The Broken Crown

Chapter 47

Thomas

 For the first time ever – or at least in the memory of man – snow had reached the western states of Etheron. It had almost been surreal; the battle had been won, but the war from it, and suddenly, as they stood in the midst of the dead bodies, reeking of blood and sweat and evil, the white flakes had fallen from the sky like a token from the gods.

 They had fallen onto the dead bodies, the blood-stained grounds, at first melting away, but then covering everything in a thick blanket of white. It had seemed the world had been born anew, all their sins forgiven.

 That had been the last battle of the year. The rebel forces had retreated after the defeat, a defeat that hit them hard, and Raphael had felt no need to encourage more battles in the cold of winter. Instead, they had retreated to Lionhall for the solstice.

 No snow fell in Tibera, and it was still almost warm outside. The ladies dared themselves out of their exile to celebrate the winter holidays with their husbands, and Thomas rejoiced in Celeste’s company.

 The war, however, tore at the finances, and after a few nights of reuniting long into the night, he had to retreat to his work, sometimes many nights in a row. He knew it should not have been so hard to do that, and he knew he should not have felt such a longing to leave his work in favour of spending time with her.

 “Two years,” Raphael sighed. It was a week after the solstice and the King’s Council had conjugated in a solar of the castle. “Two years, and the end of this war still seems out of sight.”

 “Not too far out of sight,” Raymond muttered. Thomas looked at him with worry; he was sitting leaned back in his chair, both feet thrown onto the table, a cup in his hand which had been filled more than one time too many during the meeting. “We have won more than twice as many battles as they have in these past months.”

 “And we’re still losing the war,” Raphael muttered angrily. Angry at his brother, at the war, at himself.

 “Not yet,” Thomas said, trying to make himself sound optimistic. “A friend of mine who lives east of the Warm Sea has agreed to donate coin and men for our war. They will arrive in short time.”

 “Send them back,” Raphael ordered. “We can’t accept.”

 “We have to,” Thomas objected.

 “Well, we can’t!” Raphael shouted, and the room fell silent.

 After a moment of uncomfortable silence, in which no one dared to even move a finger, Thomas said, “Your Grace…”

 “You have to find another way,” Raphael said sternly. “It is too embarrassing.”

 “There is no other way.” The young king was closing his eyes, clenching them shut, tiredness evident in his every move. “The kingdom is not making any money, there are no funds, no taxes. The people might die on the battlefield, lose on the battlefield, but they have many men to take from, and we are losing outside of the battlefield.”

 “We can’t…”

 Jonathan had been pacing the room, but now came to sit by the table. “Your Grace, there is no other option.”

 “There has to be.”

 “There isn’t.”

 Raphael drew in a deep breath, as if to stop himself from doing something rash. His fist hit the floor with a bang, sending the glasses to the floor with loud clanks. Wine spilled onto the wood like thin blood. For a moment, he sat like that, fist planted on the table, heaving for his breath. “Thomas,” he said then.