Taeg had never pictured himself as king, and yet he sits headlong before the aged, wizened men of his council, uncomfortably aware of the roaring ache of displacement. He wears a green and gold robe of silk over the white linen tunic that covers his slim chest, arms draped over the rests of his chair, blinking quietly at the sigil flag across the room. He hears the voices of his council pulse in and out of focus.

  “Gentlemen,” the Grand Chamberlain coos, “there is no need for such disrespect within this cabinet. We are the right hand to our king,” Taeg feels a flicker of eyes to his face, “and we must guide our country to prosperity. I hardly expect us to accomplish such a task when we cannot even begin to cooperate.”

  Teag moves his green eyes to the Chamberlain, who had laid his hands upon his great belly, leaning into the back of his seat. The Grand Master can be heard heaving air through his great chest, his veiny hands placed flat upon the table in front of him. The High Priest, composed in his beautiful gown of white, sits with his fingers interlaced, a blank expression in his drooping eyes.

  “We wait until the Guardsmen have returned, as the king requests,” the Chamberlain declares. “We do not know if Silon tells the truth. We think it best to err on the side of caution here, Argos.”

  It had become effortless to tone out the blaring tuba that was the mouth of Grand Master Argos. His bellowing was the backdrop to all council meetings, as unnecessary as it seemed, though Argos would be quick to defend his position as chief point-maker with a subsequent series of shouting, should anyone challenge his offensive stance. Council meetings passed without a hiccup and always with the expected tiff between the Grand Master and his chosen opponent of the day. This day, Taeg had taken the Chamberlain aside to request breakfast with his mother to forgo the lengthening of his duteous council meetings.

  “Strawberries, please. They are Mother’s favorite,” he had said. “And a flagon of wine.”

  “Of course, Majesty,” the portly man had replied, eyeing the king.

  This day, the council meeting ends with Argos slamming the door, to which the king seizes his opportunity to dismiss himself.

  “Thank you, gents,” Taeg hums. “I shall excuse myself as well.” A scraping of chairs and hastened well wishes follow him out the door, as does the Grand Chamberlain, waddling to catch up.

  “Your Grace, would you like me to send a letter to General Nathis? Ask him how the investigation goes?”

  Taeg paces down the hallway to the other side of the castle, his heavy boots sending creaks through the wooden ballasts below his feet. He waves a hand. “Gideon,” he spits the man’s name through his teeth like a blackberry seed caught in the crevice of a molar. “See to the Council as you will. I am sure the role befits your wishes. I would like to see my mother today, no interruptions, no requests.”

  The Grand Chamberlain blinks, his stout legs swishing to keep up. “Y- yes, of course, my King.” He bows away, stamping back down the hall with what undoubtedly sounds like a bit more pep in his step.

  Taeg arrives at his mother’s door, knocking gently before letting himself in. Vilania Kerrich sits on the edge of her bed, struggling to pull on her heeled leather boots. She sighs deeply at the sight of her son standing in the doorway, flopping her hands to the bed in defeat.

  “Let me.” He purses his lips and goes to her side. As he bends to manipulate the boot over her small, socked feet, she begins to laugh.

  “The king,” she chuckles. “The king of Larynth placing shoes on my feet. Your father was the last to do that. It seems that kings bow to me.”

  He looks up at her, two shoelaces in hand, to see the smile that graces her lined face. He grins. “My father was probably more well-versed in pulling on your boots than I am,” he remarks, finishing up his duties as handmaiden and rising to the height of King once again. “Would you like to have breakfast in the gardens?”

  She smiles in agreement and he leads her from her bedchambers to the warm, dry air of the desert gardens.

  Despite the arid climate, the castle employs a colorful range of shrubbery, towering cacti, and pastel succulents among the twisting pale-green trunks of the sunny palo brea trees. His mother’s favorite sitting spot lies beneath the oldest pink chitalpa tree. During the later days of spring, carrying quickly into the heat of summer, the parasol canopy provides shade as the gentle desert breeze brings fluttering down the large, soft pink blooms to settle at her feet. Taeg brushes the wilting flowers from a carved stone bench to seat his Queen Mother, whereupon he sits, tapping his boot on the stone pathway, waiting for the castle servants to deliver their eating arrangement. He hears his mother take a deep breath. When he turns, her eyes are closed, face upturned to the sun.

  “I am sorry that your little shoulders now hold the burden of King. Though they’re not so little now,” she murmurs, turning to face him. “Your father despised it. As I am sure you will as well.”

  His mother, once a beautiful woman, had aged under the pressure of sovereignty. The pale orange gown she wore drew the color from her face, where lines of carved clay had settled deep into the soft skin around her mouth. Yet her eyes, the same as his own, were the vibrant green they had always been.

  When the servants begin to filter from the castle doors, she greets each of them with a smile and a thank you for their aid. Two young boys, one wide and pale, the other dark and wiry, bring in a handsome table, carved from the deep red meat of the mesquite tree. Upon it, two young women in simple navy servant’s dresses curtsey as they set tenderly upon the table a bowl of fresh strawberries and a pitcher of cold cream. Ripe hard cheeses from the farms of Cale come next, with crusty rye bread, a spot of yellow butter melting in a bowl nearby, and a plate of cold fingerfish. The flagon of wine comes last. The Queen Mother gasps, raising her hand to her mouth, and eyes Taeg with wonderment.

  “Strawberries.” The word melts over her chin. “From the province of Cale?” She gapes at him, then back at the berries sweating in the heat.

  “Yes,” he says.

  The serfs deposit an ivory mug near him and a wine glass for his mother. Under his breath, Taeg requests a second wine glass is left before he waves away the servants. He pours himself a cupful of cold cream, then a glass of red wine for his mother. Forgetting her manners—though Taeg could hardly expect her to remember them—his mother plucks a strawberry from the bowl in front of her and pops the fruit into her mouth, save for the leafy top, which she sets delicately back into the bowl as she chews.

  “Mother, I wanted to discuss something.” His voice sounds foreign.

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  She replies, “Of course, my son,” taking a sip of wine. She swallows with some difficulty. “What is it?”

  The breeze flips a mass of dark hair into his face. He brushes it away, the bangles on his arm jingling. He hesitates, reaching to take a sip of cream. “My father. When Grandfather died, and he knew he was to be king, do you think he was ready to rule?”

  “Oh, absolutely not. Your father would have made a terrible king if he had not learned how to harness his fear of failure. You should have seen him at our wedding. Wavering like a mirage in the heat.” She chuckles, nibbling at a finger fish. “Why do you ask?” Her eyes are those of the mother that had raised him, a comforting change from the wasting mind he had glimpsed before.

  He turns away, shaking his head. “Surely he was not so afraid. From my child’s eyes, he was so well put together.”

  “Roen was introverted, though he did not let it shine through his duties as king. He was calculated, thoughtful, and so intelligent, Taeg, just like you. I have no doubt that you will be a wonderful king. Your father would have been proud, albeit apprehensive--and probably very well would have been pacing the floors at night with worry. I’m almost grateful he is not here. I would have to keep him cooled down on hops, I’m afraid.”

  Taeg moves his mug of cream aside, reaching for the second wine glass and filling it halfway, swallowing his worries. The castle grounds are quiet, save for the breeze through the chitalpa tree over their heads. He takes note of the sour tackiness in his mouth. A dry itch sparks through his arm, just as the desert floor gapes toward the sky, anticipating the rain.

  “Mother,” he exhales, eyebrows cinching. “Can you tell me about my brother?”

  There is a pause as he watches her pick through each berry, selecting the largest one and snipping off the meaty end with her teeth. She looks his way, chewing. “Why, dear, you do not have a brother. Are you playing a joke?” She turns back to her wine. “If so, I don’t believe I quite understand.”

  Taeg looks down at his hands, clasped with white knuckles around the stem of the wine glass. He studies the table. The crisp berries, vibrant into their bowl, the jug of cold cream perspiring, each droplet growing to fall upon the wooden table, soaking into its pores, a dark, bleeding pool around the base of the pitcher. His leg begins to shake. His knee, against his wishes, begins to pop up and down, tapping his heel upon the stone pathway below.

  “Mother,” he repeats, still staring down at the table. “My brother is the rightful king.” His voice rings from his throat, deep and resolute. He counts the bangles on his right wrist, then his left. The Queen Mother does not reply. “He goes by Kelo, though I am sure that is not his birth name. He lives in the Pfeist Mountains. His hair is black, like mine. He is afraid of horses, just like father. He is my brother, the eldest, your first-born son whom I know you must remember somewhere in that decaying mind of yours.” He can feel the muscles in his cheek begin to twitch.

  The Queen Mother sits her wine glass upon the table with an audible clink, folding her hands in her lap. She stares forward at the broad-leafed agave plant across the path from her, unblinking.

  Taeg presses on. “He came from Tauris, where his adoptive mother raised him, and where the alchemists reside. He does not feel pain, nor does he hunger or thirst. He volunteered to work for Denand’s leader to undercover a Lynac user within the capital. When he found her, he betrayed us, leading Silon’s scouts right to our ramparts. We captured him. He was here, in this castle, with us both.”

  Vilania flinches. His mother flails her right arm in a sweeping crash over the small table, swiping the half-eaten bowl of strawberries off its perch, her wine glass crashing to the ground, shattering against the pathway. Red wine splatters on the stone. The bowl of strawberries flies into the sand, scattering the bright red fruit through the foliage. Teag reaches for the jug of cream as the plate of fingerfish rattles dangerously close. His mother stands. A kitchen aide comes to investigate, a plump woman with tightly knit curls atop her head. The king waves her away before the Queen Mother can see, then rises to meet his mother.

  “Vilania. Your son is alive.” He reaches for her arm. His mother, tall for a woman, flings her arm away from his touch, her dress dancing at her ankles.

  “I have no son!” she cries. Tears stream down her face, cheeks red from the heat.

  “Mother, please.”

  She screams. “Taeg Kerrich is my only son. I will not stand for such accusations.” Her voice sinks an octave, growling from her throat. She takes a step sideways, away from him. “Have you told your father?” she accuses. Her voice spits venom. “Conspiring to steal the throne is an offense punishable by death.”

  “Mother!” A roar erupts from his chest. It is the voice of Roen Kerrich. “Calm yourself. No one is here to steal the throne.” He looks toward the castle, where the servants wait for his signal. They are peering through the doorway, their eyes turned toward the Queen, wide with bewilderment. “Vilania, please,” Taeg whispers. “Have breakfast with me. Sit down.”

  The older woman begins to gather her skirt in her wrinkled hands, bunching it about her hips and sidling down the walkway. She steps on a strawberry as she goes, leaving blood-red prints on the stone. Taeg follows her, reaching for her, grasping the fleshy part of her upper arm. His mother turns, gasping, her other hand fast approaching as it drops hold of her skirt. A hideous smack echoes through the gardens, flesh on flesh, and the sting that follows silences him.

  “Do not touch me. You are no son of mine.” His mother’s voice, once regal and even, turns poisonous. She whips back around, tripping over her trailing skirt, and hurries down the walkway again.

  “Mother, stop!” Taeg roars again. His voice cracks as he says the next words. “They will take you away. I will have you removed from the castle, put into the care of the physicians if you cannot calm yourself.” He continues after her, robe billowing out behind him, the strawberries, the wine, the fingerfish all forgotten. The Queen Mother turns to look at him, terrified, then breaks out into a stumbling run toward the garden gates.

  He waves at the servants, exhaling. As his dark hair falls into his face again, he raises a shaky hand to brush it away, stopping in the path to hear his mother’s blood curdling screams as each aide comes running to grab her by a hem, a hand, a shoulder, cooing words to soothe her. Her legs collapse and she falls like a crumpling building to the sandy path, her feet folding under her, thrashing. Taeg winces as one young woman wearing a blue apron is stuck across the chest by the wayward arm of her former queen. The girl cries out, looking to the king.

  “Get the physicians!” he shouts, flinging an arm toward the church. He stands motionless, watching the ruckus unfold. “Mother, please listen to them. Please do not do this.” His voice is quiet, barely heard over the screaming and scraping, the breeze in the trees.

  His mother, tears streaming down her face, anger alight in her blue eyes, screams, “You stole my throne, boy! You are a treasonous wretch! My son will hear of this!”

  Taeg bounces his eyes to each attendant—the boy with the curly hair, holding his mother’s legs still, the stout older lady with her hands upon the Queen’s shoulders, begging for cooperation. He spots the Chamberlain, waddling through the doorway to his side, screeching.

  “Your Majesty, demand they release the Queen Mother immediately! What is going on here?”

  “Chamberlain,” Taeg spits through his teeth, “remove yourself at once.” His hands begin to shake.

  The Grand Chamberlain hesitates, stuttering. “Y-yes, Your Grace.” Gideon bows, eyes studying the king. They flick to the Queen Mother once more before he waddles back through the doorway, stealing glances at the scene behind him.

  As he leaves, bursting through the garden gates come the young servant girl and two young, bulky church attendants. They bow in his direction before taking the arms of the hysterical creature sprawled upon the ground. His mother grows weak, her screams turning into pleading, her face stained with tears. The church boys pull her from the ground, her body limp.

  Taeg watches from afar, tears budding in his eyelashes. He looks down at the strawberry stains along the path, streaked like blood in the place where his mother had struggled. As the chaos exits through the garden gates, Taeg can feel his shoulders begin to shake, and finding himself alone in the quiet of the castle gardens, his sobs come crashing through his chest.