Kester Ross sat at the lowest of the tables. He was very nearly the furthest away from the king. Closer to the king, a few places away, was his friend Glenn, who had so kindly allowed Kester to borrow his last name. Had Kester claimed his true name, he would likely have been bumped up to the end of the first table that was higher up, or to the beginning of the second table. Had he been his eldest brother, he would probably be at the high table, rubbing elbows with the upper wealthy nobles. Hell, just by wealth of trade and all of the connections of the Abaelard family, he would probably be favored by the King had he been half his height and thick as two planks put together. Not that he wanted to be “favored” by the king. The Abaelard’s may have protections from their wealth and influence, but to be under the King’s eyes would be a taxing role.
The other courtiers slipped into the muddy waters of court politics as easily as the slimy bottom fish would slip into mud. Politics were just as clean as mud as well, no perhaps even less clean then good healthy soil. Perhaps it would be better to say they slipped into the politics like maggots into dung. There— that put a much more accurate picture in his mind. He imagined the courtiers as maggots crawling around in the big, fat piece of dung that was the King. Or perhaps the dung was what the King shat out. Both made sense. Sadly, one was more accurate than the other. However much he liked to think of the King as a piece of dung, it wasn’t quite accurate. The dung was the King’s taxes and rulings. The courtiers here took great big fistfuls of it and ate it with a smile. Gods! Some of them might well truly do the deed for real if the King asked, and thank him prettily afterward.
Fools! Bastards! Gutless cowards! Then again, he too was plastering on a smile and praising the “wise and glorious” king. He had his family to worry about, and as tempting as it would be to rise up with a throwing knife and send blades through the King’s heart and eyes… Well, even if he succeeded, his family would pay for his crimes, and success was… unlikely. That Court Mage would see to it after all. She, pretty little Elven thing, would likely erect a Mage Barrier to protect the King. Then perhaps she would cast paralyzing or binding magic, and either fry him then and there (a mercy), or leave him for the guards to collect. After that, he would be tormented, tortured, and executed. Likely they would try to torture him into saying he was put up to this by his family, so the greedy pig of a king could confiscate the Ross lands. That made things worse.
Two families were riding on his actions— his, and Glenn’s. If he did something so foolish, he would destroy two families. There was no telling what a mage and torture could get out of a man. The King would be delighted to realize he could implicate the Abaelard family and confiscate their wealth. Regardless, such reckless actions would destroy his friend’s family, and that could not be allowed. Honor dictated such. He was honor bound to protect the Ross family that had chosen to accept him. Even this lie of his name could have dreadful implications, and he had a sick feeling as he realized this again. He should never have come to this sickening place. One season here, and his thoughts already ran darker then blackened dried blood.
Fortunately, Glenn had coached him through some things. For instance, though his thoughts were this dark, he was smiling as if this feast was in his honor. His mouth sang the praises of the King like they were the sweet songs of heaven, though it tasted like brambles and ashes on his tongue. He fervently prayed to the gods that he would not be revealed. As if they would hear him. No, such thoughts shouldn’t be present. He didn’t dare disbelieve. It was too dangerous to risk angering a god. Instead, he chose to thank them for giving him the idea of having Glenn’s family beat court manners into him. If it wasn’t for that, he’d likely have been hanging from the gallows now, and two families would be stripped of their lands and titles. He’d had to be slapped and switched and humiliated for a good year before he had managed to get this far. At least he had the public manners down well enough. That had been all they could pound into his head, or so it seemed.
Gods! This was a hare-brained scheme. Why had he ever decided to become a courtier? Oh yes, I remember now. It’s because my esteemed brothers all had different skills to serve our family, and I thought it was a bright idea to continue the tradition. That’s the last time I’ll ever try to emulate them. Now I’m in the unique position to wipe my family and Glenn’s off the map. Why couldn’t I have been a girl! Immediately one of his sister’s plaints came to mind. If I wasn’t an Abaelard, I’d have to marry an old and ugly man for money. Then he’d bed me like I was a broodmare and I would be expected to breed a litter. Then I wouldn’t be allowed to wear trousers, or ride astride, or act un-lady-like. I’d have to be a prim and proper, dutiful wife and smile happily, make babies, and tend to the estate. He could hear her voice so clearly. Sadly, he now had a retort for her. Little sister, if only you could see me now. It’s not easy being a male either.
Before he could sink deeper into melancholy, he was distracted by Glenn’s conversation. Unlike Kester, Glenn was at home at this place. He kept friends with the rowdier crew, but he understood the court well. He was Ravenfellan through and through. He knew how to navigate this nest of twisty snakes. As such, Kester was at times the butt of Glenn’s jokes. Of course, Glenn was always polite to his face, and subtly manipulating events. His excuse was that Kester was a goody-two-shoes and his mother’s pet, so he had to pretend to be nice to him, to his face. If Leithe and Glenn had not been such great friends in truth, he’d never have forgiven Glenn the deception. So, Leithe, as Kester, was Glenn’s annoying little tag-along cousin, at least in public. Though Kester was infinitely grateful to Glenn, there were times where he could have smothered the courtier, Glenn, in his sleep.
The idea that Kester would be the cousin Glenn disliked was created within days of Kester’s arrival in court. It would have been different but… well… Kester truly wasn’t suited for court life in Ravenfell. He was too naïve, too easily manipulated, and woefully inexperienced in the ways of Court-life. He had even accidentally cut his own legs out from under him. Glenn had despaired over fixing the mess, and so chose another way. So, Glenn was a young cock strutting around the court, and Kester was the ugly fledgling Glenn picked on indirectly. Fortunately, he had the defense of being the pet of Glenn’s mother, and so Glenn avoided suspicion by claiming that if he directly harassed Kester, Kester would tattle to mama, and then he’d never hear the end of it. Truly, Glenn benefited from the commiseration of his peers, and Kester was more isolated. Fortunately, Glenn was in a good position to hear rumors which he always divulged to Kester at some later time.
It could be worse. Kester reflected again. He could have come in as Leithe Abaelard and danced from the gallows within weeks. …and to think I wanted this… He could have beat his head against a wall until it was bloody for the foolish notion. He should have run off and become a sailor or a mercenary. Hell, he should have just gone off to live with the Wesirinfellan Argyles. At least there the politics were much cleaner. Perhaps he should have done something from one of his tales. Set off as the adventurer, clear dungeons, get a magic blade, lop off a pretender’s head, and merrily jig his way out again to another distant land. Hell, even the life of an honorable rogue would be better. Rob the cruel and rich to give to the poor. Or perhaps he should have been an assassin —an honorable one— of course. One who would murder the evildoers and rescue the people. The gods knew this kingdom could use one.
—and pigs would fly before that happened. He wasn’t sure there was an assassin willing to take such dangerous hit as a King— even when the King was Damien DuRant. Had he been well-versed in politics and people, he would have changed the word “even” to the word “especially.” A bad king was more likely to hire an assassin then a good king, and when it was a king as crafty and dangerous as this one, most would rather stay on his good side. Love was more powerful than Fear, but love of the land and people were often less than the love of life, comfort, or money. However, Kester was abysmal in politics and people, and couldn’t understand why people weren’t lining up to kill the King yet. Hell, he expected rioting and fires and an angry mob storming the castle. That hadn’t happened either. He just couldn’t believe people would follow such a cruel King, but they did, and did so willingly. If that much hadn’t been so clear, Kester would already have done something beyond foolishness. Again his thoughts turned to death, and it had only been one night.
He hoped he had controlled his expression well enough while he was lost in his thoughts. A glance around the table showed that no one had noticed if he had any momentary lapses. Perhaps some of them had too much wine though, as one of the younger ones was turning a peculiar shade of green. Kester considered helping him, but decided against it. If the man turned belligerent or somehow caused a ruckus… well, he’d rather slit his own throat then get the King’s attention. However, that was only one reason. Surely, if the man who had been generously helping himself to the wine made a mess of himself, he would temporarily become the butt of the young courtier’s jokes. If that happened, then for a short time at least, Kester would be ignored. The thought shamed him. It was not honorable, nor was it brave. It was a craven and weak thought. One season among this court had already changed him so much. He’d become craven, he’d already become as niggardly as a Ravenfellan. Quickly, Kester chastised himself. That thought was uncharitable. His father was Ravenfellan after all. Gods! This place was changing him. How could it have changed him so quickly!
Kester steeled himself and prepared to rise up to help the man. For a moment, Glenn caught his eye. Somehow, he had known what Kester planned to do. There was an urgent warning in his eyes. Kester could read it so clearly. He shook his head, this was something he should do, the right thing to do. He was raised to do the right thing, to care for his fellow man. If he’d been thinking more clearly, and less emotionally, he would have realized he was driven by shame, and not logic. He could see the panic in Glenn’s eyes as he began to push his chair back. Somewhere inside his heart of hearts, he was screaming for someone to stop him. He knew this was going to be a terrible blunder. This was not what he wanted to do, but he felt like it was right. He did not want to be driven by fear.
