Royal Audience (1)
Three weeks after the fall of Roche, a royal messenger arrived from the capital.
“I bear the command of the King of Prode.”
He came with dozens of wagons and a sealed letter stamped with the royal crest of Prode. When a king’s letter was to be read, every officer gathered in the council chamber while the messenger who carried it recited the contents aloud.
“Alberto Prode, Father of Prode, speaks to Remi, captain of the Second Company of the Fifth Army’s Magic Unit and present acting commander of the Fifth Army.”
At the messenger’s words, Ellen dropped to one knee.
“Your valor thunders across the realm and has reached even the ears of the royal house. We have heard well how, in battle after battle, you have snatched Our armies from the jaws of defeat.”
The messenger wiped cold sweat from his brow; reading the king’s words aloud was enough to make any man tense. In Prode the king was a being no one dared approach lightly.
“Above all, as acting commander of the Fifth Army you led the capture of Roche to complete victory, and for this We commend you greatly. Therefore We command that your temporary authority of command be confirmed in full. From this hour forward, it is hereby proclaimed that the Marshal of the Fifth Army is Remi.”
Applause erupted the moment the messenger folded the letter. Not every face welcomed Ellen, of course—but it was the king’s order. Within the Kingdom of Prode, no one existed who could defy those words.
“And in the wagons that accompany me are the gifts His Majesty has bestowed.”
The messenger handed Ellen the letter as he spoke.
“My thanks.”
Ellen shook his hand, then turned to face his officers.
“Thank you, all of you. One could call this a meteoric rise. I doubt the result satisfies everyone here.”
His gaze settled on several officers of noble birth. Discontent still sat plain on their faces.
“But listen—have you not seen it yourselves? Do you not wish to return home alive from this battlefield? No one will answer that desire better than I. I ask for your continued support.”
The officers fell quiet for a moment. On a battlefield the thing every soldier wanted most was simply to go home. Ellen knew it well; that was precisely the nerve he had touched.
“The mood is rather sour. Tell me—among the gifts sent to me, is there wine and meat?”
Ellen looked to the messenger.
“There is, of course. Enough for every man in the unit.”
“Then a celebration is in order. Inform every soldier: tonight they may eat and drink until they cannot stand.”
“Yes, sir!”
The messenger hurried at once to the wagons and began unloading food and wine. As he had said, the quantity looked more than sufficient for the entire force. And because the gifts came from the king himself, the quality was excellent.
“How long has it been since we last tasted meat and wine like this?”
Janette stuffed a fistful of meat into his mouth and spoke around it.
“You’ll choke. No one’s taking it from you—eat slowly. These are the gifts Lord Remi received from His Majesty.”
Carrick patted Janette’s back while the man coughed and sputtered.
The reaction among the ordinary soldiers was no different from that of the magic unit. Faced with wine and meat, any human being was bound to let go of tension and simply enjoy himself.
“The Marshal really is different, isn’t he? Who else would open gifts from the king for a party for the troops?”
“Skill, character—there’s not a single thing lacking.”
“And young on top of it. His future is bright, no question.”
“He was never on the same level as the rest of us to begin with. Has anyone else made Marshal at that age?”
The entire unit was singing his praises. Small wonder—no commander before him had ever spent royal gifts on a feast for his soldiers.
“Marshal, you don’t seem to be eating.”
Jett approached Ellen, who was watching the men with quiet satisfaction.
“Eat your fill. I’ve already had plenty.”
The sight nearly made Jett laugh. Only a few months earlier Ellen had come under his command, face stiff with military discipline, swearing he would repay the trust placed in him. Now the same man sat higher than Jett himself, as Marshal.
Jett settled beside him.
“This feast has raised the men’s morale tremendously.”
“That was the point. Endless fighting lies ahead. I hope they stay sharp and keep pace.”
How far can this man climb?
A youth in his twenties who had become Marshal of the Fifth Army. Looking into eyes bright with ambition, Jett found himself wondering about Ellen’s future.
A full year passed after that day.
The Empire had long maintained a balance with Prode on the strength of its southern border. After Ellen robbed them of Vermouth, that balance shattered. Under the Fifth Army led by Ellen, the Empire suffered defeat after defeat along the southern frontier. Meanwhile Prode’s forces advanced in the north; driven into desperation, the Empire at last requested an armistice.
“We’re finally going home!”
One soldier’s shout made every chest in the Fifth Army swell. These were men who had not set foot in their homes once since the war began. The terms of the armistice, what it meant for the kingdom—none of that mattered.
—So this is what they call a triumphant return. Even I am enjoying myself.
Why are you the one making more of a fuss, Master? You spent your days as a court mage.
Ellen and the Fifth Army were marching down the main avenue of Harryford. Victory songs rang through the streets. Citizens lining the road clapped and threw flowers in celebration. The soldiers of the Fifth Army hardly knew how to receive such a welcome.
—You speak of ancient history.
Speaking of which, Master, it must have been a long time since you last saw the royal palace.
—Long enough that counting the years would be a bother.
Ellen had been invited to the palace as a victorious general. Across both of his lives, this was his first time setting foot inside a royal palace. A strange tension ran through him.
At the end of the avenue rose a palace vast even at a glance. When Ellen and the Fifth Army halted before the gates, a royal guard approached. Ellen’s adjutant presented a paper stamped with the royal seal.
“Victorious General Remi, you may enter. A servant within will guide you in further detail. The remaining troops are to wait at the designated positions for the victory celebration that will follow.”
“A pleasure to receive you, Lord Remi. Before you meet His Majesty, would you care to change into proper attire?”
“I would.”
Hearing the answer, the servant led him to a dressing chamber.
“Should you find any difficulty with the garments…”
The servant spoke carefully, mindful that a common-born man might not know court etiquette. Ellen simply shook his head.
“My thanks, but I can manage alone.”
The Magic Tower examinations had included etiquette. After decades of preparation he knew court protocol as thoroughly as his own spells.
The door opened with a soft click.
“Ah.”
The servant could not help the soft sound of admiration that escaped him. Ellen’s attire was nearly perfect—even the fall of the robe’s hem, a detail high-ranking mages often overlooked, conformed exactly to protocol.
“I need not have worried. Shall we proceed?”
The servant’s smile returned, easy once more, and he led the way.
Outwardly Ellen remained composed under the servant’s guidance. Inwardly it was the opposite. Walking the royal palace for the first time, his spirits soared. Every ornament on the walls, every person who passed—nothing failed to fascinate him.
“Here we are.”
The servant stopped before a door bearing the enormous crest of the royal house.
“Your Majesty, Victorious General Remi has arrived.”
“Admit him.”
A deep male voice answered from within. The servant opened the great doors; whether by skill or by magic, they swung wide without the slightest sound.
Eleven paces from the threshold, Ellen sank to his right knee. He did not raise his head. The motion was clean and without excess.
“Your subject Remi greets the Father of Prode.”
“Raise your head.”
The voice filled the great hall. It was not especially loud, yet it carried a natural dignity that settled into the bones.
Ellen lifted his gaze and looked upon Alberto’s face. Platinum hair and green eyes struck him first. With those sharp features and that otherworldly air, one could almost have called the royal family elves.
“I met you once already through a letter, yet this is the first time I see you in the flesh.”
“Your Grace is boundless.”
“The greatest merit for victory in this war belongs to you. Therefore I mean to grant a reward fitting that merit.”
“I merely did what any subject of Prode ought to do.”
Ellen bowed his head again. Alberto watched him with a look of interest.
All the etiquette he ever learned would have been at the Magic Academy, yet he carries himself with complete ease. Did that master of his teach him?
Ever since Akard had returned to the capital, Alberto had taken an interest in Ellen. He had ordered every scrap of information on the youth collected at once.
A young man who had graduated the Academy with ordinary marks, failed the Magic Tower examinations several times, and lived as a mere assistant—until he met a master and reached the 4th Circle.
Of course that information was false, carefully fabricated over years by Ethan Gronlead after Ellen had helped him escape Enis. Ellen had known war would come and that he himself would appear upon the stage; he had asked for a proper identity to be prepared against that day.
“Your words please me greatly. Yet is it not equally proper that a sovereign reward a subject’s merit with fitting treatment?”
Alberto recalled Akard’s words. That Grand Master had judged the potential of a boy in his twenties higher than even his own past self. Higher praise did not exist.
“Remi, I intend to grant you the rank of life peer. From this day your family name shall be Veritati. Baron Remi Veritati—serve henceforth as Our loyal subject.”
Light flared in Ellen’s eyes. Thoughts raced through his mind. It was a reward he had never expected. A life peerage carried neither land nor hereditary rights—yet in the rigidly stratified Kingdom of Prode it was extraordinary treatment.
He clenched his fist as though sealing a resolve.
“Your subject Remi Veritati shall shatter bone and body in service as a loyal man of Prode.”
He bowed deeply in formal salute.
“The royal house of Prode places great expectations upon you as well. And this, in particular, is at Sir Akard’s request—he asked that I grant you one gift from the royal vault.”
What is that man thinking?
Ellen pictured Akard. A man whose true intentions were never easy to read. Receiving something from the royal vault, however, could only be good for him.
“I can hardly refuse a request from Sir Akard. Choose whatever you like.”
“Your Grace is boundless.”