. Your selfless pursuit of perfection inspires us all, and serves as an example to all Tretovortanians.”

Eobald swallowed a lump. “…Super.”

“But listen to me prattling on like a wee babe, about the foolishness of courtly things, when you have transcended such trivial concerns.”

“Well, actually–”

“Is it true you can hear the gods speak to you through the songs of the swans?”

They both turned their attention to the window, where a hu-HRAWNK! echoed from the ponds. Eobald felt his skin shiver, bunching up at his neck. He shook it off with a sharp hiss of breath.

“Yeah, they’re, um,” he said, and then he clicked his tongue a couple times. “Very enlightening. Hey, listen, actually I would like to hear what’s going on back at home. As I said, we don’t really get news here, and I worry about you.”

“Oh, Dad! Worry? About me!? But that’s absurd. I learned from the very best king ever.”

“Yeah, but, you know a king doesn’t rule alone, right? Like, maybe you need someone to advise you…”

“Ha!” said Randalfric. Then he laughed for emphasis. “I am nearly drowning in advisors. Sages, mystics, and wisemen pour in from all corners of the world to advise me. Philosophers and wizards fight for my attention. I can’t take three steps in my palace without bumping into a scholar with yet another insightful economic treatise for me to review.”

“Oh…” Eobald bit his lip. “But, oh! That’s all good and all, but a king could really benefit from the advice of another king – you know, someone who’s gone through the same things. Like when I was younger, Porselfaust the Turgid tutored me in–”

Randalfric waved him off with a chuckle. “All too true, father, all too true! And funny you bring it up, because I happen to have recently founded a Council of Kings, where myself and the other monarchs of the Six Valleys come together precisely for such purposes.”

“…ah.”

“I have learned so much from my peers! Truly, the world is much better when we cooperate instead of trying to murder each other on the battlefield. It opens the door for us combining our forces, to murder foreigners on the battlefield.”

“Yes, well…”

Randalfric produced a goblet cut from a single diamond, and then a hip flask made of gold, and poured.

Eobald’s eyes widened. He grabbed one of the crappy clay bowls and scattered the tea against the wall, and held it out to his son.

Randalfric tipped his flask to the bowl, but snapped it back before anything came out.

“A-ha!” he said. “Almost got me! A test of faith, from my own father. Ah, but I know monks foreswear the baser liquors of the world too, and I will not commit a folly by pouring such an affront for you.”

“Great,” said Eobald, lowering his bowl. “Thanks.”

“I’ve learned well, haven’t I? I told you, your selfless quest has inspired us all.”

“Yep,” said Eobald, and then he sighed. “Well, listen son, being a king is hard work.”

Randalfric shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Yeah, no, it is, trust me. I used to be one.”

“Yeah, but, like, I don’t know. Mostly it’s just telling other people to do stuff, and then they do it.”

“Yeah, but, ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown’ and all that.”

“It’s actually quite comfortable.”

“I don’t mean – listen. There’s no shame in passing the torch on.”

“What? To little Frandalfric? But he’s barely seen his fifth summer yet. I think he’s got a long time before he needs to worry about the crown.”

“Yeah, to him, or, you know…”

“What?”

“You could pass the torch backwards?” Eobald finished, pantomiming receiving a torch.

“I don’t follow.”

“Like – or maybe, if you ever wanted a break from being a king. Like, there’s options.”

“Like a vacation?”

“Yeah! Then you could maybe appoint someone to run things. Someone with experience?”

“Uncle Bradovic?”

“No! Not Uncle Bradovic. Someone else.”

“I don’t know. I like kinging around.”

“I mean, it might seem that way, but it’s easy to get buried in work, son. And then your family life suffers, and your health is affected. A break is a good thing every now and then.”

“Hmm. I never thought of it that way.”

“Yeah! Taking a break is a good idea. Maybe even retiring altogether, and leaving someone else in charge?”

Randalfric scratched his chin. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen too much of my wife lately, nor had any time to visit the summer palace with the kids. Maybe… maybe I am missing out.”

“Right!”

“But anyone else I’d appoint would just suffer the same fate.”

“Well, I’m sure I could manage–”

“I suppose I could abolish the crown altogether and institute a democracy?”

“NO!” said Eobald. “No no no no no! Why would you even say that!?”

“Well, I don’t know, maybe the head is heavy that bears the crown. Maybe it’s an inherently unjust system–”

“–Son,” said Eobald, draping his arm over his son’s shoulder. “Listen. Listen. All you need to do, right?”

“Right?”

“Is find someone – someone who might be very close – who knows how to manage the kingdom, right? And just… abdicate.”

“Abdicate?”

Eobald nodded.

“But who would be qualified? Someone who is very close?”

Eobald nodded again, making hand gestures to draw his son’s reasoning out. Randalfric frowned, deep in thought.

“Come on, son. Someone very close, right now. Someone like…”

“Someone like…” Then his eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh! You mean someone like–”

The silver bell tinkled again, and the brightness in Randalfric’s eyes gave way to dull glaze.

“Time’s up!” said the abbot.

“What was I saying?” Randalfric said. “Oh well, must not have been important.” He clapped Eobald on the shoulder again. “Good chat, dad! I’ll think about that democracy idea of yours. See you next year!”

With a swoosh of his silk cape, Randalfric departed the visitors’ centre. Eobald’s jaw worked soundlessly up and down, and then he grunted when the abbot shoved a bucket and mop in his hands.

“Time to clean!” sang the abbot. “You know our motto: enlightenment comes from enlabourment. Chop chop!”

Eobald shuffled out of the visitor centre, passing the serene ponds and carefully cultivated gardens, walking the paths that countless enlightened masters walked before him, ever seeking wisdom in the dulcet hwa-RAWNK! of the divine songs of the swans.