Poised in Providence - Part 5

“Archers,” Vincente grumbled, swirling the contents of his silver hammered cup in his hand.

They had retired to the king’s rooms, which were more opulent than the others, but not very opulent at all. In the winter months it would be covered in furs, the way it was covered in silks now, though Cele was sure the transition would happen soon. Winter was coming.

“We have the information,” Cele sighed, empty handed himself. “Now which do we believe? The simple duke or the silver-tongued princeling?”

“Longbows – have you heard of such?” Vincente asked, eyes on his general.

Cele raised an exasperated brow and shook his head. “Rumors. I knew the Burkean were good hunters. I knew they could make their way around a bow. But hunting bucks and hunting armed men are two entirely different things, so I wrote them off.”

Vincente nodded.

“An arrow going through armor is not possible.” He said after a moment, as if trying to convince himself otherwise. “Not from the distance he spoke of. Not from a drawback.”

“Would he lie so overtly to us?” Cele asked. “He may be a brat but he is also a prince.”

The answer was obvious, and the two probably would have shared a laugh at the absurdity of the question, had the situation not been so consequential.

“He could be lying to make us hesitant of the treaty. If we think the Simonese do not need archers and still that is all they ask for, we would rightfully be suspicious.” The general said.

“Not just suspicious.” Vincente countered, reclining back on the couch. “We would accuse them of deceit.”

“And we would not sign a treaty.” Cele finished. “A domino event of that capacity would invariably spite King Ingo.”

Vincente’s eyes drifted to the balcony. For a moment he was quiet, and Cele allowed that. There were times in such heavy conversation where the mind simply goes dark - even if for a second - where nothing is produced, no thoughts, no judgements. Vincente deserved those small respites.

“I try to place myself in his shoes.” He hummed eventually.

“King Ingo?” Cele reached for an olive, where they were steepled in a pile on a copper dish on the table between them. There was a jug of wine beside them, one he was sure would be empty before the end of the night.

“Prince Heiko.” Vincente corrected. “When he arrived, I thought I had him. A prince trying desperately to grasp at any sense of authority he could. As a third son, it was unlikely he would ever have the throne, so that internal struggle was likely gnawing at him from a young age - no matter his affections for Ingo or Alfred.

And while I wasn’t expecting that boy - Baptist - it only served to point. A vessel for which Prince Heiko could release anger. A small taste of the type of control he is denied.”

Cele listened, chewing his olive. It was the very peg he put the prince in as well, if not a bit more expounded, as Vincente was always more elegant with his phrasing.

“And, of course, I wasn’t truly expecting him to blunder in the negotiations. He is an Achterecht, after all. King Gotthard prided himself in his pedigree and would’ve passed down identical values. Not to mention the fact that Prince Heiko is well known in association with intelligence, whether it be to a Burkean or an Ilysian. For the sake of gods, even the Haroman merchants know of the man.”

The general grunted, knowing it to be true.

“The calm in his voice is not a farce.”

It was then that Vincente looked to his friend.

“Do you understand?”

Cele did. The prince did not put on a front when it came to his placidity. It was not a show to hide the desperation for respect. It was real. When the boy spoke, it was confident, it drew eyes and ears. As if the attention of others gravitated to him without any coaxing.

But that begged the question of what Prince Heiko truly wanted.

“And frankly,” Vincente continued, his tone almost one of defeat “I was not expecting four campaigns. Nor the 91st.”

Cele exhaled a breath of irritation. Neither had he, but it came from the duke’s mouth, and the duke wouldn’t lie. Not about that. Why would he? He was unaware that such was an important factor for the king of Ilyos to measure a man’s character.

“Not quite seasoned, but no longer green.” Cele spoke.

“A soldier, either way.” Vincente replied. And when the king studied Cele, his pressed expression, he shot out, “Don’t give me that look. I don’t like it either.”

Cele didn’t want to know the kind of havoc the prince could potentially wreak on a field of battle. Eventually, the words circling his mind escaped his lips.

“We cannot let him leave.”

Vincente looked at him in surprise.

“We cannot have him…”

Cele trailed, trying to consolidate the thoughts, order them in a way that would make them sound sensible. His brain worked like a general’s. Orders were spoken, and there was no need for his soldiers to question them because there was no need for the soldiers to demand reasoning. And when one is allowed that freedom for long enough, the reasoning no longer appears to them clearly. Luckily, Vincente understood that.

“To have him as an enemy,” Cele finally found the words. “Could prove to be detrimental.”

Would was the more likely scenario, though at this point, it would be beating a dead horse, and the king knew it, too. Still, his eyes remained on Cele’s for a long moment, as if trying to decipher a way out of this nasty Simonese mess.

He found none.

“I agree.” His words were solemn. “We cannot have Prince Heiko leave Ilyos thinking of Ilyos as an enemy. We must continue to offer him our hospitality regardless of the Simonese ambassador.”

He frowned at the thought of the man. “Duke Adelbert had said that this was Prince Heiko’s last chance to prove his fealty. Perhaps his failure will result in exile.”

It was a thought that had crossed Cele’s mind as well, though not the most pressing.

“What would bring a man to burn an entire guard alive?” He heard himself ask. “Beside madness.”