Long Live the ..........? [ONC 2024]

Chapter Six: The Butcher, the Baker and Mysterious Stranger

Several hours later.....

Cassien had been explaining each branch of the royal family tree in immense detail for what seemed like an eternity. Roz propped her head up with her hand, but her eyelids grew heavy. Cassien's soft but monotone voice had a hypnotic effect on the whole Privy council and several members were now snoring away. Roz's initial infatuation with the Elf had quickly subsided into indifference, then annoyance.

A small jab to her ribs woke Roz from her stupor. Arlon gave her a side eye, and she sat up attentively again. Arlon's eyes now shifted between Cassien and herself, indicating that Roz should put an end to this fiasco.

Roz took the hint and loudly cleared her throat, catching Cassien's attention whilst he was in mid flow about a disagreement between two cousins that resulted in a two-hour civil war, three hundred years ago. "Is something the matter, Your Grace?"

"Cassien, your knowledge of the history of my family is extremely impressive. However, it is almost time for afternoon tea and I have yet to change from this morning's shoot. Is it at all possible for you to disclose the potential candidates for my royal hand so that we can decide the next steps....... this afternoon, rather than tomorrow morning?"

Cassien blushed slightly. "My apologies, Your Grace. I got a little carried away. I have a genuine interest in royal lineages, which is why the University sent me to assist you. Now I have made a fool of myself." He slowly sat back down."

"Not at all, Cassien. It was fascinating and I will be sure to pick your brains on a few things in the future. But my twenty-first birthday is looming on the horizon, so I am on a bit of a tight schedule to find a husband and claim my throne."

"Of course, Your Grace, absolutely." He then spent the next five minutes muttering and fumbling through his paperwork. "Ah yes, here it is. I was writing this during the coach ride to the palace. It is a list of suitable candidates with a claim to the throne. Though not as strong as yours, of course. But enough to satisfy the conditions of the Will that Lord Beregold was good enough to send me."

He handed Roz a small piece of parchment. When she looked at it, to her surprise, she found that only three names were written. "Is that all?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Roz stared again at the three names. One of whom would rule beside her for the rest of her life. Though most likely she would outlive him, given her dragon status. But how would she choose?

"Perhaps we could take a look, Your Grace?" suggested Beregold. Roz agreed and handed him the parchment. He nodded and muttered, then passed it on to the Master of Coin after gently nudging him awake. Soon, the well-meaning councillors were muttering and nodding between themselves as they passed the parchment around before returning it to her.

Then Roz felt a tug on her right elbow. "May I be permitted to see?" said Arlon. His usually cheery demeanour somewhat lacking. Roz handed him the parchment, but it did not improve his mood. "We sat through all that Elf twaddle for this?" he muttered under his breath.

Roz now brought the privy council to order. "Well, I have three potential husbands. We should discuss their suitability." She glanced down at the first name on the list. "Shall we start with Sir Hugh of Healey?"

"Ah yes, Sir Hugh. Your late father gave him a knighthood for services to the Realm. He deals in, er, livestock," said Beregold.

Roz knew exactly what he was referring to. The Healey's Meat Merchant carts were a common sight outside the palace kitchens. "What is he like?"

Beregold awkwardly cleared his throat. "He is a mature gentleman, Your Grace. His wife passed away some years ago."

"So he's old."

"Well, yes, but he has a reputation for being quite spritely for his age." Piped up the Master of Coin.

"Ah Lord Finstine, how nice of you to join us," replied Roz.

He nodded and smiled in response, but it was not long before he was dozing off again.

Roz raised an eyebrow at the second potential on the list. "Pettigrew Longstaff? He is my second cousin three times removed."

Pettigrew was renowned throughout the kingdom as a Master of Cakes, bakes and events. He was a flamboyant character with an immense wardrobe of glamorous garments. Her late father had found him useful for organising royal parties and events. The King's Wake had been the event of the year. However, he was also famous for his thoughtless outbursts and gaffs. Roz shuddered at the thought of having to choose a husband between an old man and a thoughtless fop. Her eyes dropped to the last name on the page.

"Prince Symion of Lavar," she read aloud. "Do any of you know of him?" There was a deathly silence in the chamber and a lot of blank faces. Even Arlon shrugged his shoulders.

"I know of that land, Your Grace," replied Cassien. "My people often trade with them. It is a Principality far from here. On the Western Shores. I know nothing about the royal family, except that a hundred years ago a princess Tiama of Metica married a Lavarian Prince and went to live there. It is a very beautiful country, bordered by a large mountain range to the North and a vast forest to the south. My Homeland as it happens. It is almost isolated except for the coast and a road that cuts between the mountains and the forest.

Roz was more than a little intrigued by this news. This prince certainly seemed an improvement, and the previous two. "Actually, I think I recall the place. And I do not think you should enquire any further," said Archbishop Starbouqet.

"Why ever not?" enquired Roz.

The Archbishop got to his feet, waved his staff about and spoke in a fearful tone. "It is a land of Sorcery! They use magic, spells and other devilries! I've heard rumours that the Prince put an enchantment on Princess Tiama and carried her off. Never to be seen again. And we have not had dealings with those people ever since."

"Oh, so you do know of the Principality then. Friendly folk really and, yes, magic is part of their culture. But that is hardly surprising when there are Fey realms on your borders," replied Cassien.

"Ah yes! The Fey realms. Mark my words, Your Grace. Steer clear of those lands or great peril will come to you. May the Holy Mallard lead you to wisdom!" Cassien looked awkward.

"Archbishop? Did I permit you to stand?" asked Roz.

He looked about him, and the reddish tinge on his nose slowly spread to his cheeks. He apologized, explaining that he was filled with the holy spirit, and then sat back down. Roz noticed a hip flask under his sleeve. He was certainly full of something.

But at least every council member was now awake. All arguing with each other as to who Roz should choose as a husband. Roz looked in Arlon's direction. "Would you write to this Prince Symion? I would like to know more about him and if you could secure a portrait so much the better," she whispered.

The halfling winked back at her. "Leave it to me, Your Grace. Your wish is my command."

(W/C 1232)