The Divine Contract
In the depths of despair, Chloris called upon the name of God. She was a knightess truly beloved by the divine, as mighty as she was great. She had succeeded in defending the western reaches of the continent from the barbarians. Yet the more she was loved, the more she was hated by men, and she could protect only a fraction of the lands she had saved from the barbarians against the civilized peoples who despised her. She led her followers even farther west, to the very edge of the western continent, and there she prayed.
“Lord, oh Lord, I have spent my whole life slaying barbarians and saving Your people according to Your will. Yet nothing remains to me now.”
“You are mistaken, My most beloved daughter,” God answered her prayer. “I have given you glory and honor in battle.”
“What use are they? My glory stirs envy in my enemies, and my honor provokes only their jealousy.”
“I have given you those who follow you.”
“Yet You have also given me enemies who hate me.”
“I have prepared heavenly glory for you.”
“But my labors were performed in this mortal world—what worth can heavenly reward hold?”
“Very well. Then at the westernmost edge I shall grant you a kingdom. You shall rule that land as queen.”
“Yet I have no children, for I have spent my life upon the battlefield. My brothers are all dead; I have only sisters. After I am gone, who will rule this land?”
“Then one among your sisters shall rise to inherit your kingdom.”
“But my sisters have borne only daughters, no sons. In the end the kingdom I receive will pass to the house of some man from an outside realm.”
“Then one of their daughters shall inherit your kingdom.”
“But what if the fathers of my nieces invoke their fatherhood to seize my nation?”
“Enough, My beloved. This I promise you,” God spoke at last. “No man shall rob your sisters or their daughters of the right to inherit the kingdom granted to you. Yet the same shall apply to your own blood. You have now received all that you will receive.”
“But Lord,” the knightess said. “What if among the descendants of my kin there is only a son?”
No voice answered her question.
“What a ridiculous tale.”
“What is, Rick?”
“This book, Philip.” Richard closed the gaudily ornamented volume—so ornate it verged on childish—and set it aside. Philip shook his head.
“That story again?”
“No matter how many times I hear it, I cannot stop finding it absurd.”
Richard hurled the book backward. Its cover was embroidered in gold thread with the words The Royal History.
He continued, “It is even more laughable that such a ludicrous story has governed this country for three hundred years.”
“I’ve heard enough, Rick. You truly don’t sound like a man of Zylan.”
“You speak exactly like my old nursemaid.”
“I have watched you for more than ten years. I know precisely what you are thinking.”
“Don’t.”
Richard tried to cut him off, but it was only words; long experience had taught him that Philip would never stop once he began. Philip rose from his chair. In the exaggerated tones of a satirical actor—yet pitched low enough that nothing would carry outside the tent—he declared, “To think I cannot become king because of this stale, ridiculous old fable! Unforgivable! I shall destroy this wretched country myself!”
“Philip.”
“Speak, Rick.”
Richard growled under his breath. “Why would I ever want to destroy the very kingdom where I am to be king!”
They stared at each other for a moment, then (almost) burst into laughter at the same instant.
Philip said, “Congratulations, Richard, King of Zylan.”
“The coronation has not yet taken place, so that title remains premature.”
“Must you be so typically Zylan only in matters like these?”
“Besides,” Richard stood briskly, brushing himself off, and took up the longsword that had been leaning against the chair. He buckled it to his waist with a metallic clink. “My succession has not even been settled yet. Farewell, Philip, my friend.”
“Hah. I hope it stays unsettled forever.”
“Must you be so blunt?”
“Didn’t you already know that about me?”
“Of course.” Richard picked up his helmet. “I shall see you upon the battlefield, Your Majesty Philip.”
“May fortune smile on you, Prince Richard.”
“Fortune will be needed far more by Derim and its armies than by me, Your Majesty.”
Richard swept his hair back and donned the helm. His overflowing confidence nearly made Philip ill.
“Count Raoul of Malong!”
As Richard flung open the tent flap and strode out, the clash of armor rang throughout the encampment. His master of horse and Philip’s retinue—among them Count Raoul of Malong—led forth their respective mounts. Richard vaulted onto his beloved warhorse and snapped at Raoul, “Escort His Majesty Philip back to his lines!”
“Do not command me, usurper prince.”
“You have courage, I’ll grant you that.”
Richard kicked him. Raoul tumbled to the ground, blood pouring from his nose. Philip’s horse, startled by its handler’s injury, shied, but quieted the moment its true master took the reins.
Raoul sprang up as though launched from a bow and reached for his sword belt. Richard gave a contemptuous snort and turned to Philip. “Command your servant, King Philip!”
“Insolent dog! Filthy throne-usurper!”
The words were less spoken than snarled—an attitude unfit for any subject toward a king, let alone a rival prince. Raoul’s forehead bulged with veins as he roared. Blood still streamed from his nose, yet he ignored it. His hand had already closed around the hilt of his blade, though he had not drawn it.
“Dismount at once and show proper respect to the rightful heir! You insolent cur!”
“I have heard that in Malong the warm southern winds bring forth many beautiful women,” Richard said, changing the subject with deliberate absurdity. “Perhaps that is why even you, Count Raoul, ride to the battlefield only to wag your tongue like a fishwife!”
“You—!”
“What? Will you answer me with more words again?”
Even as the confrontation soured, Philip merely wore a strange, thin smile. He stepped behind Raoul and laid a calming hand on his shoulder.
“Enough, Raoul. The prince is correct. Were we not brought here precisely because words have failed us?”
“But Your Majesty!”
“It is enough. Which of us is right shall be decided on the field of battle. We must return at once, so stir up no further trouble. Must I issue a royal command?”
Raoul swallowed his rage with visible effort and retreated a step. He seized his own horse’s reins and glared at the Zylan prince, the Zylan nobles, and the Zylan soldiers. They were all watching him as though he were cheap entertainment. Grinding his teeth until they creaked, he swung into the saddle, raised the banner of the King of Derim, and led Philip’s escort.
All the way back he brooded. The army of Derim—ten times the size of Zylan’s—and the combined forces of the Eight Nations would sweep the Zylan troops away like a raging tide, repaying every humiliation these arrogant islanders had inflicted. And his rightful crown would become his—more precisely, his wife’s. Of this he was utterly certain.
But his certainty was wrong.
Richard possessed power equal to his arrogance. The knights of Zylan he led crushed the armies of Derim and the Eight Nations without mercy, and the crown of Zylan never fell into Raoul’s grasp.