By Abigail Falanga
Cristilian drew a third deep breath, willing calmness into the deepest part of his being where perpetual anger burned.
Beyond the ornately carved doors, a cacophony of conversation and music marked a feast celebrating not only harvest completion but also victory in recent territorial skirmishes. Any Gathering of the Lords was prone to run with high tension. Everyone had a stake, and everyone an opinion.
The kind of event prone to spark Cristilian’s temper into a full rage.
“Breathe, control, understand, consider,” Cristilian repeated the personal creed instilled in him by his parents and tutors over the years. Breathe to cool the fires of his rage. Control his thoughts and feelings. Understand the perspective of others. Consider every word and action.
It didn’t help that today he’d already suffered everything from a stubbed toe to rumors of enemy forces massing along the borders. Just when peace seemed assured! He prayed these lords wouldn’t hear of it for a day or two.
Breathe. Control. Consider…
Cristilian settled the ceremonial sword at his side and a welcoming smile onto his face and threw open the doors. Before the herald had finished announcing him, a cry rang out.
“Cristilian!” Coriak embraced him, resplendent in victory colors. “I thought you were hiding in a dark corner while the rest of us got on with the important business of celebrating.”
Cristilian felt annoyance rising, in the way only his twin brother could evoke, but he laughed and parried with a jab of his own. “So, you’ve returned, Coriak—and here I thought you’d left me to my frivolous pursuit of statecraft as you went adventuring!”
“I’ve met success sooner and more completely than any have a right to expect. And circumstances changed, enabling a speedy return.”
“You will have to tell me all about it.” Cristilian wondered if his brother would be quite so pleased if he knew the rumors of unrest.
“In due time. Or you could just listen to the minstrels tell their version! They’re on the third ballad of the night—surely with no embellishments.”
They took their seats at the high table at the far end of the tapestry-hung hall, beside the chair left ceremonially empty for their great-aunt, the queen. She was ailing and past all but the simplest of decisions, and left regency with the two of them, her only living relatives.
Cristilian watched his brother. They were as alike as two eggs in one nest—in all but temperament. Coriak was easygoing where Cristillian was angry, thoughtful where he was rash, amiable where he was irritable. It fell to Coriak to ride into battles that Cristilian would not dare, for risk of losing control—an arrangement made essential by strange circumstances.
Once, he’d chafed at it, feeling that his impulsivity would make him better at adventure than his brother. But now, he understood. His glory was of a different kind.
The ballad concluded with a cheer acclaiming Coriak. Cristilian joined wholeheartedly.
“Aren’t you jealous of this?” Coriak asked quietly, as if guessing the tendency of his thoughts.
“I am more than content with my own duties.” Cristilian shrugged, dismissing the ghost of his rancor.
“Always so controlled and measured.”
“It is the truth. And I must be controlled and measured regardless.”
“Ah, yes! The prophecy.” Coriak swirled the wine in his goblet. “Old soothsayer waves a hand over our mother’s swollen belly and says the child within will cause the downfall of the realm. But—lo! Mother produces two children, not one. And with your foul temper, ungovernable enough to spark wars, you are taken and trained with utmost care.”
Endless lessons. Careful creed…
“I do not resent it.” Cristilian chuckled, but grew serious as he added, “Why should I desire the downfall of my land?”
“Why? For the power and wealth such an upset might earn you elsewhere,” Coriak replied glibly.
“What do you mean?”
The merry talk had fallen silent. In the lull, a lord on the other side of the hall gave a strangled cry and collapsed. Others groaned, clutching their stomachs.
Cristilian leapt to his feet, but froze as he felt Coriak’s dagger against his side.
“Our parents got it wrong,” Coriak, the erstwhile hero, hissed. “Poisoned wine is the weapon of a patient man, after all, and I shall cause the downfall of the realm.”
More lords collapsed, one after another, and Cristilian could only watch helplessly. Control, understand, consider… “There are rumors of the enemy amassing on the borders.”
“All true!” Coriak chuckled. “I wondered if you had heard. Yes, they await my signal to invade and overthrow what resistance remains and then finally topple our great-aunt.”
“But why?”
“You were always the special one—the one to watch for. They never suspected the danger I posed. Yet I was always the one hungry to rule this realm… or destroy it.”
Cristilian spun, sword in hand in a flash, and knocked Coriak’s dagger away. “Traitor.”
“Calm to the last!” Coriak sneered, drawing his sword. “You won’t last long!”
Now.
Cristilian unleashed his rage and rained blows upon his brother. He had the advantage of surprise, if not the skill of experience, and drove him back. Wounded and winded, Coriak called for aid. Several attendants rushed forward, stripping off tabards of royal livery to reveal the colors of enemy soldiers.
There was no hope of victory.
Cristilian turned and ran before they were on him, down darkened corridors and narrow forgotten ways, until he reached open air and knew he’d escaped. He slammed the door behind him and drove a fist against it with a cry of grief and fury.
Control.
He wound his anger into a coil—ready and waiting.
The realm was lost, for now. But Cristilian had not trained arduous hours for nothing. He knew who would still be loyal; he would go to the mountain strongholds, unknown to all but the queen and him, and amass forces and weapons. When the time was right—let the traitor feel his wrath!
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