Story part 8 – The Bloody Monarch

“Fortune smiles on you. Any sudden disappearance of yours would cause me greater inconvenience than listening to your excuses already does, but know that my patience is limited. Incompetence shall not be tolerated.”

Bloody Monarch rose from his elevated throne. A couple of steps at his feet sufficiently separated him from all the cretins falling to their knees, but there was nonetheless a certain perverse pleasure in looking down on them. It was also a natural emphasis on his position: at the top stood he, the lord and master absolute. At the bottom, conversely, was a court stonemason who had failed him.

“Your Highness, forgive me, what else could I’ve done?” the subject lamented. “The wall was built as you commanded, and the tree had enough room. Only that, since summer the roots have reached so far they found a gap between the stones and chipped the wall. Things grow fast around here, this is known, but…”

“Silence!” the monarch’s roar echoed across the throne room. “‘Fast’ is how you better fix that wall, cut down the tree, uproot it and salt the ground. Cut down other trees that grow too close to the walls, so that it won’t happen again. Now get out of my sight!”

The mason shuddered and whimpered like a pathetic mongrel reprimanded for disobedience. Bowing down to the point of almost kissing the red carpet, he backed away from the throne while the monarch stood and watched him with a mocking smile. First set of columns, second, third… yes, even from this distance he could still shoot him dead. Serfs were so easily replaced.

One perversion a day, he thought, and let the mason leave the chamber. A bleeding subject would not improve his  mood today. Perhaps some fine liquor instead? He seated himself on the throne, grabbed a gilded goblet and took a sip, then sloshed the rest on the steps. Eh. Even the wine didn’t taste right.

The wine could not soothe the grief of losing a loved one, and drying stains refused to form any kind of divination that would bring him closer to the murderer. Maybe today was simply meant to be lousy? He will try again tomorrow. He will avenge her eventually, even if it meant spilling all of Slickhaven’s wine, and more than that should a need arise. Scarlet drops sprinkled the castle floors quite regularly, and in many places they had already formed intricate patterns in which the monarch would seek answers to his questions.

Sometimes it was the throne room’s floors, and sometimes chambers full of shackles and sharp tools.

“The clown. Bring me the clown,” he demanded. Streams of blood and wine were excellent remedies for the ineptitude of his subjects, but to truly occupy his thoughts, he had to turn to the only man whose actual job was to pretend to be an idiot. In his experience, that man’s single word was worth more than anything uttered by the courtiers claiming to be enlightened. “Where is Royal Jester!”

Not even a minute passed when a purple-yellow, mottled figure burst into the chamber and skipped forth. A pirouette, a twirl, and finally a forward lunge which ended in a split. The jester took off his four-pointed cap, the bells of which rang merrily as he bowed, and pretended to wipe the steps with it. He then stood up in a springy jump and straightened up. As befitted a court performer, his gestures and movements were theatrical and utmost exaggerated.

“Good sir, kind sir, why’s thy face so grim?” he recited. “Why to worry so intently, whilst thy wine fills every brim?”

“I’m afraid, Jester, there isn’t enough wine in the whole wide world to drown all my sorrows and griefs,” the monarch replied. “Don’t bother with the anecdotes, I have no need of them today. I have summoned you here because I wish to know your take on the current affairs troubling the city.”

“Glad to speak and lend an ear, topics, themes, they matter not.” The jester took a scrap of colored paper from his pocket, rolled it into a cone, and stuck it on the side of his hat. “Speak, Your Highness, for I do listen, what’s the worry thou have brought?”

“As you know, Slickhaven is situated on the edge of the Thornwood forest,” the monarch began. “While our people stand for advancements in trade, growing the guilds, and building strong foundations, the forest is ridden with nature worshippers who… well, do exactly that. We’re building a future for Slickhaven and its citizens, whereas those savages bow before old trees and tend to bushes as if they were their firstborn. Rumor has it they mate with animals, too. Regardless, they would sometimes send their more civilized representatives to meet our people and trade forest goods for tools and other things they needed. We practice our ways, they practice theirs, that’s how it’s been for years, but lately something’s changed.”

The jester froze and covered his mouth in a flawless fake shock and disbelief, and the monarch carried on.

“It’s been six months, yet no one has come out to trade since. Moreover, the hunters reported that the dire wolf which usually plagued the farms in the fall didn’t show up either. It had always been gobbling up cattle before winter, but now no one has heard anything in over a month.”

“The savage are quiet, and so is the beast,” the jester intoned. “Have the savage become the beast’s own grand feast?”

“That was my thought too, but nothing of sort has occurred in years, except the incident with the butcher’s wife,” the monarch replied. “Now this is where it gets interesting. While there’s no activity in the forest, there is more than enough here, within our borders. I’ve just had a visit from the court mason because some tree has grown its roots in such a way it chipped a part of the garden walls. Two weeks ago I was told of a woman who got herself tangled in ivy and almost suffocated to death, although she insisted she did not trip. Someone else had a case of mushroom poisoning when something similar but inedible had suddenly grown among their ceps. And recently, a bush by the stables had developed to such a span I’ve had the gardener cut it down with an axe to let the horses out.” The monarch slammed his fist on the throne. “Why are things which should stay in the forest happening in my city?”

“A puzzling matter indeed, yet perhaps not fully unclear,” the jester suggested. “Have thou done anything a forest would consider… severe?”

The monarch snorted. “If you’re talking about the summer logging, I have no regrets. What, should I cry about it? Be ashamed of what I’ve done? Should I now go and apologize to the savages and their forest spirits? We needed the wood because the city is expanding, the ports need workers and the houses don’t just grow on their own. There was no time to waste, especially not when we have a resource such as Thornwood at our doorstep.”

“Thy logic, my lord: is, was, and forever shall flawless be.” The jester climbed up the throne’s elevation and grabbed the edge of the monarch’s cloak. “But, say I cut it here. Wouldn’t thou hold it against me?”

“Make the damn point already! You mean to tell me that the forest is now revolting because I decided to cut down a couple more trees off-season?”

“Who dwells in the forest knows the trees can sing loud, but when silence arises, it’s fell omen avowed. Moreso in the city: the ivy, the wall. All that has happened resembles a call. Who hears it must listen, with patience not scorn, for after every silence, there comes a storm.”

The jester jumped off the elevation and bowed before leaving. Bloody Monarch furrowed his brow. Now he regretted spilling all that wine.