Chapter 11: The Burden of Rule

image [https://i.imgur.com/0W2UBnz.png]

Adara had often imagined what ruling a kingdom would be like.

Before her father died, she had seen mainly the ceremonial aspects: Parades. Feasts. Cheering crowds.

After his death, Adara had spent most of her time at a royal sanctuary tucked away in the hills, far from the capital. The mountain clime and the idealism of her tutors had given her a somewhat romanticized vision of ruling: Signing decrees with a flowery signature. Negotiating with emissaries from far-off lands. Delivering passionate speeches to vast audiences.

Both views could not be farther removed from the reality of the last week: Hour . . . after hour . . . after hour . . . of meetings.

Adara was, by her best count, currently in the seventeenth meeting of the day. She had already met with her morning intelligence officer, the chancellor of the treasury, the captain of the palace guard, the ministry of agriculture, the vice-chancellor of the treasury, her afternoon intelligence officer, her wardrobe specialists, the Saven city elders, her chief scribe, the assistant-vice-chancellor of the treasury . . .

“Your Majesty. Your Majesty!”

Adara jolted back to the present. She was in the royal suite, which acted as her office whenever an occasion didn’t require the throne room or the council room. The walls were hidden behind shelves sagging with a decade of scrolls and clay tablets. Skagar and Luviana had used these chambers for archival space while co-regents, and neither was the most . . . organized. Crammed between the shelves were crates of personal effects that Adara had brought from her mountain sanctuary. She had intended to organize and redecorate, but she hadn’t had the time to touch a single box since her coronation.

image [https://i.imgur.com/eek41xi.png]

Adara facing the burden of rule. Generated by the author via Midjourney

She sat in a meeting with Skagar—well, she sat, while the seemingly tireless swifter paced the breadth and width of the crowded room, his tail threatening to topple piles of parchment with each wag. Two snippen scribes sat in a corner, their noses twitching as they kept their styluses ready to record any needed order or letter.

Skagar shook his head. “Your Majesty, I need you to focus. This is important.”

“I’m sorry,” Adara said, shifting in her chair, which was almost as oversized as the one in the council room. “What were you saying?”

“The message we received earlier today from the provincial secretary-royale. You’ll remember that I told you about her last Tuesday, she’s a snippen I hold in the highest esteem, the daughter of a talented accountant, himself the son of a decorated statesman I taught in my days at the Sumian Academy, though he passed before you were born. Anyway, Vallia asked—”

“Wait, who’s Vallia?” Adara interrupted.

Skagar sighed. “I just told you. She’s the secretary-royale to Governor Kodric.”

“Governor—of the Arnon Province,” Adara clarified.

“Exactly,” said Skagar. “Anyway, Vallia is seeking your guidance about the evacuation of items of historical or cultural value from any administrative repositories located inside the borders of the Arnon Province, in light of the ongoing advance of the hosts of Calamar: collections such as literary archives, court records, artwork, and the like. On the one hand, Vallia is concerned about their destruction should they fall into enemy hands. On the other hand, she is keenly aware of the need to conserve resources, the shortage of wagons due to military acquisitions, and the impact on morale it may have on the populace for the government to be seen preparing for the prospect of the enemy acquisition of territory.”

Adara closed her eyes tight, her tired brain parsing her counselor’s rambling sentences. “The governor of the Arnon Plains wants to know . . . if he should be evacuating records so that Calamar doesn’t destroy them.”

“Precisely, Your Highness,” Skagar said, still pacing. “As I see it, it is a question of how likely we see the possibility of Calamar’s armies claiming the Arnon Plains this fall. Should Commander Volthorn prove successful, we may repulse their advances at the second or third tributary. But should he fail, it might—”

“Of course we need to evacuate such items,” Adara said. “Naturally, we hope Calamar won’t seize the Arnon Plains. But there’s a good chance they will. It’s far better to move a scroll a hundred miles and then move it back later, than to lose it forever to plunder. I thought we learned that lesson two years ago when the great library at Lindor went up in flames.”

“Please remember the shortage of personnel, Your Majesty,” Skagar pontificated. “Vallia’s staff at the provincial capital is already stretched thin, and military recruitment has caused labor shortages throughout the countryside. Not to mention the expense of hiring wagons and workers, when you know as well as the assistant vice chancellor to the treasury just how thin our finances are.”

Adara winced at the mention of the assistant vice chancellor to the treasury. That had not been a pleasant meeting.

“Then tell Vallia to save whatever they can,” Adara said. “Prioritize what’s most important. What’s most irreplaceable.”

Skagar looked over a clay tablet on a table. “Very well. Vallia provided a list of the various archives and their contents. I’ll read them off and you can specify the order of criticality for their relocation. First, indexes of grain prices across provincial sectors for the last eight years. Second . . .”

Adara rubbed her eyes. Was she hearing this right? Was she being expected to appraise the value of archival documents? Never in all her tutelage had she been told that ruling a kingdom would involve such minutia.

“Chancellor,” Adara said. She gestured at the scribes waiting at the side of the room. “Are these details something you could perhaps work out with Wiflin and Niflin?”

Skagar looked up, looking somewhat startled. “What? Ah. Yes. Of course, Your Majesty. We shall see to it.”

As the chancellor talked with the two snippens, Adara stood, straightening her tired legs. Her back felt like someone had jabbed a haeber crystal into it. She reached her arms up in a stretch, caught one of the scribes glancing quizzically in her direction, and quickly resumed a more dignified pose.

Sitting back down, Adara fished around her cluttered desk until she found the draft of a speech she was supposed to give the next morning. Her speechwriter had dropped it off two days prior. Certain sections of the speech were still blank, waiting for Adara to insert her own wording. She’d been trying to finish the speech between meetings all day.

Adara dipped her quill and scanned the parchment, frowning. Were the opening words too stiff? She had asked her speechwriter to make it sound dignified—like her father’s speeches. But did it just sound pretentious instead? She scribbled an alternative opening in the margin, then crossed it out and wrote another one.

A piece of the chancellor’s conversation drifted her way, and she looked up. “Skagar,” she called. “Repeat that again, please.”

The swifter turned, his ears pricked in surprise. “I was just directing them, Your Highness, to prioritize census records.”

“Yes, but over what?”

“I believe we were just discussing the archives of lore in the Sanctum of Kings.”

Adara set her quill down. “You are going to save census records over ancient lore?”

“You asked us to prioritize what’s most irreplaceable, Your Highness,” said Skagar. “Many of the manuscripts in the Sanctum have copies elsewhere, including in this very palace.”

“Many, yes, but some are the only extant copies,” said Adara. “Treasures of knowledge from distant millennia. And you find census records more valuable?”

One of the scribes—Wiflin, probably—spoke up. “The census records are essential for administering our taxes, Your Highness. No records, no taxes, no revenue.”

“Yes,” said Adara. “But if Calamar seizes the province, then we won’t be collecting taxes anyway, will we?”

“Your Majesty,” Skagar said, sounding slightly annoyed. “I believe you asked Niflin, Wiflin, and I to establish priorities as we see fit, so we could take something off your plate.”

Well, I thought I could trust you to make sensible decisions, Adara thought to herself. Out loud, she said, “Prioritize works of art and literature, anything of ancient date, and any ritual texts. Before administrative records.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the scribes said, busily smoothing out the clay tablets they had been engraving marks into. Skagar only sighed loudly, his ears flicking in annoyance.

Adara sat back in her chair. A wave of exhaustion suddenly hit her, like someone had pulled a plug in her feet and all her energy was draining out.

One of her maidservants entered, trimming the room’s lights. Instead of candles or oil lanterns for light, the palace used lumen—a special type of moss that glowed with a warm, steady light when wet. Lumen was more expensive than its alternatives, but ever since her father’s death, the palace avoided open flames whenever possible.

Adara glanced out the window to where the sky was rapidly darkening. So late already? How early had she risen? It had been before dawn.

Adara covered a yawn, picked up her quill, and turned back to her speech. She reread her latest opening line, scribbled it out, and wrote a fourth version. She was running out of margin.

A knock sounded at the door, then an officer poked his head inside. “Your Majesty—pardon the intrusion—but a message just arrived from the front.”

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Adara glanced at her speech. “Can it wait?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Majesty. Commander Volthorn is seeking authorization for a troop reassignment. The request is urgent.”

“Troop reassignment?” Skagar asked, his tail quickening with interest.

The soldier entered the room and saluted. “Commander Volthorn seeks royal permission to transfer the Snow Paw, Thunderbolt, White Hill, and Fire Storm Battalions from the Penandre Pass to the Arnon Plains, to reinforce his army before he faces battle.”

Adara kneaded her face with her fingers. She could barely think straight, she was so tired. “Approved,” she murmured.

“Your Majesty, one moment,” Skagar said. “The Penandre Pass? If we move those battalions, the pass will be left defenseless.”

“Commander Volthorn plans to reinforce the pass by the winter,” the officer said. “No enemy host is anywhere near the Penandre. The battalions, in their present position, are useless. He needs them up north.”

“The Penandre garrison protects all our southern provinces from invasion,” Skagar said, shaking his head. “We cannot authorize this.”

The officer cleared his throat. “No offense, Chancellor, but that decision is not yours to make. Only Her Majesty has authority over Chief Commander Skarr.”

“I am Her Majesty’s chancellor and royal advisor,” Skagar said, his fur bristling. “I have the right to express myself.”

“The Commander said—”

“Show Her Majesty the actual order,” Skagar directed.

The officer offered Adara a piece of parchment, still crinkled from being tied to a griffin’s leg. She smoothed it out, squinting to make out the tiny scrawl of characters. Midway through the scroll, she paused, realizing she couldn’t recall what the previous sentences had said.

I can’t do this right now. Her brain felt crowded with numbers, dates, and locations. She’d done so much just today. But her kingdom needed her. She had to do this. Focus!

She read the letter over again. Troop movements. It would leave Elandria’s south-west border exposed. But Volthorn needed the troops on the Arnon Plains. Four battalions. Four thousand troops. That could tip the scales of battle. But it carried a risk. How great of a risk? Volthorn said it was minimal. Skagar thought otherwise. It was up to her.

But why was she the one to make this decision? Why couldn’t someone else make it for her? Adara closed her eyes, trying to quiet her mind.

I need more time.

She looked up, painfully aware of how gray her skin was. “Can I sleep on this, and decide in the morning?”

“You’ll notice at the end of the letter that Commander Volthorn needs the request approved immediately,” the officer said. “Even a day’s delay could determine whether the reinforcements reach him in time or too late.”

Skagar was saying something, but Adara couldn’t focus on his words. The writing on the parchment swam in her vision. Volthorn knew the risk he was taking. He wouldn’t take it lightly. Who was she to delay what he needed so urgently? Who was she to countermand him, when she was the one who had given him authority in the first place?

“Approved, by my royal decree,” Adara said, fumbling to detach the top of her scepter. She pressed the scepter’s engraved pattern firmly onto the parchment, leaving the indentation of the royal seal.

The officer saluted and retrieved the order. “We’ll send this to the Penandre garrison at once. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The door closed behind him, and Adara instantly sank back in her chair.

“Your Highness?” Skagar asked softly, approaching her chair with a light step. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I need to rest,” Adara said. “Just a few minutes.” Had she eaten dinner? When was the last time she’d had even a drink of water? She could scarcely remember.

She heard the clatter of the scribes gathering up their tablets and styluses. “Certainly, Your Majesty,” Skagar said. “We’ll finalize this list tonight and send it off to Vallia. I was hoping to run by you the draft of our petition to General Grimbold, but that can wait until the morning. And I’ll tell your evening briefing officer . . .”

Adara didn’t hear the rest as she sank into a fitful sleep.

* * * * *

“Please, Daddy! I’ll sit still. You won’t even notice me.”

Adara, eleven years old, twirled her dress as she looked up, her eyes pleading.

Her father laughed, running a hand through her hair, his fingers warm even in the dream. “How can I not notice you? You are my daughter. My princess.”

She walked down a corridor of the palace with him. In the dream, their surroundings seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them.

“You’ve let me sit in the throne room before,” Adara said.

“Yes,” her father replied. His eyes gained a touch of brown. “But today is different. There are decisions I must make today, weighty ones. Complex ones. I’m uneasy, Adara. It’s not that you’re too young. It’s . . . I don’t know.”

“I want to watch you,” Adara said. “I want to learn.”

Her father stopped and closed his eyes. He let out a long breath, stood in silence for three heartbeats, then breathed in deeply.

“Very well,” he said, resuming his pace. “It would be good for you to understand the situation. I’ll be hearing various groups today. First the haeber merchants.”

“There’s been a shortage of haeber,” Adara said.

Her father nodded. “You are quick to observe. The haeber supply is governed by far-off factors beyond our control: weather, winds, war. It has always waxed and waned from year to year. But lately it has only waned. Calamar is demanding more haeber. They threaten our merchants, accusing them of destroying some of the supply to hike up costs.”

“Are the merchants doing that?” Adara asked.

Her father snorted. “Of course not. The root of the shortage is far east of us. By the time the trickle of haeber gets here, our own farmers buy the bulk of it before it can ever reach Calamar. Which brings up the second group I’ll be hearing today: representatives from various farming towns.”

“What do they want?”

“They want me to pass a decree halting all exports of haeber to Calamar,” her father said. They turned a corner and walked down a set of stairs. “They warn that only by keeping all the haeber here will we have enough for our own fields. Otherwise, we face the risk of famine.”

Adara tightened her grip on his hand. “I don’t want a famine, Father.” She remembered a famine. It had been four years earlier, after a devastating late frost. As a member of the royal family, she herself had never gone truly hungry. But she was still haunted at night by the memory of people begging for food in the streets, their cheeks sunken and their limbs as thin as sticks.

“Neither do I,” her father said. “But Calamar’s farmers need haeber, too. Denying it to them would mean war. You have not experienced war, my princess. It is worse than famine.”

“Then we face either war or famine,” said Adara. “How can you ever be expected to decide?”

How can you ever be expected to decide?

* * * * *

Adara drifted awake. The room was nearly dark. The lumen lanterns gave only a faint glow, their moss nearly dried out. Someone, perhaps one of her handmaids, had draped a blanket over her at some point.

What time was it? Adara rose, her limbs feeling covered in molasses, and walked out onto her balcony. Above her, the sky glittered with a myriad of stars. Just above the western horizon, the Near Moon floated in the sky like a lumen globe, casting its yellow light on the cityscape before her. The Far Moon, with its red, pockmarked surface, drifted high overhead. Adara leaned out to catch a glimpse around the corner of the palace wall of the last object in the sky: the Void. It hung in the sky above the eastern horizon, a black circle of perfect darkness, standing in sharp contrast to the glorious tapestry of stars around it.

The Near Moon, the Far Moon, and the Void each followed the same path as the Sun, their orbits each spaced four hours apart. So since the Near Moon was about to set, it meant the Sun had set four hours earlier.

image [https://i.imgur.com/DIowiSx.png]

Queen Adara looking out over the nightscape of Saven. Generated by the author via Midjourney.

“End of the first watch,” Adara mumbled. Only a third of the way through the night. She could still get a good night’s sleep if she made it to her bed upstairs.

Then everything from the day crashed into her. The Penandre garrison. Having to micromanage Skagar. Her unfinished speech. Other concerns from her many other meetings—orders to be sent, decisions to be made, reports to process. The full weight of the seemingly infinite responsibilities fell upon her, filling her eyes with tears. She grasped the railing for support as her body shook with sudden, wrenching sobs. She wiped tear after tear from her face, until the sleeve of her dress was soaked.

“Handkerchief, Your Majesty?” came a soft voice behind her.

Adara turned to see her chief magistrate, Cymer, standing in the doorway, proffering her a square of cloth.

“Oh, Cymer—” she said, taking the handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. There was no mirror handy to check her reflection, but based on the hue of her hands, her whole complexion was probably deep blue. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

The old avir stepped beside her, looking out over the darkened city. “On the contrary, Your Majesty. I came exactly for that purpose. To see you. Like this.”

Adara tucked loose hairs back under her crown. “Chancellor Skagar sent for you?”

Cymer shook his head. “No. I just came.”

He continued to gaze out over the city. Adara’s eyes finally dried up, and she found herself looking out as well. There was something comforting about having the old avir there beside her. He was a fountain of resolve that she could almost tangibly sense.

The city before them was dark. A few lumen lanterns still shone in the more well-to-do sections of the city, but they were growing fainter as they dried out. Here and there, a tavern or inn still shone with firelight, snippets of songs and laughter brought by the occasional gust of wind.

Then came a new song on the breeze: a haunting siren of pain and grief, rising and falling in great waves as it split the night air. After a few seconds, a second voice joined in, interweaving its melody with the first. A song of loss. A mourning dirge.

Adara’s eyes swept the city for the source. There—not far from the palace, a house shone with light, candles and lanterns lining every windowsill. The wailing dirge rose from there. After a minute, the dirge was joined by handbells, perhaps a dozen of them, ringing with wild abandon.

She knew what was happening inside that house: someone had just died. Now, in desperation, the family was lighting every candle, wetting every lumen globe, and splitting the air with ritual sounds—all to keep at bay the demons that walked the night, hunting for disembodied souls to drag to the Void.

Cymer also was watching, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Do the songs and candles work?” Adara asked. It was a question she had wondered many times throughout her childhood, though she had never voiced it out loud until now. “Can they really keep the demons at bay until the dawn comes?”

Cymer took a deep breath. “The different Orders disagree. The Dawn Wardens believe strongly in the power of sound. The dirge you hear is a common one in their tradition. I imagine the household called one or two wardens to stand vigil with them tonight. They also believe in the power of bells.”

“And what do you think?” Adara asked.

“I have never felt a demon quail at the ringing of a bell,” Cymer said. “Nor at the singing of a dirge. Those beliefs come from ancient texts revered as sacred by the Dawn Wardens but not by my order, the Luminant Order. But perhaps I am wrong? I do not pretend to know everything. We know so little of things beyond the veil of sight.”

“The lights are a strong tradition of the Luminant Order,” Adara observed.

“Yes,” Cymer said. “It appears this household is embracing both orders’ teachings. That is good. There is power in the light. Great power.”

Cymer closed his eyes, whispering a prayer for the deceased. After a minute he opened his eyes. “Will it be enough? The night is long, and the servants of the Void are persistent. But some souls are harder for them to seize than others. Pray that the light will be enough.”

They stared out over the city again. Eventually the wind shifted, carrying the dirge and the ringing of bells away.

Finally, Adara was ready to voice the fears weighing on her heart. “I can’t do this, Cymer.”

He looked at her gently. “Can’t do what?”

Adara dabbed at her eyes again with the loaned handkerchief. “Everything. The meetings. The reports. The problems I’m supposed to fix. The decisions I’m expected to make.” She took a deep breath, trying to push back the panic rising again within her. “What if I’m making the wrong decisions? What if I’m leading this people to ruin?”

Cymer nodded slowly, his face solemn. “Do you remember your coronation?”

A vision of glowing figures danced in her memory. “Yes,” she said, straightening.

Cymer tapped the crown of eternium on Adara’s brow. “When you were anointed, you were given the gift of wisdom. That is not some fanciful notion, Adara. It is a real power, promised by ancient prophecy to the heir of the Everborn House. That is why we waited seven years for you to come of age, instead of giving the throne to another. That is why we look to you for guidance, though you are so young. The gift of wisdom is your right. It is your duty.”

“If it is real, then I don’t feel it,” said Adara. “I don’t feel wise, Cymer. I don’t feel smart, or even capable. I just feel exhausted, and overwhelmed, all the time.”

“You will feel it with practice,” said Cymer. His eyes brimmed with intensity. “Bring your questions to the Light, Adara. Be still. Listen to the voice that speaks in your heart. If your heart is pure—and I know it is—then the Sky Father will not let you lead your people astray.”

“I wish I could believe that,” said Adara.

“You can,” said Cymer.