A bedchamber door he looked to his desk,
overflowing with scrolls. He gave a heavy sigh before
lumping in his chair and taking the first scroll in hand.
He looked around the room, hoping for some
distraction from death warrants and land requests.
At the top of the mezzanine, sat Librye. Her head
was buried deep in a book, she had now passed the
first five bookshelves, and was halfway down the sixth.
She still wore a long cotton nightgown. She quickly
looked up from her book and down towards Brenin.
Her smile was beaming as she saw Brenin looking
towards her.
“I’m nearly up to two-hundred,” she proudly told
him.
Brenin’s heart fluttered, Librye was a welcome
distraction for him, but she was also a solid symbol of
perseverance.
“You should slow down, Heart. Reading can be
good for the soul,” Brenin took a few of the scrolls
and stood, “too much, can twist the mind.” He began
to make his way towards the door, Librye stood to see
him leave.
She held her effervescent smile as she replied, “My
mind remains solid and free, only my own.” Her smile
quickly withered, as she asked, “You’re going to the
hall, aren’t you?”
Brenin stopped at the door, he turned to see
Librye as she stood by the railing on the mezzanine.
His brows raised, his voice deepened, “I am,
you’re welcome to listen, if you wish,” he offered as
his smile began to twist to the side.
Librye shook her head, “It’s not necessary, I
already know the outcome.” Brenin knew that it was
not far from the truth. Her talk of her secrets had
begun to bother him, she had been there for a full
turn, and found settling into the palace easier than
expected.
Making his way down the stairs, Brenin headed
towards the lower west wing. A long white corridor
guided him to an old wooden door, the stone arch
above the door seemed ordinary. Stepping through he
made his way down a long, unwelcoming, grey stone
staircase. Fire flowers lit as he made his way down.
Coming to the bottom, he was met by rows upon rows
of towering bookcases, the years of dust piled on the
shelves and surrounded the floor. Papers and scrolls
lined the shelves. His nose was filled with the smell of
old paper and ink, the dust seemed to stick to his
clothes and skin.
He quickly turned to his left. “Poppy!” he called as
he continued walking towards an old desk at the end
of the shelves.
The record keeper, Poppy, was startled as she
called, “Sire, please!” She ran through the winding
walls of bookcases towards his voice, “I’ve told you
before, it is dangerous down here.”
Brenin had a scathing tone as he replied, “It’s
hardly a battle-field, Poppy,” he could hear her
scurrying towards him, “books can hardly use a sword,
or bow.” He looked to the few scrolls on the desk, an
old inkwell lay in a puddle of spilt ink, a quill was
nowhere to be seen. The desk had a small trinket box,
the carving of the Cronnin stag was gilded into the top
of it.
“No, Sire, but the cases here are weak, the
structure isn’t what it used to be, since the flood!” she
called to him. Finally, she could see him in the dimly
lit darkness of the palace archives.
Brenin’s eyes widened as he saw Poppy coming
towards him, he tried to hide his excitement. Her
Cronnin uniform was grey with the dust from the
archives, her hair was neatly tied back with a feather
quill sticking out of the top of her bun.
“Did you find it?” he asked, he had a stirring
within him, he knew what he wanted was there, and he
hoped she could find it.
Poppy was a small woman, her slender frame fitted
perfectly among the narrow bookcases, her small size
made it easy for her to manoeuvre through the small,
dark spaces of the archives.
“I found something,” she made her way towards
him. Several scrolls were tucked into the ribbon tied
around her waist.
Making her way towards him she rummaged
through the scrolls. Stopping in front of him, she
hurriedly pulled a scroll out and uncurled it.
“This is the one,” quickly, she handed it to him.
Her manner of constant excitement seemed to rub
off on Brenin. He took the scroll and searched it.
“Thank you, Poppy,” he said with a broad smile, he
hurried back to the council hall.
“You’re welcome, Sire,” her voice echoed. “But
please send a guard next time,” she shouted to him.
Stopped by the fountain, Brenin waited for the hall
to fill, a few of his council were missing, but their
absence was always welcomed by Brenin, he hated the
constant arguing in the halls. With the main hall now
empty of councillors, the doors closed.
Brenin quickly made his way towards the hall. His
guards opened a door. Stepping inside, he remained at
the centre of the floor. Brenin slowly made his way
towards the central table, as he stepped onto the
plinth, he removed his green cape and placed it on the
table at the side. He was soon met with wonderous
whispers.
Brenin stepped forward, having seen that the
council had settled.
“Gentlemen, I intend at no point to raise my voice,
order is needed at this time to conduct business,
something of deadly importance has arisen.” The
council sat statuesque in their seats looking to each
other, wondering what could be so important. Brenin
held the scroll up. “The Dragons have long been our
allies, but something now binds us, whether or not
prophecies are something you believe in, a prediction
has been made. The scroll here is from the Draco
stretch, more than three-hundred years ago, they
predicted a creature would be born, a creature of this
world. The child you have all shunned, I believe is
that creature.”
Brenin was soon met with a mumbling room of
disapproval.
“How can this be?” asked Mark as he stood. The
tall councillor was a friend to Brenin, he simply
wanted to help calm the room.
“The scroll will be here for you all to see,” said
Brenin, “however, the child shows more than we can
each understand, I will be spending my time ensuring
she has all she needs. My duty remains as your king,
but my duties extend, as a father and protector, to
Librye.” He turned in the hall to see the reactions,
disapproval, realisations, the room was divided. “I am
aware that my loins have caused you some upset,” he
mocked as he looked to the table, he rolled the scroll
out and weighted it down. “This is something I have in
hand, I will give my everything, to ensure the future of
Cronnin, all while doing everything possible, to secure
Librye’s.” He stood straight with his arms behind his
back. His face was a picture of powerful pride as he
stood silent.
“Apologies, but what importance does this hold
with the council?” asked Kailron as he stood, as one of
the youngest there, Brenin had an instant dislike for
him.
“Because the council needs to be aware, that the
kingdoms will be working together, for the sake of this
child,” said Brenin with a derisive tone. “In case you
struggle to think for yourselves let me do that for you,”
Brenin stepped down from the plinth, his arms
straightened by his side; “our world has been at war
for many years, it is predicted that the beginning of the
end will start when the child of Cammbour is born.
The child has been born, and I will not be questioned
on this.”
Kailron stepped down from the benches towards
the steps at the side. His footsteps were silent as he
walked towards the centre of the hall.
“How can we possibly be sure that she is the
child?” his derisive tone offended Brenin even more.
“If you weren’t so quick to dismiss her,” he said
with a quiet tone, his voice was filled with mistrust
towards his council, “then you would already know.”
Brenin slowly made his way towards his throne.
Silence filled the room. They each knew that Brenin
could be volatile, his attitude could quickly change if
he did not get his own way, often being compared to
that of a moody adolescent.
Slowly he sat and waited for councillor Bart to
stand. Taking the floor, Bart made his way from his
seat.
“And as interesting as that all is,” he sneered, “we
do have important matters to approach.” Bart looked
directly towards Brenin. “Firstly, a new appointment
has been approved,” his smile was tight as he looked
to him, “Harris Bearwood will be given the title of
High Chief Commander.” The room filled with
disapproving mumbles. “Although!” he called, his
small voice struggled to carry in the hall. “This has
caused some controversy, he will fail or succeed, he
has been afforded the chance.” Little did they all know
Brenin had already appointed Harris, without their
command. Bart again looked to Brenin. “A wife,” he
flagrantly said.
Brenin rolled his head back. “Why is my council
so concerned about my bedroom activity?”
Bart made his way towards him. “A throne without
a king is just a seat, you need an heir,” he insisted.
Brenin quickly shook his head, he hated talk of
finding a wife, and he knew exactly what to do to cause
chaos. “I have already spoken of this; I will hear no
more!” he called. His arms flew to the air, “Librye, she
will be my heir.” The room erupted with disapproval.
Brenin stood, having given his final reply he quickly
left, only to be followed by Bart.
Rushing to his chambers, Brenin began the days
task of sifting through the papers on his desk. Slowly
the door opened. Brenin raised his head, having been
there for a full twenty minutes.
“You made it then?” asked Brenin as he looked
up to see Bart slowly making his way towards him.
“This is all just a joke to you, isn’t it?” hissed Bart.
Brenin placed his quill back into its pot. “This is a
matter of urgency, Librye could not take your place, as
endearing as she is, her blood is not royal.” Little did
he know, Librye was listening, still sat on the
mezzanine.
“Then who would you suggest?” asked Brenin with
a deflated tone.
“I have thought of this, our relationship with
Thrasia could do with a better foundation,” he sat
opposite the desk. “Helena, she is very suitable.”
Brenin sat back. He glared towards Bart; his
mouth twisted down. “She is fourteen,” he said,
disapprovingly, “that is possibly the most disturbing
thing you’ve ever said.”
“It’s only six years,” defended Bart, “it isn’t a
lifetime, relations will be hardened by the union and
you will have a young wife,” he said as he nodded.
“Out!” insisted Brenin, he stood to escort Bart to
the door. He placed his hand on Bart’s back to ensure
he left quickly. “I will hear no more of marriage, to
children!” he shouted, pushing Bart from the door.
Stood on the landing, Bart quickly replied, “You
will need to do something soon, age is not on your
side, you need a wife!” Heated, he made his way back
towards the hall.
Standing in his chambers, Brenin remained staring
at the door, he looked to the guard at the side. “A
child?” he said with a sneer.
“I agree,” replied the guard, although they were
supposed to remain silent, Brenin enjoyed
conversations with his statue guards. “But also, you will
need an heir,” he awkwardly said.
With a raised brow and wide eyes Brenin replied,
“I know this, but the matters of women, confuse me,”
he mocked. Making his way back towards the desk he
shouted to the guard, “Your wife, Becky. Lovely
woman, does she have a sister?”
Brenin across the long room, “It’s not difficult, Sire. A
man of your breeding, if you can’t find a suitable wife,
what hope is there for the rest of us?”
“Finding a wife isn’t what concerns me,” said
Brenin as he sat, “if you’d have met my mother, you
would know, superior breeding doesn’t always bring
the best result,” he said with a regretful tone.
“What was she like?” asked Librye with a soft
voice as she stood from the Mezzanine.
Brenin jumped, having forgotten she was even
there he held his hand to his chest. “She was
different,” he tried his best not to speak of her.
Librye could see he was hiding something. Slowly,
she made her way to the top of his desk to look down
from the mezzanine.
“I have read the soldiers books, telling of battle,”
she said with a torn voice, “I’m sure that stories of
your mother, will not frighten me.”
He looked up, her innocent smile would always
force him to hold back, but she was stood in the very
building where the woman once lived, Librye had a
right to know.
“She spent most of her time entertaining guards,
palace life was well suited to her, married life wasn’t.”
The guards seemed to cringe as they heard Brenin
speak. “My father found out, as did the council, the
guard was sent to Offenmoor –”
“The prison isles?”
Brenin slowly nodded, he glared into the room.
“My mother was given a choice, she chose the easy
way out, death, she was taken to the dungeon of
the
palace, three days later, her head left her shoulders in
the first quarter,” the sadness in his voice seemed
tainted, false. “It was the last time the dungeon was
used.” Brenin looked up towards Librye. “Anyway,
such nasty business isn’t what I wish to discuss.”
Librye glared towards him, she was not finished
with her questions. “You were there, weren’t you, you
were in the first quarter?”
Brenin’s eyes misted, his heart felt light, empty. “I
don’t wish to speak of it,” he softly replied.
Within the council halls, whispers could be heard.
Two unseen councillors met in the shadow of the back
pews. The benches were busy with the comings and
goings. “He is irrational,” the first whispered.
“Spending most of his days, galivanting.”
“Agreed,” sneered the second, “I can only hope
things change, before the war worsens.”
“Have you heard anything of the movements yet?”
asked the first councillor.
“No, but we cannot rush this, we have a plan in
place, that plan will suit our needs until the next world
awaits us,” he replied.
“The camps have started building, we need to warn
of this, fast.” Their plan to keep the war going would
see their pockets constantly filled. The war camps and
taxing were easy money for the council.
For three days, Branwen had watched the
commander sleep. Her eyes gazed towards his chest,
watching each breath he took, hoping it would not be
the last. She had managed to give him little water, he
would not wake. She had spent hours watching his
chest rise and fall with each breath. She had dressed
his wounds as best she could. Her boredom had taken
her towards his desk. She was never an overly curious
person, but something about him made her wonder
who he was.
She had cleaned his armour as best she could and
replaced it on his manikin. Sat at his desk, she reached
into his draw, several small notes were carelessly
placed in there, she puffed out her cheeks and looked
around the desk, a glass on his desk had a small
amount of moonshine, Branwen hated the stuff.
She leant back on his chair, wondering where he
kept his secrets, she searched as best she could, even
checking under the desk, but nothing, he clearly kept