The Bored King's Burden

“Your Majesty, the imperial delegation has arrived,” the steward said from beside the king’s throne. “Should I order the trumpets blown and the sacrificial victims brought forward?”

The table was silent but for spoons tinkling as the assembled guests slurped their soup. The king dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and tossed it beside his bowl.

“What if we forgo the trumpets this time?” the king said with a weary sigh. “Every damn year we have to go through this rigmarole. If I’m bored of it then I’m sure everyone else is. What say you, Steward, can we do without them this time?”

“I’m sure those chosen to die would support that decision,” his shadow whispered from just behind his shoulder. The king did his best to ignore her but it was difficult when she spoke directly into his ear.

“Don’t perform the sacrifice?” the steward’s skin paled at the notion. “But what would we give the imperial delegation?”

“No, no, you fool. That’s not what I meant. We have to give them flesh and bone, anything else would be an insult. The last king that tried that was my, great, great…” the king titled his head to the rafters of his private dining room where he had come to escape the noise of the square. He briefly searched his family tree for the idiot that had dared thumb his nose at the empire before giving up with a shrug. “Whoever it was it didn’t work out well for anyone, let alone him. He got stuffed in a sack and tossed in the river.”

“I remember those days,” a wizened voice said from the far end of the table. “The imperial collector demanded the big toe chopped off every adult in apology for the insult. We were limping for weeks.”

The king rolled his eyes and bent to peer around the candles at the old man way down at the end of the table. “No, you weren’t, Uncle. That was long before you were born.”

“I apologise, Your Majesty,” the steward said wringing his hands. A bead of sweat ran out from under the court official’s hat and down his cheek. “If your majesty wishes, I could disband the musicians, but the children have worked very hard on their singing, and it would be a shame to disappoint them.”

“No, the people hate me enough as it is. I don’t want to antagonise them any further.” The king flicked a nervous eye at his shadow, making sure she was there. He caught a slight movement and relaxed a little despite his discomfort at her presence. Before his father had passed away the old king had shared his secret and given him a new shadow. “No, let the performance continue. I just want it known that I think it’s all got a bit too much. We lose months out of the year preparing for this and why? It’s just upsetting the people. Now that I am king you shall see some changes.”

“I’m sure those in the square would love to hear your ideas,” his shadow said into his ear.

The king frowned and shuffled forward in his seat. A few of his courtiers looked up from their pre-sacrifice soups. “Do any of you remember how we used to enjoy the harvest festival?”

“Is it that time already?” his uncle asked from the end of the dining table, his voice barely carrying across the distance.

A dozen nobles sat opposite their partners, all intent upon the green soup before them. Worthless cowards the king thought and briefly considered swapping some of them with the people chained up in the courtyard.

“Uncle, you remember how much fun they used to be. The dancing and the feasts but now we barely recognise it. The arrival of the delegation and the sacrifice overshadows the entire affair. The people are miserable and it’s just not enjoyable anymore.”

“I remember one young wench, lovely lass …,” the king’s uncle trailed off lost in his memory.

“Thank you, Uncle, that’s enough of that.” The king sat back and stirred the rancid soup with his spoon. He failed to see what good him eating a miserable pea soup did for those chosen in the lottery. His suffering didn’t help them one bit. “I just think we should have more fun in our lives.”

“I’m sure the sacrifices would agree,” his shadow said from behind his shoulder. The king sucked at his teeth and gripped the spoon. It wouldn’t be so bad if she only stood a little further back, all the way in the next room would be preferable.

“Sire, you will be expected on the royal viewing platform,” the steward prompted, his hand fidgeting in his pocket. “You really can’t delay any longer.”

“Are you unwell, man?” the king asked leaning away from his sweating steward. “You’re the same shade as this soup.”

“I apologise, Your Majesty.” The steward mopped his brow with the cuff of his sleeve. “There is a lot to organise. If you could step onto the balcony, Sire, it would make my life easier.”

“Oh, go on then. Let’s get this over with.” The king stood up, his chair sliding out from under him before he was ready. He gripped the arm, fighting his shadow for it.

“Careful not to fall and break your neck,” his shadow said just quietly enough that only the king heard her speak.

The guests stood up and bowed their heads before the king waved for them to sit back down. They picked up their spoons and reluctantly resumed eating the green soup. A servant did the rounds making sure each bowl was topped up to the brim and that they never became empty.

“It’s not too late to have your name added to the list,” the king hissed and accidentally caught her eyes. They were like dark pools in a formless face that spoke of unending torment. He snapped his head away and a shiver ran up his spine.

“Beg your pardon, Sire?” the steward blanched and slipped a hand inside his robes.

“Not you, her,” the king said flicking a hand over his shoulder and failing to remember that only he could see his shadow. “Prepare the crowd. I’ll do my part but I’m not giving the speech. A wave will have to do.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty. It is only important that your subjects see you.” The steward dipped his head and then rushed to the curtained alcove hiding the balcony. A cold breeze entered the room before the curtain dropped back down.

The king took a moment to smooth the creases out of his tunic and make sure there were no visible food stains. He felt his crown slipping from his head and grabbed hold of it clamping it back on.

“It’s too big for you, why not leave it here,” his shadow whispered in his ear.

“Why do I put up with you?” the king hissed drawing a few odd looks from his assembled guests as they got to their feet. The king waved for them to sit down and approached the curtain, straightening up as he did so. He remembered marvelling at his father’s presence whenever he spoke to his subjects but all he could muster was contempt.

A band started up in the square and were swiftly joined by the cacophonic wailing of a hundred children.

“I thought he said they’d been practising?” the king muttered as he wiggled a finger in his ear. He stepped out of the curtain to find the square rammed with several thousand of his subjects, more would be in the side streets, gathered to witness the gruesome spectacle. The ceremonial chopping block had been wheeled and set up before the imperial delegation’s podium. The plush seats were arranged under a silk canopy, close enough that they would be able to smell the blood. “Where are they, Steward? You said they had arrived.”

The seats were empty, but the crowd was quiet as if expecting something to happen.

“My mistake, your majesty,” the steward said stepping forward from a spot by the wall. He held something low in his hand, pointing at the king’s back.

“What is wrong with you, man? You’ve been out of sorts all day,” the king hissed over his shoulder as he raised a hand to greet the rabble below. They answered him with stony faces and hostile glares. “What’s got them all riled up?”

The king had a quick peek over the balustrade to make sure that his soldiers were standing guard before the gate and caught sight of the large group of men and women destined to be sacrificed. They were shackled together and weeping as the guards led them towards the block.

“Not everyone is happy with the sacrifice, Your Majesty,” the steward said, from close behind the king. “Some of us have family among the chosen.”

“What?” the king spun around to find the steward only inches from his back, his face twisted by hatred. He seemed to be frozen in the middle of doing something and now stood like a statue. “What are you doing, you fool?”

“Look at the hand,” his shadow whispered in his ear, and the king lowered his gaze to see the needlepoint dagger grasped in the steward’s trembling hand. The point was aimed at the king’s stomach. Sweat poured freely from the steward’s brow and strained against the invisible hands that held him.

“What is the meaning of this?” the king asked stepping away and searching for his absent guards. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

“My wife… among the chosen…” the steward’s face flushed red with the effort of speaking. A trickle of blood ran from his nose and then he collapsed as if his strings had been cut, to land in a crumpled heap at the king’s feet.

A cry went up in the square below, but the king couldn’t take his eyes from the dead man in front of him. The steward had served the royal family for as long as he could remember and had been a loyal servant.

“This is why your father tolerated me,” the king’s shadow hissed into his ear. “He was a great man, but you are a fool. I pray that the next to wear your crown is a better fit.”

“What?”

Something heavy hit the king around the back of the head, knocking the crown free and sending him sprawling across the body of the dead steward. Rocks rained down onto the balcony, and the king crawled back inside.

“Guards, Uncle! Someone help me,” the king cried as he emerged from under the curtain and back into the dining room. “Why are you just sitting there? Get up and help your king.”

The guests sat slumped in their chairs, some with their heads lolling to the side while a few, including the uncle, had passed out with their faces in the soup bowls. The crowd was screaming outside and then a door smashed open on the floor below.

“No, no, this can’t be happening,” the king said as he ran towards the door but froze when he heard a horde of people racing up the stairs. “I am your king; you can’t hurt me.”

He ran back to the centre of the room and spun around desperately trying to see his shadow. “You have to protect me. Where are you? You must save me. That was your promise. You swore to save my life. I command you to do something.”

“I swore to serve the crown,” a woman whispered, and it sounded as if her voice was coming from every dark corner of the room. “Not the man who wears it.”

“No, you serve me. Father said that you must protect the life of the rightful king.” The king drew himself up and pointed a trembling hand at the door and the approaching horde screaming for his head on the other side. “I command you to stop them. Kill them if you have to, just save my life.”

“What does a king wear?” the shadows asked.

“A crown,” the king said and then slapped a hand on his head. “Where is it?”

He frantically searched the floor, pulling chairs out and crawling around on his knees but it was nowhere to be seen. The door to the dining room burst open and the first of the bloodthirsty rabble charged in. The king scrabbled to get away and caught sight of something gold caught in the hem of the curtain. He launched himself towards the balcony, but a burly man grabbed him by the legs and hauled him back even as he stretched for his crown, straining his fingers, and willing it to roll closer. An axe dropped and cleaved his bare head in two.

The shadows watched dispassionately as the rabble looted the castle and went on an orgy of destruction. This wasn’t the first uprising she had seen and nor would it be the last. The crown was carried from the room and out into the square, hidden under the shirt of a broad-shouldered bakers apprentice. He didn’t notice when his shadow swelled and then settled around him.