It was, technically speaking, a diplomatic insult that it was King Emeritus Zaram V who was in attendance on behalf of the countries of the Tavari Union at the wedding of the Packilvanian sultan. Recent changes in protocol, to put it mildly, at the Silver Court of the Chief of Nuvo—his own abdication being the least of these—had demoted the man who had been King of Tavaris for 22 years to not even second but third in precedence in Line Nuvo, behind not only his son but also his niece Elarai, the newly minted Queen of Elatana. However new her title was—and it was brand new, as the independent Kingdom of Elatana was not yet even a year old—because she was a current monarch, she got second billing. So new and undeveloped was her throne that Elarai had not even yet left school to be seated on it, as she insisted on finishing at least this year at the prestigious Shiro Academy.
Not that Zaram, or really that many other people in the Tavari government, particularly wanted to insult Packilvania. They were starkly opposed in Puntalia, this was certain, but they had once been allies. It was hard for Zaram to forget that Morstopackian soldiers had given their lives in the cause against the Asendavians who killed hundreds of thousands of Tavari in the Great War. And as geopolitically annoying as they might be, Tavaris had very little reason to actively pick fights with such a large country. Most certainly, the Tavari government—especially the lovely woman currently leading it—would have preferred that just about anyone else had represented Tavaris at the wedding and coronation. She had asked the Emperor, of course, and Otan had responded in no uncertain terms that—and as he understood it, this was verbatim—“I am not stepping even one gay foot on Packilvanian soil.” And no one would begrudge him that, not his father and certainly neither the Prime Minister nor her wife.
And so, with Queen Elarai declining to interrupt her studies, it came to be that the Sultan’s invitation was addressed to His Highness, King Emeritus Zaram of Tavaris. Not even “royal.” This was not a slight by the Packilvanians, who most certainly were always correct on protocol, but an insult from the Prime Minister of his own country. Statute law regarding the abdication of a monarch—written for his great-grandfather, who abdicated in 1953—declared that a King Emeritus would continue to use the style His Majesty, as he had as King, unless the Diet voted to withhold that title. So great was Žarís Nevran Alandar’s enmity for him—and it was now an open secret that the Prime Minister and the former King were bitter, bitter opponents—that the King Emeritus was not to be considered “royal” at all. He, like Vonar II, who abdicated nearly two centuries ago because he sought to leave the royal family entirely and become an Akronist monk, was stripped of all royal status and every last ceremonial position and even made to leave the Royal Palace, the only home he had ever known.
The former King of Tavaris was currently living in the basement of his brother’s townhouse outside Dravai. This, of course, had been the greatest insult in his life and a cause of incessant, boiling rage deep in his soul for months on end. But even that was now eclipsed by truly the most evil, most cruel thing that anyone had ever done to him.
You see, it had been determined that, so great was the King Emeritus’ shame, so low were the depths to which he had fallen, that he could not be allowed to be the only person representing Tavaris. And he had, he would readily admit to just about anyone, truly shamed himself and his country. He did hold prejudice in his heart toward the Akronists, who had blown up the country and killed hundreds of people because his son had wanted to marry an Ademarist. He had refused to go to that Akronist temple. And he did not regret his interruption of the Akronist Priestess who had claimed the memory and the very immortal soul of Shano Tuvria.
…who wasn’t even actually dead at the time, it turned out. But that was an entirely different matter.
Zaram had actually suggested Mr. Tuvria as his fellow representative; he figured that Shano really needed a vacation. But, as it turned out, even though he had never had cancer, his months of captivity in one of the most impoverished countries on Urth had damaged his health quite a bit, and Shano was once again—and they were sure this time—too weak to travel. And in any case, the Prime Minister had insisted, they wanted the entire Tavari Union to be represented, so they felt it would be prudent to send someone who wasn’t from Tavaris.
Ivi Puna Laar, then, the Presiding Chief of Rodoka? But no, she was too busy. So too were the heads of government of every country in the Union, as almost all of them were still quite preoccupied with, well, setting up their quite new countries.
The Tavari Ambassador to Packilvania, Ešedríl Oren Kantõšt, was a lovely woman who Zaram had met with several times. Surely, Zaram had said, she must be the perfect choice. But no, she was too Tavari. Jaak Moenarr Vähi, the Rodokan External Affairs Minister who had ardently spoken in support of Packilvania at the International Forum Security Council was apparently also too Tavari because he had been a Tavari ambassador at the time.
So who would it be? Who would accompany the shamed and humiliated King Emeritus to Packilvania? The best choice, everyone (but him) had readily agreed, was the only person alive on Urth he hated more than the Prime Minister.
Standing there next to him as the pair walked to their seats in the reception hall, draped in orange silk so fluorescent she could be seen from Olune, was Vana spirits-damned Dandreal, the Matron of the Church of Akrona.
The Matron.
Of the Church.
Of Akrona.
Zaram clutched the silver handle of the ebony cane—that was older than that elven slattern’s entire religion—he had brought with him in case his hip started acting up again and prayed to all the Nuvoni spirits that it would. He begged for the pain, because then, at the very least, he would have something else to think about other than that woman.
Melora the Unlucky… Toran the Sick… take my hip, take my knee, take all my joints, I will pay the price, give me fits so they take me from here in a stretcher, he prayed silently.
Vonar II, if you’re listening, I’ve never called on you before, but please, please, please take this woman with you to wherever you are, he screamed inside his head. He knew damn well where Vonar II was, he knew that the Matron would be following him there, and he prayed that it would be soon. How they had even let her in the building was beyond him. It was a temple, wasn’t it? Surely they weren’t supposed to let Akronists in there?
And that dress of hers… he had seen how low cut it was. She had used her silk headscarf to cover her shame, but he knew the truth. She ought to have been ashamed. And while she had dutifully covered her hair—and, admittedly, Zaram had also donned some local attire, opting for a conservatively-sized but very purple turban to shield his bald head from the Packilvanian sun—her dress left most of her arms uncovered, and she had draped her wrists in all kinds of garish gold bracelets and bangles. A ring on one of her fingers had a giant chunk of crystal in it, probably some “sacred” quartz from Akrona or something, that looked like a cheap piece of junk. Aside from the turban, the only flourish Zaram had allowed himself on his otherwise typical tuxedo, was a long, admittedly showy purple tropical feather pinned on his lapel.
Feathers were noble things, signs of blessing from the divine. Zaram had briefly spotted the Shaman of Kuduk and knew that he understood such wisdom. The Matron of the Church of Akrona was no noble thing. Her dress even had a slit not unlike that of the Emira of Sayyed, which was outrageous for a woman her age. Zaram didn’t know if it was more or less daring than the Emira’s, as he could not allow himself to look.
He certainly, most definitely, under no circumstances could allow himself to look. He gripped his cane and forced himself to keep walking.
The Matron’s stupid shoes clattered on the floor as they walked. He knew damn well why she always wore those shoes, it was because she liked to be the center of attention. She certainly didn’t need to be any damn taller, she was tall even for an elf even before her ears. Zaram’s own cane, bottomed in sterling silver, couldn’t even match the noise of those damn shoes. It didn’t help that she was clearly not walking, but striding, practically parading her legs around…
Her legs that he was not looking at, he reminded himself.
Forgetting his lessons in protocol for a moment, Zaram quickened his pace and strode ahead of the Matron, reaching the table first—and then, covering himself, pulled out a chair and offered it to the Matron.
“You’re too kind,” said the Matron with a smirk as she took the offered chair. Her voice was honeyed with… er, dripping with sarcasm as her bright smile shone… Er, that was to say, her smirk…
Zaram forced himself to sit down and clenched his jaw as tightly shut as he could manage, as if that could silence his mind. Something evil had gotten inside him and was making him think… dark thoughts. A waiter was already waiting at the table to ensure the dignitaries had refreshments, and Zaram wasted no time. “Do you have Tavari rum? Top shelf, bottom shelf, I don’t care, just… Tavari rum. If you don’t have Tavari, then… just, whiskey from wherever. On ice. Keep it coming,” he barked.
“You mustn’t mind the King,” said the Matron in that… voice of hers. “But I would be most appreciative if you could bring me some rosé. From whichever country you like.” She smiled then, a true smile, first at the waiter and then at Zaram, followed by a brief but unmistakable wink.
It was then that he felt his heart beat for the first time in 33 years.
This was, he feared, going to be a very, very long night.
