Partisan - Book II

Gold and Gossip

High King Feuilles' chambers are made of gold.

The canopy of fabric spanning the tent is, at least, threaded with gold. It glints down at Hiran in the pale morning light, winking, if fabric can wink.

The High King is lounging in a plush divan, flipping through a packet of parchment, a small line etching across his smooth brow. He glances up as Hiran approaches, his green eyes fixing on the younger Nature-caller as he smiles.

"Baulieu," the King calls in greeting, and it seems so strange now to be called by his surname. With the other six he is simply Hiran, no illustrious name or stuffy title. It feels like an old shirt, too tight to fit any more.

"My King," Hiran answers with a low bow, one hand held behind his back. Respect, a second instinct by now. "I heard about earlier this morning. I hope Your Grace is unharmed."

"I am well. Come sit with me," the King requests, a hand gesturing to an armchair beside him, and Hiran takes his seat, curious what would compel Feuilles to call him here. He had known, of course, that the High King was at the outskirts of Quersido, alongside Dost and Sofo, but even with his bloodline Hiran had not expected the honor of a private audience.

"How are you enjoying your work?" the King continues, setting aside his work and summoning a servant to bring them glasses of sweetwine.

"Well, Your Majesty," Hiran replies honestly. "It isn't dull."

"No," the King muses, the corner of his mouth twitching, "I imagine not. I heard you traveled on General Grismen's death trap."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Hiran answers. "'Death trap' is kind phrasing."

The King laughs.

"They're mad, Grismen and the Dynast," he says, idly sifting the wine in his glass, watching its smooth surface roll around. "I told them man is not meant to be in the air. They never listen."

"I subscribe to your line of thinking, Your Grace," Hiran murmurs, sipping from his own cup.

The King glances his way.

"Yes, well, you have sense."

They pause for a moment and Hiran looks at the old scar on the High King's face.

A souvenir of his youth, he muses. Something from an adolescent escapade with the Skill master. Feuilles and Ruben's relationship has always been an open secret in the Solveig high courts—a thing known, but not spoken about, because it at times makes the King furious, and others, sad. It has always felt like a warning to Hiran, a cautionary tale of letting another blazing soul too far under your skin.

The High King sighs, setting his cup down on the glass table.

"We are living in an era of depleting sense, Baulieu."

"I couldn't agree more, Your Grace," Hiran murmurs into his wine.

The King's gaze flickers out to the thin strip of light sliding along the gaps of the tent doors.

"And it's not just the riffraff," he muses. "Between the Chaudris and Wren's constant madness we are all devolving into a state of chaos."

Hiran stays quiet at this.

The King pauses, but then seems to work his way around to the point, the thing Hiran suspects he was summoned here for:

"Tell me: what do you think of the Paragon?"

Hiran chews on this, swirling the wine around his mouth, straining it along his tongue for a long moment. A finger taps on the rim of his cup, an uneven beat, as he sets it on the table too.

"She has a mean right hook," he says, and then he meets the King's gaze. "She's fairly clever too. Doesn't seem to enjoy her position though."

"No," the King agrees, a frown twisting around his mouth. "Her reluctance on that front has already been costly."

He leans back on the divan, a hand running through his hair.

"We don't need any more chaos in this war," he says after a minute.

"I would say she's on board to kill some Jarles, Your Majesty."

"Yes, but what happens after she kills them?" the King says. "What does the Paragon do after that?"

And Hiran, following a nudge of that intuitive sixth sense, remains silent.

"Has the Paragon been in talks with any of the other rulers?" the King asks after a moment. His green eyes fix on Hiran's face.

"The Dynast," Hiran answers blandly. "She went up to see him the day we arrived here."

"Did she say what they talked about?"

"No, I got the impression she finds him perplexing."

The King grunts.

"She has not had private audiences with Dost or Sofo as far as I am aware," Hiran offers. "She talks frequently with Master Ruben."

"That can't be helped," the King dismisses, sounding surly as he says it. "That boat is too far out from the harbor to be called back. This is very helpful though. Very helpful."

He glances over at Hiran again.

"Your father has always been a very vital part of my court," he says. "Dependable. I like to think that you too, Hiran, are dependable."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Hiran demurs.

"I would be very interested to hear if the Paragon talks with anyone else," the King says, picking up his glass. "Other rulers of course, but any other communications you might think are out of the ordinary too. Birds, messengers, things that don't seem to fit into Beinsho's little plan."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

The King smiles again.

"With your help, Baulieu, we'll put a little bit more order back into things."

A/N: Oh, Feuilles, you are the scheming uncle no one wants.

Hi all, I'm back! I'd like to take this moment to send yet another shout out to my dog, who almost made my joke last chapter about killing ourselves during my family reunion a reality when he launched himself off the slide of a cliff. (He's fine.)

My cheese-hound muffin top, you took ten years off my life this time, but I would still fireman carry you down a mountain in a heartbeat. Even if you are a sweaty mess of saliva and body heat.