Last Life

Outskirts of Herouxville

The Royal Family’s Winter Palace

HIS MAJESTY CARL THE THIRD, King of Vestonia was standing on a second-story balcony looking out languorously at the sprawling gardens in front of the Winter Palace.

Down below on the multicolored gravel of the paths between the neatly trimmed bushes, marble statues of the gods and dozens of fountains, his subjects ran, stood, and strolled.

The king leaned his elbows on the wide marble balustrade and breathed a heavy sigh.

“Is something burdening you, Your Majesty?” asked Kiko, standing next to him and sticking his head between two statue balusters with a silly look.

Looking down at the hooded head, the king gave a chuckle. The only person he allowed such liberties was his little jester. His only friend, who had proven his loyalty countless times.

“Look down, Kiko,” the king suggested.

“Okay,” the hooded head nodded.

“The garden,” came an immediate response.

The hooded head turned, and a pair of clever eyes looked up at the king.

“What else do you see?” the king asked, nodding below.

“What else?” the jester turned his head where the king pointed and started listing: “Paths, statues of naked gods, bushes, fountains, a pond, people...”

“What kind of people?”

“Your subjects.”

“What else?”

“Your children and grandchildren,” the jester answered and added: “They look very happy.”

The king breathed another heavy sigh and a shadow ran across his face. Kiko looked closely into his sovereign and best friend’s face and thought that he would die for him at a moment’s notice.

Ever since the dark day when the brave and clever Prince Bastien, the king’s favorite son, had died, His Majesty had completely given up on life. Despite the fact that Bastien was his younger son, the king was preparing him for the throne. Only Kiko knew the truth that Carl was planning to declare Bastien his heir.

Kiko was perfectly aware what the king was sighing about. Down below in the garden, split up into groups and appearing to be just strolling and enjoying themselves, in reality three main factions of nobles were engaging in intrigue and turning the others against one another, each supporting their own prince.

Naturally, Kiko saw that but was not going to share his observations.

“And what do you see, Your Majesty?” he asked, trying to make his voice sound as naive and foolish as possible.

But the jester’s tone did not deceive Carl. He just snorted and nodded at the oval fountain the largest group of nobles was gathered around.

“Down there, I see my eldest son Phillipe. Many in court believe that I will declare him heir to the throne.”

“Are they wrong?”

“He’ll be thirty soon,” the king sighed darkly. “And still he’s afraid to so much as take a step without looking to his beloved uncle the Duke de Bauffremont. Giving the throne to Phillippe would be equivalent to crowning my dear wife’s eldest brother. Need I say what would become of Vestonia with the de Bauffremonts at the helm?”

“Something tells me that Astlandic would come in fashion at court in short order,” the jester shrugged.

The king chuckled. Kiko was right. No one was unaware that the queen of Vestonia had more relations in Astland than the country her husband ruled.

“What about Heinrich?” Kiko nodded toward a large group of nobles.

Their clothing and warlike appearance were clear evidence that they would rather have been at the arena watching the tournament.

“Your second son is a true warrior,” Kiko continued. “He has enough bravery and resolve for ten men.”

“That’s the problem,” the king shook his head. “If he were given free rein, Vestonia would get bogged down in wars.”

“But we’re at war right now...”

“That’s different,” Carl objected. “And you know it. I put that off as long as I possibly could. But the Atalians forced our hand. Heinrich will go looking for fights, draining the royal coffers. The Craonnes will see to that. Those bankers never miss their chance.”

The royal jester nodded. He agreed with almost everything his king said, except one part. For Kiko, who originated among common folk and had spent time in a traveling circus visiting various corners of Mainland and was perfectly aware of the price the people would pay for their king’s fancy, war was war. Period. And it was mainly commoners who paid the price.

“And what do you think about your third son, Your Majesty?” Kiko asked. He intentionally avoided using the word “youngest.” In the king’s heart, that “title” belonged forever to the late Bastien.

Carl turned his head toward a small group of nobles whose overly flashy clothing made them look more like birds than people.

The king winced.

“Louis... He... He has no interests other than balls, jewelry, and clothing. Him I have the hardest time imagining on the throne. Plus his nose is too straight...”

The last part the king said very quietly, nearly in a whisper. But Kiko heard. Still, he didn’t let on. He’d long learned “not to hear” when the king voiced his thoughts. That was why he was still alive. He just cast a sidelong glance at Carl’s aquiline profile. Louis was the king’s only son not to inherit that distinctive facial feature from his father.

A few years ago, when everyone started noticing how little the youngest prince resembled his father, there were even rumors at court about Her Majesty’s indiscretion. But the Secret Chancery very quickly put a sock in those big mouths. Beyond that, a portrait of one of the patriarchs of the Catoire family was bequeathed to the royal gallery. Related to the king through his mother, Prince Louis was the man’s spitting image.

Carl the Third breathed another heavy sigh and glanced out at the pond. His look then warmed. On its banks, while a brigade of nannies looked on, his little Adèle was racing around at the head of a gaggle of fellow adolescents. The princess wouldn’t have her first spring ball until the next year, and for the time being... She was still just his little granddaughter. The light of his life.

Noticing the king’s shift in mood as well as the reason for it, Kiko decided that it was a great opportunity to make a report.

“Your Majesty...” he started.

“Kiko, let’s keep it simple,” the king interrupted. “What do you have there?”

“Information on the de Gramont bastard.”

“Let me have it,” Carl the Third allowed, still watching his granddaughter with a smile.

For the next few minutes, Kiko told the king everything his people were able to dig up about Maximillian Renard.

The king, listening closely to the jester, frowned.

“Well, what’s all the fuss about then?” he asked, interrupting Kiko mid-report. “It’s a typical bastard’s story. Men like him are as common as mongrel dogs in Vestonia.”

“Right you are, Your Majesty,” Kiko agreed. “That was just a brief introduction. The interesting and strange part is yet to come.”

“Carry on,” the king waved, not particularly hoping to hear anything out of the ordinary.

But a few minutes later, the things Kiko reported started making him frown.

When the jester finished, Carl spent a little while longer in silence before saying thoughtfully:

“Despite being a frail, dimwitted boy pampered by life in the capital city, he is now turning into a calculating cold-blooded fighter. Curious... What are your thoughts on his rapid about-face?”

“I don’t have enough to go on,” Kiko replied. “My people are tracking him to the frontier as we speak. But I can already theorize that this Renard is gifted.”

“Agreed,” the king nodded. “You think he always was, or did the gift reveal itself recently?”

“Those who had close contact with him all agree that the sudden changes started when Renard regained consciousness after being wounded at a duel with de Lamar. But based on his actions, he was very confident using his gift, if that is indeed what it is. And that means...”

“Do you think the late Ferdinand de Gramont knew about his bastard’s gift for a long time and had been training him in secret to use it for the last few years?” the king stroked the bridge of his nose. “Sounds like utter nonsense. So all this time, we had a novice combat mage under our very noses. Wait... Didn’t you say I granted him clemency on the queen’s request?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Kiko nodded. “And she was requested to intercede by the First Lady of Her Majesty’s Bedchamber.”

“The Duchess de Clairmont?” the king asked in sincere surprise. “What could that cunning fox have wanted with a common bastard?”

The jester just shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He didn’t have enough information to draw any conclusions.

“This matter has only spawned more questions,” the king said. “Keep digging and find me answers.”

“Yes sir, Your Majesty,” Kiko bowed. “Could you please tell me how you plan to act on Heinrich de Gramont’s request?”

“I suppose I will approve his petition,” the king said thoughtfully. “We need that kid back in the capital ASAP. The last thing we need is him getting into bed with all the rogues and traitors on the frontier such as the Duke de Valence and his ilk. But make sure it looks like Heinrich de Gramont’s idea. At the same time, we can find out if he knows about his nephew’s gift. By the way, did your sleuths act with caution?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Kiko replied.

“Good,” the king rubbed his hands together. “If this kid really is a combat mage, that would be very nice.”

“Would you like to offer him service?”

“Not right away,” the king replied, stroking his beard. “Let him first prove himself. And we can observe. Beyond that, I do not wish to press. We cannot have a repeat of what happened to Zoé de Namur.”

Kiko nodded. Zoé de Namur had commanded a group of five combat mages who fled to the frontier right when the country was on the verge of war with Atalia, which was a painful topic for Carl the Third. Strykers were already a valuable commodity, but a whole subdivision of experienced combat mages...

“Summon the secretary,” the king ordered and smiled as if he was about to get a new toy. “I simply cannot wait to have a look at this Renard.”