The Withering Sword

Chapter 11: Fire and Water

SILARON

Bainling, capital city of Miihing (subjugate kingdom of the Empire)

The royal palace buzzed with activity on the days before Prince Amraxes’ arrival. Usually, Silaron could walk through the corridors undisturbed, but now he crossed servants bearing chests, trays full of food, bolts of cloth, and even on one occasion a small dog. Everyone wanted to put up the best appearances for the visit. Silaron overheard a few servant girls gossiping in the courtyard about the prince’s professed attractiveness and skill with a sword. “He’s killed over a hundred pirates himself,” one of the girls assured the others earnestly.

“I’m sure he’s not as interesting as they make him out to be,” said Nerion one day, lounging with an elbow on Silaron’s desk. Silaron was reading a letter from a priestess in Southern Miihing, who made a claim about seeking justice for a girl murdered by a Gyoto soldier. “Mark my words, Silaron. He’s a bore, and we’ll be expected to entertain him and laugh at his jokes for weeks. My jaw’s already tired from just thinking about it.”

“What a calamity,” said Silaron, keeping his eyes on the letter. He hadn’t had much patience for his brother these past few weeks, since that ridiculous speech he’d made at court.

“Aren’t you touchy,” said Nerion. “Don’t be jealous. He can’t possibly outshine us.”

“I’ve been telling you.” Silaron slammed the letter down on the desk. “You have to keep your head down while he’s here. He’s expected to outshine us. He’s the imperial prince. We’re both his subjects, and you can’t forget that. I’m tired of having to be the one who picks up the pieces after you break things, Nerion.”

“Are you still mad about what I said at the smith’s trial?”

“You don’t even know his name, do you?”

“He’s your friend; not mine.”

“It was just a show for you. A daring adventure to speak up in front of a hundred people about your stupid ideas. You didn’t care about Ojin in the least. It was all the same to you if he lost his head as long as you got to express your opinion.” Silaron shoved a book on military tactics into his brother’s chest. “Why don’t you put in a little effort into something other than getting drunk and making grand speeches that don’t help anyone?”

“He didn’t lose his head.” Nerion had the good grace to look surprised, at least. “You got him off with a fine, didn’t you? Prince Silaron saves the day again. You just don’t understand. It’s not enough. It’s the base of our society that’s rotten. Helping one person here and there isn’t going to make a dif―”

“Go study,” said Silaron. “I’m done trying to keep you alive. Let the empress have you for all I care.”

Nerion shrugged and left for another table in the library. Silaron rubbed his eyes tiredly. He’d had trouble sleeping lately; he kept thinking he’d wake up and find his twin murdered in the night. He’d paid more than the smith’s fine the day of the trial: silver had gone into all sorts of pockets, and he’d even sunk low enough to ask for Urion’s help in keeping the witnesses to Nerion’s little demonstration quiet. Fortunately, the court hadn’t been too full that day, but that still meant over fifty people who only had to let slip one word of the crown prince’s speech to the wrong person for Nerion’s life to end. His brother just wouldn’t see the danger he was in. He was proud of himself for what he’d done.

Prince Amraxes arrived at the Bainling port the next day an hour before sundown. Silaron and Nerion both rode in the delegation that went to receive the imperial prince, just behind their mother’s silk-curtained chariot. Silaron observed the crowd around them, noticing how they reacted to his brother. They paid even less attention to Silaron than usual, but something else was different. He heard fewer cheers and saw fewer smiles; he didn’t sense any aggression, but rather a strange watchfulness, as though they were all waiting for something, or trying to decide if something would happen. Nerion waved cheerfully at them as usual, blowing a kiss or two. By the time they reached the docks, Silaron’s neck had knotted up with tension.