Icanra
Merchant
An Author's Perverse:
I dedicate this novel to The Mother - Sallana. May my words on the transformative qualities of love, bring hope to even the loneliest gentleman and lady. Though you may feel alone, our Mother has a partner for each soul, one only need to look beyond their own hearts, to embrace another.
To my dear, my lady, Rai, may my words echo my love till long after we both return to soil. To my child, Aislin, may you always know of a loving home – and regardless of which adventures you take and choices you make, know that your father will always be here. I shall always be ready for you both with guidance, compassion, and outstretched arms.
And finally, to you, the reader. May your love thaw even the harshest frost, may the tide guide your sails to journey to find such a soul to match your own – so that you may both chart a course, and find your way to home.
- Lune Tek'ton
Chapter One – A King atop a Frozen Castle
Some would say that a man needs no riches nor title to be happy, and for if he holds love in his heart then any home becomes a castle, any meal becomes a banquet, and any stoop becomes his throne.
Our story begins in a fertile valley. Hills of green and rivers of blue taper the rolling landscape. The sun slowly rises from the horizon, painting the valley with colour. Great yellows and oranges flow though the hills like a sweet summer wine, seemingly making each blade of grass greener and each drop of water sparkle like a thousand shards of glass. Such a sight provides the song for any bard, a rhyme for any poet and an endless pallet of colour for each artist to spend a lazy morning drawing – so as he can bring such a sight home for more to bear witness to.
Amidst these hills sits a structure not carved by nature but built by man. Cobbled stone sits atop a grassy verge. A great behemoth mass of cobbles, bricks and stone held together with clay alike not the consistency of watery oats. Indeed, not even the green grass could pierce the drab grey which seemed to emit from this melancholy castle that bears witness to a small city below. The city was Hayholm, capital of a great farming kingdom. A nation once held in acclaim for such fertile soil and rich meats, that left its front gates and into the palms of those wealthy enough to afford such luxuries. Though as with all acclaimed nations, the sun set on its prosperity and left all its people scraping by with what they had to get their next meal. Well, almost all its people…
For if one were to look up from the worn streets of Hayholm, towards the keep that stood so high above them, they might see a fleck of colour alike the spice of ginger root. A colour that gently bobs in the morning breeze. The source of such colour was a young man, but not simply any mortal man, but one with rings of gold upon his temples and wrists, one who had royal blood rushing through his veins. Such a man would hold the title of King! Though whisperings from the city below would scoff and scorn such a man bearing the title.
King Edgar was the fourth of his name, a name which he held dear. For t’was King Edgar the First who conquered the lands they resided upon, from the evil which once prowled the hills. Not to forget King Edgar the Second, who constructed the mighty keep and the great city which surrounded the hill it sat upon. Though one couldn’t simply list the Edgar’s without mention of our Edgar’s father – King Edgar the Third – whom held the most praise and acclaim. For he was the one who constructed the fertile farms within the Kingdom’s lands… He was the one who helped the city thrive… And he was the one who saw off the neighbouring kingdom’s threat.
Ah yes… the only kingdom whose army could rival the city of Hayholm – Duskgrad, a bastion of an old Elven Kingdom.
The Humans and the Elves had been in petty war for years, over an argument long since forgotten. There are many reasons why they were believed to have fought… Some say it was over the fertile fields, others say it was trade that soon turned sour. But the reason most believed in… Was love.
In fact, it was this very war which provoked King Edgar the Fourth to venture onto his balcony on that crisp Frosty morning. For the thought had banished off any hopes the young King had of getting to sleep and left nothing but paranoia circling around in his mind – alike a worn spindle with which even a barn-full of wool could not satiate. He paced back and forth on the balcony, his features far from the idolised looks his ancestors once bore. Instead of chiselled features, his cheeks were full, flushed. With the look of someone who had never gone without a meal (with second helpings for good measure). Indeed his gut boasted proudly from within fine silken robes – the young King had long given up on a belt or scabbard, content that the fine rope from his dressing robe would keep his shirt buttoned up just enough that the very buttons did not fly away from him.
Though while Edgar did not have the rugged physique or dashing looks that his namesakes had borne before him – he had a kind look about him. Not a kind look that would imply that he would give all his money to the poor, but more of one that implied that he was (mostly) harmless.
As his thoughtful pacing started to induce a light sweat, Edgar would stop to wipe his brow – out of breath as he runs a hand through his light ginger hair. Despite his many flaws, it could never be said that Edgar did not look after his hair, for that was perhaps the only feature he shared with the others of his name – as he would always keep it finely trimmed and maintained with the best oils that his immense wealth could afford.
As Edgar relaxes from what could be considered his only real exercise routine, he rests upon the balcony’s edge – looking over the city once more. Though this spate of relaxation would soon be interrupted as a shrewd voice calls to him from inside his chamber.
“Sire?” the wavering voice calls out.
Edgar closes his eyes, hoping that if he remained quiet enough – the voice would believe he were not in fact there.
“Your Majesty?” the voice croaks out again.
Once more there is silence from Edgar as he edges out of sight from the door. One foot over the other he moves to the opposite side of the balcony. Edgar glances towards the entrance to his chambers. Nothing. He waits… Nothing still. Breathing a sigh of relief, he looks down towards the town, wishing how all his troubles were so easy to get rid of. In fact, Edgar considered what his father would do in such a-
“My King?” the voice once again calls from within Edgar’s chambers as a figure edges into the light of the Morning Sun.
“Ah! Well… I say, yes, yes, I do say. There you are! Your… g-grace”.
It is said that one can often identify a person by their voice alone. Well such a statement definitely applied to Edgar’s current situation, as he watches his elderly advisor – a man by the name of Bertrude – hobble into his view.
The old man moved towards Edgar at a pace which even an elderly tortoise could consider a leisurely stroll. Bertrude’s fine robes clung to him only slightly better than his wrinkled skin did, as his walking stick leads his journey towards the King.
“Sire! Won-wonderfuh-fuh… Excellent news!” The old man exclaims as he finally reaches the Balcony’s edge.
‘Excellent news?’ Edgar thought to himself, his face lighting up as he turned to Bertrude, as even positive news that another townsfolk had not flung themselves from their rooftop could be considered a somewhat productive morning.
“News? What news?!” He exclaimed!
The young King’s mind races. What could the news be? Could the elves have given up the fight? Could his people have accepted his rule? Could they have stumbled on a previously hidden vault of money that would solve all the kingdom’s problems? A thousand equally unlikely thoughts rush through his head, in about the length of time it takes for Bertrude to begin his next sentence. Though at the rate the old advisor was going, that could have easily been a matter of minutes.
“Well milord, I’m told this season’s harvest could be this one of this year’s finest!” The old man proudly states, licking his shrivelled lips and smacking his teeth together. “Looks like fresh turnips for everyone!
Edgar blankly stares at his advisor who had now began to hum happily to himself. As the old man began what could only be called an odd, celebratory shuffle over such mediocre news. Edgar wondered what the length of time would be between Bertrude ‘accidently’ find himself being shoved over the balcony, and a suitable replacement arriving at his door (preferably one that would refrain from such dances that paralleled an duck with severe arthritis). Shaking his head, Edgar removed such childish fantasies from his mind and turned his attention back to the notion at hand.
“And the economy?!” Edgar demands towards Bertrude with a sharp tone that caused even the half deaf man to stop his dance.
“Ah well… The farmers are trying to sell… The turnip harvest so we can afford a harvest festival. City moral and all that nonse-“
“Harvest… Festival… Harvest Festival?! Festival?!” Edgar screams at his advisor, his sour mood clearly having worsened. “My royal court! My most trusted advisors, we’re broke! No money, nothing to fund ourselves, or our army! With the elves on our doorstep! And you all want a festival?!”
Edgar pants, clearly his body isn’t up to handling such pressure. Beneath his numerous chins, a fat vein throbs in his neck, sending slight ripples down the flesh, his neck seemingly disappearing under rolls of chin. With clenched hands and a stiff gait, he looms over his advisor who only seems to shrink further.
“Well… S-sire! Please c-calm down! If we hold a festival, we improve moral… So maybe they won’t mind if we raise taxes… Just, a tiny bit… Maybe they’ll even like you a tad mor-”
Edgar stares at Bertrude as the old man slowly trails off having realised what he said.
“S-sire I”
Edgar holds up a hand as Bertrude falls silent.
“They don’t like me do they…” The King begins.
Bertrude looks up at Edgar, unsure of what to say.
“Wh-why of course sire! I only meant tha-“
“Enough… I know that they do not respect me as they once did my father… And as much as I would like to do so, I cannot blame you for such a fact.”
Bertrude whimpers as the King slowly regains his calm.
“The festival…” Edgar sighs “Isn’t a terrible idea.”
“Why thank you-“
“But… That still doesn’t solve our problem with the elves…”
“Sire the Elves have been against us for nigh’ on two hundred years, we can ha-hardly expect them to just… give up now. Though we could dream…”
“You know that each one of my name accomplished something great with their lives. Isn’t it time I do the same? Do something that earns their respect.”
“Why of course but I don’t u-understand what that has to do with the elve… Oh, no… No, no”
Bertrude looks desperately towards the King, his eyes pleading as he slowly shakes his head. The King nods. Bertrude shakes his head once more. Edgar nods again. Bertrude fiercely shakes his head.
“Please sire…”
Edgar grins, his mind racing, his face showing the look of someone who had finally solved a puzzle that had been unfinished for decades, he slowly moves towards the door.
“The elves are set in tradition; you wouldn’t be the first to try and I-I doubt it’d be the last”
Edgar slowly wanders back into his chambers, the old advisor’s words echoing in his ears as Bertrude follows him in.
“Please sire I beg you not to meet with those savages!”
Edgar looks around his room, as if seeing it all for the first time. Stacks of plates, rich unfinished food, fresh linin and a feather mattress long since bolstered by his heavy frame – with the dent in his bed being the only imprint his reign had left upon his nation. Was gluttony and idleness to be his legacy? Bertrude’s full attention turns back towards the balcony, still rambling on – but the words now falling on deaf ears.
“So, I beg of you… Reconsider! For your people” Bertrude sighs, slowly turning around. “Shall I take your silence as a yes? “
The old advisor’s advice falls ill. For the room was now empty.
And Edgar was gone.
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