Does It Matter?

Chapter 6

Maric entered the main hall with Brayan at his side and Dara following one step behind him and was immediately the centre of attention. Everyone wanted to speak to him, whether or not they actually had anything to say.

That was what Maric disliked most about playing the role of a prince outside of the military. In the military, people respected his time. Only the people who knew him well engaged him in inane chatter, and they only did it when there was nothing more important any of them needed to be doing.

By the time Maric managed to make his way through the crowd and into the banquet hall, he was already exhausted. Maric found his seat at the head of the main table and sat down. Brayan sat to his right, along the length of the table, and Maric gave Dara a minute nod of his head to indicate for him to kneel on his left. He complied.

As they had been getting ready Maric had started to doubt whether bringing Dara to this event was a good idea, but he seemed to be doing fine now. Then again, what did Maric know about how Dara was doing? He had thought the way Dara had been sulking about having to let someone else bathe him had been cute, until suddenly Dara had reached his limits and Maric had realised the situation had been genuinely upsetting him.

Maric split a fig in two and put one half in his mouth and offered the other to Dara. He felt a tiny brush of tongue against his fingertip as Dara took the fig with his mouth and he shot Dara a fond smile. He was going to miss him.

It was for the best, though. Brayan had been right about that. Situations like the one with the bath only further cemented that in Maric's mind. Keeping Dara with him was cruel.

Lord Hobbs approached the table and Maric braced himself for more diplomacy. He was one of the six members of the council that ruled over the city in the king's stead. All members were supposed to be of equal standing, but power seemed to have shifted towards Lord Hobbs due to seniority. Maric thought age was a ridiculous way to allocate power.

Lord Hobbs bowed as low as a moderately overweight, elderly man could, which wasn't very low. "Your highness."

Maric dipped his head in acknowledgement.

Lord Hobbs claimed the seat along the table to Maric's left, and Maric found himself reflexively placing a protective hand on top of Dara's head.

"How have you been enjoying Broven so far, your highness?" Lord Hobbs asked.

"It's a lovely city," Maric responded. He had said those same words at least a dozen times already tonight and he was worried they were beginning to sound flat.

"We benefit from being so close to your beautiful city."

It took Maric a moment to realise he meant Crevia. Maric had been born there, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd thought of it as his city. He avoided it as much as possible and would continue to do so as long as his father sat on the throne. "And we benefit from the trade you bring us."

"Not so much this year, I'm afraid," Lord Hobbs said. "We've had a terrible growing season."

"Yes, I've been hearing about that," Maric said. "Hopefully the rains will be better next year."

"It does tend to be cyclic. I understand that. The peasants who tend my fields have been getting restless over the matter, however."

"Why? Have you not paid them?"

"I pay them in a percentage of the yield to encourage hard work. They had no quarrels with the arrangement in all the years the harvest was good, but when things are no longer falling in their favour they suddenly want to change the deal."