The Radiant City

The Letter

Within the hour, Alkanion was finished fighting. A knife grazed his arm, and despite his half-hearted protests, the guards deemed the situation too dangerous. Of course, as king he could have forced them to let him fight, but he had no strength left. He'd seen more than enough blood to last a lifetime. It made him sick. Let them call him a coward if they would.

Back in his tent, he collapsed onto his bed and let out a deep breath. The sounds of clanging metal, ripped flesh, and men shouting still filtered in from outside, and he put his pillow over his ears. By tomorrow he'd be gone.

At some point he must have drifted off; he awoke to a tattered message-boy standing over him, nudging him urgently.

"What, what is it?" he mumbled, dragging himself upright.

"A message, my king," the boy replied.

Alkanion pursed his lips. "Yes, I gathered as much. What is the message?"

"Ah... he said I should just give you the letter, my king. That's all. Then I'll be on my way."

"Who said that?" Alkanion pressed, rubbing his temples.

"Mister Brevenion, my king."

Alkanion sighed. He really wasn't in the mood for this. "Alright; let me have it."
The boy stood frozen for a second. "Ah! Right. Here." He offered the paper.

Alkanion snatched it out of his hand and waved him away. He scurried off without the slightest hesitation.

"Wait yet for my reply," Alkanion ordered after him.

With another sigh, he ripped open the seal and flipped open the thick castle paper, rubbing it absent-mindedly with his fingertips in an effort to stay awake. His arm hurt where he'd been cut, but his mind fatigued him worst of all. He could hardly focus on the hastily-scrawled words.

Alkanion, the letter began, I write bearing terrible news. Your father has died in prison. He refused to eat and resisted all attempts at reason, allowing grief to consume him. There was no one around at the event to witness his final words.

Thus far, I have kept this secret from all but those most directly involved in the affair. You cannot afford to let on, but I thought you should know before you return to the castle.

Sincerest condolences,

Brevenion

P. S. Have you considered launching an attack on Lamaera while you are still out west?

Alkanion stared at the paper for a long time, not moving. Some part of him knew he should be crying, but he couldn't feel anything at all. He tried to conjure up fond memories of Jorlson—there were plenty to be found, if he could only wrap his thoughts around them—if only to spur on some sort of response. He was his father!

But to no avail. He felt nothing at all. Just an overwhelming desire to leave this wretched place and return home. He set the letter aside and called for the message boy, who quickly arrived.

"Yes, my king?"

Alkanion didn't reply; he was too busy scribbling a note on a sheet of inexpensive military paper. Brevenion, it read, If you haven't already, bury him quickly. No fuss. Alkanion. He haphazardly folded it shut, sealed it, and stuck it in the boy's hands. "Take this directly back to Brevenion. No dawdling."

The boy nodded, saluted, and sprinted out of the tent.

Once he was gone, Alkanion pulled his suitcase out from under the bed, walked over to his dresser, slid open the top drawer, and began to pack for the journey home.