Re: Butterfly (Reincarnated as a Butterfly)

Alistair felt a gentle stirring at his shoulder.

I need a bit more sleep, he thought. Feel sore everywhere. Not sure what happened to me…

He was a bit groggy, but he felt confident that Carolien would let him sleep if he simply ignored the rustling by his arm.

It continued for a few minutes, but Alistair mustered enough energy to actively turn away from the motion. Whoever this was—clearly not his wife after all—had not taken the hint. Maybe this would do it.

The gentle movement at his shoulder suddenly changed into a shake, as the person jerked the King's arm back and forth aggressively—so violently that it was impossible for him to remain asleep.

As he came more fully awake, the dull ache throughout his body came back.

Why am I awake? I was injured, now I remember, that was why I was asleep… I do not feel well.

"Your Majesty, please wake up."

You do not sound like Carolien, Alistair thought slightly wearily.

"Hello Lord Callum," the King said after a moment, his eyes still closed.

"Your Majesty," Lord Callum pronounced in a tone of obvious relief.

"Can I assume, since you are the one waking me up, and not my wife or my daughter, that things go poorly?" Alistair asked. "Please give me the news frankly and quickly."

"Yes, sire," Lord Callum replied. "The war has reached the capital. The city is besieged. Outside Wayn's walls, an army has gathered and is moving to surround us and cut off our supply routes."

Alistair quietly groaned. This was bad news, but not unexpected. The real question was why Rosslyn was not dealing with it in his absence. She could command as well as he, Alistair knew. Probably better, if one only considered tactics and strategy—as opposed to physical and magical power, which could make one fighter the equivalent of a band of knights if the disparity in strength was large enough. So where was Rosslyn?

But Alistair feared the answer to that question. He remained silent and let Lord Callum explain at his own pace.

"The enemy rode up to the gate half an hour ago. They wish to parley. It would be unwise to turn them down, since time spent in dialogue and negotiation is time not spent fighting and losing men. Every hour that they are delayed allows our allies the opportunity to come to our aid. Our sentries acted prudently and told their envoy to wait outside while they conveyed the matter up their chain of command. Their commander came straight to me, of course.

"I believe we have little choice but to admit the man, with as much delay getting in and getting out as we can manage. As a mere matter of appearances, we need you, Your Majesty. If the messenger was to be admitted and told to deal with a mere advisor, he might pretend some offense at the idea and storm out—or demand to see the King himself. We have no information about the one the Empire has chosen to carry their generals' words, but they usually use members of their own nobility for these missions."

The King nodded. So far, Lord Callum was making sense. Nobility might want to deliver a message directly to the King and pretend to be slighted at not being permitted to speak in front of him, especially given that they had an invading army prepared to attack the capital city.

But the advisor was avoiding the point that the King wanted to know about.

Do not make me ask, Alistair thought. Just tell me.

"Will you permit the messenger entry, Your Majesty?" Lord Callum asked. He avoided the King's eyes as he spoke, as if he knew what Alistair was wondering about. The man knew his king well enough, perhaps he did know, and the truth was something he was consciously avoiding.

"Very well," said Alistair slowly. "Welcome the messenger in. Ensure that whoever escorts him is a man of discretion. All such envoys are scouts as much as they are messengers. The guide must keep this man from getting a good look at the inside of our fortifications—including any look at the ordinary people of Wayn. If the civilian men and women of the city are scared, I do not want him to know about it. Whether we have a large number of knights living in the city or a handful should remain a mystery to our guest. He should not take back any information about anything militarily important—" He hesitated for a moment—"except one thing."

The King explained what he wanted, and Lord Callum nodded, exhaling a long sigh of relief.

"It is good to have you back, Your Majesty," he said. "All will be done as you command. Shall I send someone in to dress you for the occasion?"

"In a moment," Alistair replied stiffly. "You seem to have missed a subject of crucial importance to me, in briefing me about all that has transpired while I was unconscious."

Lord Callum nodded guiltily. "Yes, Your Majesty. The Crown Princess has taken the mystic beasts and gone to quell a dungeon that arose adjacent to the city. She considered it to be of crucial importance before the onset of the siege."

The King swallowed. "That is not so terrible as I was expecting."

Your reticence led me to think she was dead, he thought. Missing was not good, but it was much better than dead. Rosslyn would surely return.

"My apologies for moving past that matter in my zeal to address the enemy at the gates, Your Majesty," Lord Callum said. "I should have considered how important your daughter's whereabouts would be to you at a time like this."

The King nodded. "Thank you, Lord Callum. You may send someone in to dress me, now." If the dismissal was brief, it was at least not cold.

Alistair's mind was already elsewhere, already in the formal audience chamber.

An hour later, his body was there too—or rather, moving through the hallway toward the audience chamber, dressed in full royal regalia, preparing for his encounter. Mana circulated through him, strengthening him, trying to temporarily repair damage so that he would be presentable for the conversation to come. He ceased using mana just before he stepped around the last corner and allowed the figures present near the audience chamber to see him properly.

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And it was fortunate that he had.

The messenger was just outside of the chamber as Alistair approached the grand double doors. His eyes locked onto the King as soon as Alistair stepped into view, appraising—looking for any sign of weakness, the King guessed.

Alistair walked almost directly past him but did not acknowledge the man's presence. It was all part of the theater of power. Until the envoy was formally announced, he was no one to the King.

Alistair did notice that the messenger appeared to be in the prime of his life, perhaps thirty years of age, in excellent condition—and a half-breed, of demon and human stock.

Perhaps the Emperor thought that such a person would make a more persuasive messenger. Alistair's mind worked differently. He had already placed this person into the "enemy" category, and his visual assessment was mostly to verify that yes, in fact, he could kill this demon.

Two servants pulled open the doors when the King stepped near them, while the royal herald stood just inside the entry as Alistair entered. The herald's body was as rigid as the rod in his hands for a moment, until Alistair had moved beyond the threshold. Then the man came alive.

"All hail!" declared the herald at the top of his lungs as the King passed. "Alistair, King!" He punctuated the sentences by thumping his staff of office against the ground.

"Hail!" echoed the nobles in the gallery, their voices almost a roar. "Hail King Alistair!"

Alistair hid a smile. This was the most cooperative he had ever seen the nobles of his court. That was what he had requested from Lord Callum—gather all the nobles he could to the gallery in the audience chamber, and explain to them what was happening.

These men and women hid their true feelings as a matter of course every day. That was part of courtly life. They were trapped in the besieged city as much as the Royal Family was. They could be trusted to put on a good show for this stranger—by their presence and conduct, they would underscore and exaggerate the political support that Alistair enjoyed from the nobility of his country. That might give the impression—hopefully at least partially accurate—that there would be reinforcements coming to relieve the capital from other parts of the country.

The exchange of dialogue with the Empire's messenger would undoubtedly be more about signaling and deliberate mutual misinformation than about actual negotiation.

A musician off beside a wall began strumming a lute as the nobles quieted down, and the King walked slowly to his throne to the sound of the music. After he had settled himself, he made a performatively impatient gesture.

"We are informed that there is a person present somewhere in the vicinity, to explain the unsightly presence outside of our city," he said in a loud, clear voice—the picture of health to all eyes and ears. "Show this individual in, and let us hear what they have to say for themselves."

The King saw two knights step away from the walls of the audience chamber to bring the messenger in, but the envoy immediately stepped forward and entered under his own power, before they could get to him.

As the knights stopped moving forward and held themselves off to the side, the herald thumped his staff once, with decidedly less enthusiasm.

"Announcing Sir Leorg of Scath!" he called in a dull, bored, almost braying voice. "Representing the will of the Demon Emperor."

Sir Leorg drew to within around ten feet of the throne, gave a short, sharp bow—bending slightly at the waist and barely lowering his head—and spoke.

"It is a pleasure to meet Your Majesty and see you in such good health," he said. "I only wish that it could be under better circumstances."

In good enough health to pummel you, I would wager, the King thought. This arrogant bastard dares to bring up the Empire's plot to poison me so blatantly…

"If you are here to extend the Emperor's apologies for his unwarranted aggression, offer recompense, and announce that the Demon Army will promptly remove its stench from the vicinity of my city, this will quickly become a much happier occasion," Alistair replied. "Otherwise, I do not know why you are here."

Sir Leorg gave the King a look somewhere between boredom and patient indulgence—obviously patronizing—and Alistair had to fight to maintain a neutral expression on his own face.

"Your Majesty, may I request a more private audience?" asked Sir Leorg. "It would be of benefit to both our peoples if I could speak frankly."

The King nodded. That was to his liking, too. The shorter a time he had to pretend he was in decent condition, the better this would be. Already his stomach felt ready to drop out of his body, and he could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck. Soon it would spread to his forehead, and before long, he would look like a much older man than he was. Without using mana—which would be visible to his guest—it was hard to pretend to be in perfect condition.

"Very well," Alistair said aloud. "In the interests of saving many lives, I am willing to speak with you. The conversations will naturally be of a delicate nature. I thank all of our loyal friends from around the Kingdom—and a few from around the continent—for their appearances here today. For now, please clear the room, and the Emperor's envoy and I will discuss matters privately."

The herald thumped his rod of office twice more, and as if woken from a stupor, the onlookers in the gallery seemed to realize they had been suddenly dismissed. They rose and began to file out of the room through the doors on both walls. The servants at the great double doors closed that entry point, and then they waited for the nobles to leave before going to the doors on the walls and closing them, too. The King heard the sounds of the ways out of the room being barred, and he knew the only people who could hear him and Sir Leorg were a couple of his most trusted knights and Lord Callum, who had remained behind.

Only then did the King resume the conversation.

"Now that we are alone, tell me—what does your master propose?" Alistair asked curtly.

"We propose your surrender," Sir Leorg replied. "You would retain your crown and your seat, remaining the King of Claustria, but you would acknowledge the Demon Emperor as your overlord, swear fealty to him, allow him to determine suitable marriage alliances between your heirs and high nobility of the Empire, and participate in any future wars the Emperor deems it necessary to fight on the continent. In exchange, the Emperor would leave this city and what remains unravaged of your country completely untouched. He would even agree not to levy any new taxes on your land for a period of twenty years following your submission."

The King swallowed. Those were surprisingly reasonable terms, on the surface. He could not be certain whether the Emperor would keep them or not, of course. The Empire had some history of mistreating its vassals, and he had only to consider the fate of Stalenton for an example of the demons' oppression of Goddess worshipers.

This was even setting aside the high likelihood that if the Kingdom surrendered, they would be immediately compelled by the Emperor to take up arms against their former allies. Thus the Demon Empire's frontier would remain forever expanding, until it ran against the shores of the continent.

"And if I refuse?" Alistair asked.

"In that case, the Emperor extends the traditional offer of a duel of champions to decide this battle without bloodshed. If you refuse even that, the Demon Army will have no choice but to—"

"You do not need to try to threaten me," the King replied, smiling dryly. "The Demon Army is well known for bluster. If that is all you have to say, Lord Callum will call for your escort to bring you back to the wall. I know how it would fill your heart with anxiety to stay overnight in enemy territory. You will have your answer on the morrow."

The messenger simply bowed his head. "I thank Your Majesty for your gracious welcome. And I will give Lord Baranack your warm regards."

He turned on his heel and moved toward the double doors before the King could say anything back—probably for the best, because hearing Lord Baranack's name filled Alistair with a violent rage. He would not have wanted anyone to see him not in control of himself, least of all this enemy.

I will have to accept the duel, Alistair thought. I am not in the best of conditions, but perhaps… Perhaps it can be won.