Page 40 of Valdemar

But since he was stuck with the crown, he couldn’t have asked for better heirs than his three lads . . . Restil was immensely helpful today. Like all days, really. He’s a Valdemar to the core. Well, so are the other boys, aside from Hakkon’s little wobble. It felt like they were nothing like the increasingly vile tyrants that had worn the Wolf Crown. And he was only getting older, while they were getting smarter and stronger, so quickly.

And that was when a particular too-familiar twinge of misgiving hit him again, this time with force. And finally, finally, the unease, the actual fear that had been lurking emerged, and gave itself a name that he felt in his chest even before it formed a word.

Time.

He could not fight time. He was certain that, while he might not be the best King, he was at least a King who kept the welfare of his people ahead of his own. While he lived, there would be no tyrants on this throne. And Restil was of the same cut as he was.

Restil despises tyranny, and won’t emulate any traits thatthe Emperor and his cronies practiced. He is considerate,responsible, and vigilant. So that’s . . . one generation covered.

“But what about Restil’s heirs, and his heirs’ heirs? What about usurpers, and manipulators, and . . .”—he paused in his steps to look to the west, where the presence of the Pelagirs seemed to loom like a storm’s ominous darkness—“things we can’t even conceive of now?”

He resumed walking, rubbed at his beard, and laid things out for the night to hear. “We are just people, self-interested, distractible, and flawed. That nature isn’t changeable, so Valdemar’s future has to be considered from that basis. Any person, given any power, will drift from compassion. Purpose meanders, rot of the soul sets in—and being people, we all tire, and regret, and wear down. The brighter, compassionate things take hard work, but evil somehow always manages to make itself easy. Neglect is easy. Indifference. It’s too easy to turn into a monster.”

With those words, he stepped over the threshold to meet where he’d begun. The first circle around the clearing was complete.

Kordas’s memory pressured him with the recollection of the monsters, human and otherwise, that he had witnessed himself—and been subject to. Slavering beasts and lethal traps were barely notable next to the complex, insidious, weakness-baiting horrors he’d personally undergone at the hands of other people. In the Empire, nobility wasn’t noble. Expedience, self-aggrandizement, profiteering, domination, conspiracy, and influence had set the tempo for the wicked music he was supposed to dance to, composed by true human virtuosos of misery.

“And cruelty with a likable smile is still cruelty,” he murmured.

Himself included—he knew he was a good man, but then again, wouldn’t that always be the primary delusion of the truly lost? Numerous times, he’d chosen murder and injury over alternatives that—even though he still could not think of many—he felt could have been possible if he had only been clever enough. He’d put criminals to death personally, taken more game than he had to, and wasted opportunities for his people because the Plan might have been revealed to the Empire. And after the evacuation? He’d cut Valdemarans “free” over questionable loyalty, in overwhelmingly hostile territory—it might as well have been death by exposure, staked out for animals. He split his people up, when group stability became too tenuous for him. He freed his people from the Empire, but made them wholly dependent upon what he provided.

Maybe that is why this crown isn’t such a comfortable fit. My people were forced into a position in which they were powerless against either the Empire or the unknown, and they made a monarch of the man who did it to them. I’m not who they think I am—or what they want me to be. What else can someone give when their best wasn’t enough? I should have done more than this. Better than this.

Self-loathing for not having been smarter or quicker, and the aching need to feel heroic—those were a nasty combination he hated in himself. It seemed like before he could even spell his name, that feeling had beaten upon him—the feeling that he just wasn’t clever enough, or smart enough, or good enough. It didn’t even leave him when there was a new crown screwed onto his head. Logically, he should have taken the coronation as a message that, apparently, he was doing just fine. But here he was again, wracked by self-persecution.

Kordas walked a little more quickly. “That was the Imperial way. I couldn’t help but feel inferior in the Empire, when the Empire ensured that was what we were taught. The Empire was structured to beat down truly feeling good about ourselves, so we’d be more productive. And manageable. Useful. Usable.”

He was at a steady walking pace now. He hit his stride and took up a lecturing rhythm, throwing hand gestures like he was teaching. “It’ll happen here, too. The Empire didn’t start that way—it became that way, because of what people are. We aren’t immune to being human just because we fled tyranny, and history shows that every age had smart people who did stupid things. Like me. I’m not the smartest man there’s ever been, and I need to come up with an edge. A way for us to not fall into Empire. And I don’t have it.”

With that, he completed his second circle. Kordas ruffled his hair for a few seconds, trying to shed the body heat that made him sweat like a novice firecaster. His frustration pushed him into an unexpected shout of genuine anguish.

“Valdemar has earned better than me!”

Kordas took a few deep, quick breaths.

“I feel beaten. Some things are . . . just too complex for me to solve. I’ve talked this over with the Council, with Jonaton, Beltran, Isla, even Silvermoon . . . I pored over history, and only came up with what not to do. Something good enough for Valdemar . . . I think it’s beyond me.”

He walked silently, unable to form speech for thirty heartbeats.

“I’ve agonized every day for years now, being wise with our resources and keeping morale up, but I concentrated upon being, only looking at the scope of seasons, not centuries. My resourcefulness has declined. I’m weary, and it feels like my wits aren’t what they were. I couldn’t figure out anything but orders, laws, and traditions. Treaties and deals, holidays and awards. Those could—those can make a passable enough monarchy, for a while. An adequate one, but I want Valdemar to be much more than adequate. For the stability of Valdemar, and a mere touch of happiness, it makes more sense to be static—to withdraw, fortify, limit expansion, enforce strict behavior, and be a tiny city-state, isolationist and wary. Now we’re a monarchy, but . . . a static one, in a land that requires adaptability. It isn’t enough to just survive. We need to innovate. I want Valdemar to be extraordinary, and to last. But here we are, a juicy little prize surrounded by danger from all directions, and we’re fragile.”

Kordas stood upon his beginning point, completing the third circle.

“I swear I didn’t come here to pray. It may be that I’m not a very pious man, but I’ve felt that any Power is already busy enough without me calling. I feel like it’s better to solve issues myself instead of assuming a divine Power will think I’m so extra special that They will get right to whatever bothers me. But—maybe this is a prayer, after all. I don’t know what to do now, except . . . tell You. You may not have even noticed us, but maybe a King declaring his heart counts for something special, like it does in stories. If my surrender would help Valdemar prosper, take me. I’ll be a brief King, if You will befriend this tiny nation—I’ll go with You right now. Truthfully, I’d prefer not to give my life, because my people would grieve for me—and they’ve been through too much already. I’ll die for Valdemar, but I’d rather live for it.”

Kordas felt physical and emotional exhaustion coming quickly for him, but he was intense, even fiery in his declarations. This was more than just the sum of his heart, it was all of his oration skill, flung toward the gods.

“This world is short-sighted, savage, merciless, unless we choose to act in mercy. I believe that a spirit of wisdom, rationality, and kindness can grow here, in this Kingdom’s character, and propagate from Valdemar into the world. I believe that we are not here to wallow in mediocrity, we are here to do amazing things. That’s all I really hope for—a wise way for us to do things, ourselves. This is not a plea for gods to do it for us. Just—to help Valdemar prosper by its nature, and do better after its mistakes. If I shouted my greatest prayer—to anyone, to everyone—this would be it.”

Kordas pushed out one last demand, his voice growing louder.

“And—if we’re not alive to change the world for the better, why are we even here?”

Kordas found himself shouting at the sky with the moon directly overhead, and he forced a more relaxed pose upon himself and clenched his breathing in to a deep pant in the deepening quiet. “Haaah. Ah. I didn’t mean for that to come out so—strongly. It’s how I feel. I’m not shouting at you, but my frustration with myself . . . makes my judgment slip.”

A few moments after his explanation, he was aware of something strange happening around him. He felt himself poised between worlds, between potentials—an intuitive sense that his understanding of the world might change very soon. It felt a lot like dizziness.

Kordas caught an unfamiliar male voice echoing as if in a concert hall, or far away. “I’m sure. He could do this without me, but he’s a show I don’t want to miss.”