that, indeed, made up Maximilians closest circle of friends, but were also the men he trusted above any else, for all of them had been involved to some extent in his rescue from the gloam mines eight years earlier.
These men knew Maximilian’s past, knew where he came from, had seen him at his worst, and they still loved him despite his occasional darker moments.
Today the king was in a light-hearted mood, and none expected any of his dark introspections on this fine morning. Maximilian sat in his chair, one long leg casually draped over one of its arms, his fine face with its striking aquiline nose and deep blue eyes creased in a mischievous grin, his dark hair — always worn a little too long — flopping over his brow. He was laughing at Egalion, captain of the king’s Emerald Guard, who had hurried late into the chamber. Egalion was now making flustered excuses as he dragged a chair up to the semicircle seated about the fire that had been lit in the hearth.
“You must be getting old, my friend,” Maximilian said, “to so oversleep.”
“Out late, perhaps, with a lady friend?” said Vorstus, Abbot of the Order of Persimius. In his late middle age, Vorstus was a thin, dark man with sharp brown eyes and the distinctive tattoo of a faded quill on his right index finger. The Order of Persimius was a group of brothers devoted to the protection and furtherance of the Persimius family. Maximilian owed Vorstus a massive debt for aiding the effort to free him from the Veins, and sometimes, when Vorstus looked at Maximilian with his dark unreadable eyes, that debt sat heavily on Maximilian’s shoulders. When first Maximilian had emerged from the Veins he had trusted Vorstus completely. Now he was not so sure of him, for he felt Vorstus watched him a little too carefully.
Maximilian ignored Vorstus’ comment, “Perhaps you need the services of Garth, Egalion. A potion, perhaps, from the famous Baxter recipes, to soothe you into an early sleep at night so that we may not be deprived of your company at morning council?”
That was as close to a reprimand as Maximilian was ever likely to deliver to any of these three men.
“I apologise, Maximilian,” Egalion said. He was a tall, strong, fair-haired man who had served the Persimius throne for over thirty years, but now he reddened like a youth. “I have no acceptable excuse save that I did, indeed, oversleep, and no excuse for that — no woman or wine —” he shot a sharp-eyed glance at Vorstus, “— save a need to compensate for a late night spent at the bedside of one of the Emerald Guard.”
“And that late bedside vigil spent in my company,” said Garth Baxtor, court physician and the fourth member of the group sitting about the fire. “One of the men developed a fever late yesterday afternoon, Maximilian, and Egalion and myself spent many hours in his company until we were satisfied he was not in any danger to his life.”
“Then I am the one to apologise,” said Maximilian, all humour fading from his face.
“You were not to know,” said Egalion. “The man, Thomas, asked that you not be disturbed.”
“Nonetheless,” said Maximilian, “I should have known.”
“Thomas is well this morning,” said Garth, “and after a day’s bed rest should be able to recommence light duties tomorrow. I think his fever nothing more than a passing autumnal illness.”
“But one that kept you and Egalion for hours at his bedside,” said Maximilian. He studied Garth a moment, wondering at his luck that eight years ago the then seventeen year old should have believed in Maximilian so much that Garth had managed to persuade a diverse and powerful group of people to support his endeavour to free the king from the Veins.
Garth Baxtor was now a fully-fledged physician, second only to his father in the use of the Touch, a semi-magical ability to understand the precise nature of an illness and to help soothe away its horrors. He lived permanently at Maximilian’s court, but, apart from treating Maximilian himself as well as other members of the court, Emerald Guard and royal militia, he also spent two days a week treating the poor of Ruen for free. Garth, still only in his mid-twenties, was Maximilian’s closest friend.
Garth grinned at Maximilian, his open, attractive face appearing even more boyish than it normally did. “It is too early in the day to succumb to guilt, Maxel. You didn’t need to be there.”
Garth and Vorstus were among the very few who used the familiar “Maxel” in conversation with the king. Egalion, who had permission to do so, only rarely managed to take such a huge leap into familiarity.
“Well, at least let me be cross,” Maximilian said, “that you don’t have any shadows under your eyes, Garth. Ah, the resilience of youth.”
Garth laughed. “You are hardly old yourself, Maxel!”
“Almost forty,” Maximilian said, his eyes once more gleaming with humour. “About to tip over the edge.”
Now everyone laughed.
“Well, now,” said Maximilian, “since we’re all finally here, is there any business to discuss or can we give up governing as a bad idea this fine day and go visit the palace hawk house and admire my newest acquisition instead?”
Garth and Egalion brightened, but Vorstus glanced at a small satchel that lay beside his chair, and Maximilian did not miss it.
“My friend,” the king said in a soft voice, “why do I fear that that satchel at your side contains dire news?”
Vorstus gave an embarrassed half laugh. “Well, hardly ‘dire’ news, Maxel.” He paused, glancing at the satchel yet one more time. “A document pouch arrived late yesterday afternoon, from your ambassador to the Outlands.”
“Another request for a swift return to civilisation?” Maximilian said. The Outlands were not renowned for their creature comforts and Maximilian’s ambassador to the region, Baron Lixel, had sent plaintive requests to return home at regular intervals over the past year. Maximilian knew he should allow him home soon, but there were so few men better equipped with such a smooth diplomatic tongue for dealing with the notoriously touchy Outlanders that Maximilian felt he could barely spare him from the duty.
“Among other things,” Vorstus said. “And one of those other things …”
“Do we have to drag it out of you with blacksmith’s tongs?” Maximilian said.
Vorstus took a deep breath. “One of those other things is a somewhat unexpected offer of a bride.”
Garth and Egalion shot careful glances at Maximilian, gauging his reaction to this news.
Maximilian had been singularly unlucky in finding a bride. It was eight years since he’d been freed from the Veins, and he was still wife-less. Garth knew it niggled at him. It wasn’t so much that Maximilian wanted a woman by his side, as welcome as that might be, but that he was desperate for a family. Maximilian had once confided to Garth that when he’d been trapped down the Veins, he’d occasionally overheard guards talking about their children. It had made him long for a family and children of his own, although, imprisoned in the Veins as he was, Maximilian could barely imagine a world where that might be possible.
Now that it was possible, it was proving difficult beyond anyone’s wildest imagining.
“A bride?” said Maximilian. “How many negotiations have we opened and lost these past eight years? It must be all of … what … twelve or thirteen?”
“Fourteen,” Vorstus muttered.
“Fourteen,” Maximilian said. “All of them eligible, and all of them deciding for one reason or another, that I wasn’t quite ‘right’ for them.”
His voice was so bitter that for a moment Garth more than half-expected Maximilian to wave away the offer without even considering.
But then Maximilian sighed. “And here we have a new offer. From the Outlands of all places. They’re such a strange nomadic people, Vorstus. What manner of Outlander woman would want to spend her life as queen in my staid — and stationary — court? And why would I