Gun of Ashes

Cornel poured out all his worries, holding nothing back.

”The Believers of the Evangelical Church aren’t much of a concern; under the pressure of the Orthodoxy their voices will only grow weaker. But the other ministers and Dukes don’t see it that way. They have vast enterprises in every trade—war will only shrink their fortunes. They may refuse to go to war, and when that time comes those discordant voices will drag us down. You have the power to command them, but now you’re trapped in a sickbed…”

Cornel’s voice gradually trailed off.

The King didn’t speak. Only after a long silence did he slowly begin to talk about the past.

”Have I ever told you about your grandfather?”

”No. His name is a taboo. When I was a child, even a curious question about him would earn me one of your furious scoldings.”

Cornel thought of his grandfather—that man who had come closest to the Mad King. He had convened a banquet, then poisoned every member of the Royal Family, until this vast palace held only Cornel’s bloodline.

”Then I should say it now, before it’s too late. If I die, no one will ever know this story… He was a hero. A hero shouldn’t die in such nameless silence—someone ought to remember what he did.”

The King strained to remember. His mind was a fog; even his memories had begun to blur.

”Back then I was about your age. The entire Royal Family were loyal Believers, but your grandfather was not. He wanted to break free of those shackles. To that end he founded the Iron Law Bureau, and dabbled in all manner of strange things, until one day he caught the eye of the Evangelical Church. His actions had angered God; perhaps within a few days he would be branded a heretic and utterly eradicated.

Your grandfather did think about how to resist. He tried to unite all the members of the Royal Family, but he discovered that none of them sought the same thing. The others were quite content to be Believers: so long as they prayed, they could enjoy wealth and glory. Why should they rebel?”

The King tilted his head, smiling as he looked at Cornel.

”I remember it was a night that wasn’t particularly cold. Your grandfather came into my room. He looked nothing like a King—more like a drunkard in his cups. He talked and cried at the same time… I had never seen him like that. He said that the honor he clung to was, in their eyes, nothing but filth in a sewer. He said that if we did not break free from it, Gaulunaro would forever be bound by the Evangelical Church.”

”In the end he seemed to come to some decision. He told me he was going to do something big.”

Cornel’s heart suddenly went cold. He thought of what that ”something big” was.

”And then came the part you already know. He held a banquet and poisoned all those discordant voices, purging the will of the Royal Family. All other powers were stripped away, and under the operations of the Iron Law Bureau one noble after another fell into beggary.

But that was all afterward. At the time I rushed to the banquet hall with the ministers and the guards. Amidst the corpses scattered over the floor, he sat upon a throne piled from bodies, drinking wine, hair hanging loose, like a madman.”

As though he had been pulled back to that year, the King’s heart began to race. That scene rose before his eyes once more.

”I can hardly describe what I felt then. Just the day before I’d been flirting and fooling around with maids, planning to go drink myself senseless in a tavern. And suddenly my father had gone mad. He had slaughtered everyone. The ministers and nobles were watching like tigers eyeing their prey, and I was the only one left of the Royal Family.”

The door swung open, and beyond it was no corridor, but a blood-reeking feast. Upon the throne of piled remains, the Mad King gazed at the King, stepping across time and space, a gratified smile on his lips.

”Your grandfather just looked at me like that. Everyone else said he had gone mad, that we should rush in and kill him. But I saw it—those were a pair of utterly clear eyes… You have the same look in your eyes.”

The King looked at Cornel.

”He was never mad. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

The air itself seemed to swell with the sweet metallic scent of blood. Cornel gripped the King’s hand tightly, as though trying to squeeze the last warmth out of that body.

”Do you know what metamorphosis is? Sometimes, in a single instant, a person suddenly changes—body and soul becoming someone else. A bewildered child becomes a Warrior, suddenly knowing what he must do, what kind of war he must fight.”

The brutal memory grew clearer and clearer. The King went on.

”For me, that moment was then. In a flash I understood what he meant to do, and what I must do. Under your grandfather’s gaze I drew a guard’s sword and ordered everyone to capture him alive.

In the days that followed I judged his crimes and laid all blame upon him. To quell the fury, I personally executed him before the eyes of the people. Aside from this memory in my mind, I destroyed every trace that he had ever existed.

I became the new King. From that day on, there was only one voice left in the Royal Family.”

The King’s account was so vivid that Cornel could feel his emotions through that constantly trembling hand.

”I killed my own father with my own hands, Cornel Garrell.”

He growled, then, as if all strength had left him, he asked in a vacant voice:

”Patricide—that is probably the curse of our Garel Royal Family.”

Those empty, lifeless eyes shifted to Cornel’s face. Cornel did not look away; his calm gaze met the King’s and held it.