Chapter Text
Hanged as a Wolf or a Sheep
Roald spent his Sunday morning attending the dawn service to worship Mithros with the other pages per Lord Wyldon’s orders. That service was followed by a diligent cleaning of his weapons and tack for the training master’s exacting before lunch inspection of every page’s equipment.
Despite his best efforts to be thorough, an eagle-eyed Lord Wyldon had still found fault with the state of his weapons and tack. Lord Wyldon seemed even more critical than usual, and Roald, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, suspected the training master was out for blood. Seeking vengeance for Roald daring to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. Defending his honor. Restoring his pride. Reasserting his authority and control lest anyone question it.
Roald could understand that–especially after his father’s stern lecture on the subject–even if it did make him want to roll his eyes.
He resisted that temptation to roll his eyes as he bowed in silent, obedient acceptance of the sentence Lord Wyldon laid on him. Four bells in the armory polishing swords that afternoon. There was never any profit in arguing with Lord Wyldon. As even the most dim-witted pages (Garvey and Vinson immediately sprang to mind) knew, the training master would only respond to any debate with more punishment work.
So Roald had polished swords for four eternity-spanning bells, his father’s words about Lord Wyldon believing Papa had insulted and undermined him–reneged on a promise–echoing in his ears because there wasn’t much else to think about while he toiled. Nothing else to consume his focus.
Conversation beyond what was absolutely necessary to ensure the completion of a task was forbidden during punishment work although many pages took the chance of violating that rule while they labored in atonement for their transgressions. On this occasion, Roald decided that he wouldn’t risk getting caught in idle chatter. Especially when it was clear he was not in the training master’s good books.
When the bell that ended his punishment duty rang, Roald hurried back to his room for the hour before dinner. He supposed that it was only responsible to start on his reading assignment for the next day. With more resignation than excitement, he grabbed a lengthy volumes of courtly love sonnets from the top of a stack of course books on his desk and collapsed on his bed to read in comfort.
The sonnets of Sylvain, a poet from Tusaine who had been deceased for three centuries, were considered foundational classics in courtly love poetry. Thus, the pages were compelled to study his verses until their eyes bled.
Roald flipped the book open to the last sonnet he hadn’t read and instantly found his vision glazing over as he was subjected to a rapturous recounting of how the poet envied the sun that kissed his lady’s cheeks, sparkled in her eyes, and made her sweat. The unnamed lady–unnamed ladies being a convention of courtly love poetry–Sylvain addressed in his thousands of poems hadn’t even been his wife but another man’s, Roald recalled from the reading master’s lesson. Sylvain had conflated and confused courtly love with adultery. Generations of corutly love poets following in his stead had persisted in doing the same.
Roald was losing his focus. Allowing his attention to wander and dwell on extraneous details. He should be keeping his mind on Sylvain’s sonnets. A prince was supposed to be cultured. Have sophisticated tastes in poetry, music, and the arts.
Though what was so cultured and sophisticated about verses glorifying adultery, he couldn’t fathom. A question for his parents? No, probably not, given that it involved adultery. Best to let them go on believing that he was a little lamb innocent to the idea of adultery. That he didn’t have a vulgar bone in his body.
A knock on the door saved him from having to truly buckle down and study Sylvain’s aduterous sonnets. His manservant, Bennet, answered the door with a bow that only deepened when Papa was revealed in the doorway.
As Papa–dressed in riding clothes that spoke to a day spent more pleasurably than Roald’s–entered, Roald started to rise to offer his own bow but stopped when Papa gestured for him to remain seated.
Papa claimed a spot on Roald’s bed as Bennet shut the door after him.
“The sonnets of Sylvain,” Papa remarked. Glancing at the tome in Roald’s hands. “I remember reading that for class when I was a page.”
“Generations of pages have.” Roald put aside the book. “No doubt generations more will in the future.”
“I thought we might have a talk.” Papa’s eyes flicked to Bennet, tucked unobtrusively in a corner by the fireplace. “Alone.”
Roald hid a wince because the only reason he could imagine Papa wanting to speak with him alone was to reprimand him in private. Schooled his face into calm courtesy. The trained, polite mask of a boy raised at court.
“You may go, Bennet.” Roald dismissed his servant. Figuring that at least one of them should be allowed to enjoy their Sunday evening, added, “Take the rest of the night off. I won’t need you until morning.”
“Thank you kindly, Your Highness.” Bennet vanished with a bow. What marvelously discreet people, servants were.
Roald turned back to his father. Swallowed. Then gathered the scattered remnants of his courage to ask, “What did you want to talk about, Papa?”
“Not Sylvain’s sonnets, I confess.” Papa smiled. That smile that could dazzle a ballroom full of courtiers.
That was much less effective at soothing a son who strongly suspected he was about to be scolded. Roald couldn’t muster an answering grin. Felt suddenly too tired to even try.
Papa’s smile faded. Face becoming serious. Roald seemed to have that sobering effect on people.
“About Keladry of Mindelan being put on probation, and you sponsoring her.” Papa’s words would have been enough to erase any grin from Roald’s features.
“I thought you had already scolded me for that.” Roald bit his lip. It didn’t seem fair that he should be lectured twice for the same transgression. Even criminals rarely had to stand trial and face punishment twice for the same offense. “That you had forgiven me.”
“I have.” Papa clasped his shoulder. “The question is if you have forgiven me, son?”
“I know of nothing to forgive you for, Papa.” Roald blinked. Baffled. Surely it would be a presumption for a son to even think of forgiving his father. Fathers forgave sons. Not the other way around. Never the other way around.
“We could start with me agreeing to Keladry of Mindelan’s probation.” Papa’s tone was soft. Understated. No less powerful or compelling for that. “Have you forgiven me for that?”
“I can’t forgive you for that because I wasn’t the one you wronged, Papa.” Roald spoke swiftly. Perhaps too swiftly. “Keladry of Mindelan was. I can’t forgive an offense that wasn’t against me.”
“Kings do that all the time.” Papa arched an eyebrow. “What do you think a royal pardon is under most circumstances, Roald?”
“I’m not a king. Just a prince. You recently reminded me of that, Papa.” Roald ducked his head. Taking an abrupt, intense interest in the patterns of his blanket as his cheeks flushed with the memory of the rebuke his father had delivered less than a week ago. A rebuke that hadn’t, he realized, just been about the affront to Lord Wyldon’s honor and pride, but also to his father’s. About putting Roald in his place after he had gotten too big for his breeches. Papa might have been a magnificent king, but he wasn’t a particularly humble man. Perhaps no king could be. Maybe it demanded a large ego to rule a realm.
“Touche.” Papa lifted Roald’s chin. Forcing Roald’s gaze up until their eyes met. “As to me chiding you for sponsoring Keladry of Mindelan, have you forgiven me for that?”
“You were right to chide me.” Roald frowned. Forehead furrowing. He didn’t relish being scolded–he supposed only the stupidest and most rotten lads would–but that didn’t mean he would refuse to acknowledge when he deserved to be reprimanded. Especially after the fact. Once his anger had cooled and his pride was no longer bristling. When his rationality was restored. “I publicly went against an agreement you made. Undermined your authority and made it look like you had reneged on your promise Then, when you pointed this out to me, I snapped at you. Disrespected and disobeyed you when you told me to be silent. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was lucky you didn’t hit me.”
That was, he thought, the traditional penalty for a stubborn son who defied a father’s order to be silent. A thick, bloody lip or a swollen, stinging cheek. A sharp discouragement to further argument.
“I did many things wrong, Roald.” Papa sighed. Shook his head. “I provoked you to anger. A father shouldn’t provoke his son to anger. It’s not fair. It also took bravery for you to volunteer to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. To stand up for what you believed was right, just, and chivalrous. I failed to acknowledge that. To take pride in that. For all of that, I apologize.”
Unexpectedly, Roald felt tears stab at his eyes like the blades he had spent the afternoon polishing in the armory. It had hurt to be chastised by his father for doing what he was convinced was the right, just, and honorable thing. To face his father’s strict disapproval and harsh disappointment when, deep down, he longed for the warm approval and gentle affection of the man who had sired him. He had tried to block out that pain. Ignore it as irrelevant and self-indulgent. Unworthy of a prince or a boy growing into manhood. Now it all came flooding back to him in a rush like the Vassa swelled by snowmelt in spring.
“Of course I forgive you, Papa.” Roald was ashamed of how his voice cracked. Betraying his vulnerability and pain.
“Good boy.” Papa pulled him into a hug. “Thank you.”
Roald relaxed into his father’s embrace. Cherishing the tender moment between them before he murmured, “May I ask a question?”
“Certainly.” Papa held Roald at arm’s length. Fixing him with a keen glance.
“You explained how Lord Wyldon would perceive my volunteering to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan as an insult to his honor and challenge to his authority in the pages’ wing.” Roald hesitated. Forced himself to continue through a tight throat. “Do you think he’ll be more likely to deny Keladry the chance to remain after her first year because of me? Because of what I did?”
“Lord Wyldon is a fair man.” Papa stroked his beard. “An honorable man.”
“A fair and honorable man whose pride and sense of justice I just insulted,” Roald pointed out.
“He has a year to recover from the slight.” There was a glimmer of himor in Papa’s eyes that reminded Roald how much he valued moments like this with his father. When Papa answered his questions with patience and dry wit. Without sternness and scolding. This was the father he wanted to emulate. “A bruised honor can be painful, but it doesn’t usually take a year to heal.”
“But it could.” Roald pinched the bridge of his nose. A gesture of stress inherited from his father.
“It could.” Papa’s tone was grave now. Matching and mirroring Roald’s. He was a master of those transitions in mood. “Lord Wyldon could believe his back is to a wall because you volunteered to sponsor Keladry, but Keladry is definitely going to feel her back is against the wall for her whole probationary year. What happens when a person’s back is to the wall, son?”
“They fight as hard as they can because they don’t have an inch to give. No ground to retreat to.” Roald recalled reading in King Jasson’s war journals that no enemy was as dangerous as one with nothing left to lose. It was the foes with something that could still be lost who would fear to fight. Who might flee from a battle or surrender before it began. War and ruling had been synomous to Jasson the Conqueror.
“Exactly.” Papa nodded. “When a person’s back is to the wall, they are at their most courageous and creative. Under that pressure, they will reveal who they truly are, and who they truly are might surprise you. A person’s true self hasn’t been shown until they’ve been pushed into a corner.”
Toying with his earlobe, Roald contemplated this. He hadn’t known Keladry of Mindelan for long, but even his short acquaintance with her inclined him to predict that she would fight with cool determination when pressed into a corner. As for Lord Wyldon, the training master was a hero of the realm with the scars on his face to prove that he was fearless and unflinching when his back was to the wall.
“Politics and people are so complicated.” Roald massaged his temples. Feeling a headache coming on as it often did when he overthought things. “I appreciate when you explain them, Papa.”
“You have a knack for understanding politics and people.” Papa squeezed his shoulder. “You are a natural diplomat, Roald. Much more astute about such nuances than I was at your age. That was part of why I was so harsh with you about volunteering to sponsor Keladry of Mindelan. I was shocked that you had done anything so undiplomatic as that.”
“Even if I am a natural diplomat–” Roald couldn’t quite believe he was– “I’m still going to make mistakes and not understand things. I’m not going to be perfect, Papa.”
Papa frowned at him, and Roald felt a stone forming in his stomach. Perfect. That was a word in dispute–conjuring tension and disharmony–between him and his father. From Roald’s perspective, Papa could be unfair, expecting Roald to be the perfect prince and son Papa had never been himself. To his father, no doubt Roald sounded like a petulant brat still sulking over a scolding. In desperate need of another stern correction. This was how the rifts that inevitably seemed to grow between them always developed. The misunderstandings and hurt feelings that divided them. Fractured their relationship. Tore them asunder.
Such misunderstandings didn’t arise with his mother. She read him better than Papa. Empathized with him more. Felt less of an apparent compulsion to reprimand him for everything.
Taking advantage of the fact that his father had not yet spoken to reproach him on this occasion, Roald went on hastily, “I know you said that you don’t expect perfection from me. Just a modicum of respect and obedience but–”
Roald trailed off. Deciding that contradicting Papa–telling Papa that he often felt a pressure to be perfect and as if he was disappointing his parents whenever he fell short of that–was probably a surefire way to earn another scolding.
“But you feel as if I expect perfection from you? That I want you to be the perfect prince and son I never was?” Papa’s eyes were piercing. Penetrating. His tone surprisingly soft.
Roald didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. Softness could mask a deeper, more dangerous wrath than shouting sometimes. Especially in a king. He fiddled with his blanket. Found a fraying thread. Tugged on it quite mercilessly. Feeling it unravel beneath his anxious fingers. “Yes, Papa.”
Papa rested a stilling palm over Roald’s fingers before they could complete their quest to destroy his blanket. “You said as much last time we talked. You weren’t entirely wrong.”
“But I was very disrespectful.” Roald gaped at his father. Remembering the tone of unsheathed steel that had made him shiver.
“You were, and, as I warned you, such disrespect will never happen again.” Papa gave Roald’s knee a light swat. “Morally, you were wrong to speak to me in such a manner. That is beyond dispute. Logically, you had a point and were not entirely in the wrong.”
“I wasn’t?” Roald couldn’t prevent himself from grasping at this straw. This hint and hope that his father might understand him after all. At least a little.
“I am harder on you than my father was on me. That is true, and it may seem unfair to you.” Papa was firm. Unapologetic. “However, every man must bring up his son how he judges best. That is his right and responsibility. I will explain to you why I raise you the way I do.”
“Yes, Papa.” Suppressing a sigh, Roald supposed this explanation was the best he could hope for. The closest Papa would come to trying to understand him. See things from his point of view.
“I was an only child.” Papa had started with himself. A strange way to begin his explanation, Roald thought. “I didn’t have any younger siblings for whom I was expected to set a good example and for whom I had to take responsibility.”
“Or to love,” Roald observed in an almost whisper. That had always seemed the saddest thing to him about his parents not having siblings. Though he supposed that his godsmother Buri and godsfather Gary counted as the nearest to sister and brother that his parents had. Still, that wasn’t the same as having five little brothers and sisters to love. A childhood marked by a new member of the family what seemed like every year.
“Or to love,” Papa agreed. Ruffling Roald’s hair in a gesture of affection and approval. “I was by no means starved for affection, however. It was very difficult for my mother to bring a child into the world at all. She suffered many miscarriages and stillbirths before I was born, and my birth was rough enough the healers advised against her attempting to have any more children. Since she could have no more children, my mother doted on me. Thought the sun rose and set in my eyes. My father was a mild, gentle man. He could never bear to be severe or strict with me for long. Even when I engaged in my wildest behaviors.”
Roald couldn’t resist defending himself. “I don’t engage in wild behaviors.”
“Because you know I will curtail them.” Papa shot Roald a speculative glance with a trace of amusement behind it. “In my youth, you could say I was a little like Joren of Stone Mountain.”
“You were like Joren of Stone Mountain?” Roald repeated. Astounded and appalled by the notion that his father might have resembled one of his least favorite boys in the pages’ wing.
“Arrogant. Reylong on my charm. A bit of a troublemaker and bully to those I disliked.” Papa shrugged. “I’m not proud of it, but that’s the truth.”
“I don’t want to be like Joren of Stone Mountain.” Roald could imagine few people he wanted to be like less than Joren of Stone Mountain.
“I know and that makes me very proud. Believe me.” Papa grinned. Then went on more somberly, “Nor do I want you to be like Joren of Stone Mountain. That is why I’m so hard on you sometimes. Why I’m so determined not to spoil you.”
Roald stared at his father. Wondered if Joren’s father also had explanations for being hard on Joren. For leaving the scars Roald was certain could only come from a rod on Joren’s back. Scars he had seen–everyone had seen–when the pages bathed together.
Scars he had averted his eyes from. Pretending that he didn’t seem. Joining everybody else in looking the other way. Remaining silent as was the code that governed every aspect of life in the pages’ wing with the force of law. Scars that hadn’t turned Joren into a good person. Had just molded him into a bully, Transforming a handsome lad into a monster.
“I don’t expect you to understand. Young as you are.” Papa sighed. Clapped Roald’s shoulder. Then reached into his pocket. Tossed a bag onto Roald’s lap. “As I said, I don’t intend to spoil you, but I brought you a bit of a treat.”
To supplement his apology, Roald thought as he opened the bag to discover it brimming with sugared almonds. One of his favorite desserts.
“Thank you, Papa.” Clutching the bag of sugared almonds in his hands like a pirate clinging to stolen gold, Roald wrapped his arms around his father. “You know I love sugared almonds.”
“I do.” Papa chuckled. Patted Roald on the back. “Don’t eat them before dinner or you’ll ruin your appetite. And don’t devour them all at once or you’ll make yourself sick.”
Roald stifled a sarcastic statement about no longer being a toddler. Strove to regard the admonishment as proof of how resolved his father was to raise him properly. A testament to his father’s love of him. Settled for an obliging, “Yes, Papa. I won’t eat them all myself. I’ll share them with my friends.”
Including Keladry. Maybe she would soften her stance toward his father if she received enough secondhand treats passed along by Roald.
“Very generous.” Papa rumpled Roald’s hair again. Roald would have to brush it before dinner if he didn’t want to look like a slob with lamentably low standards of personal grooming.
“Well.” Roald smiled. “It was very generous of you to give me the almonds first, so I’m really just passing the generosity along, Papa.”
“True.” Papa nodded. Then added in the serious, formal tone he reserved for issuing his most important commands, “We would have you support Keladry of Mindelan however you can in the pages’ wing.”
“We who?” Roald felt excitement mingled with disbelief and caution bubbling in a confused mix inside him.
“Your mother.” Papa paused before concluding momentously, “And I.”
“I am happy to obey.” Roald bowed his head. He truly was gald to obey. He would have gone on supporting Keladry however he could, but his father ordering it simplified the situation. Made it more straightforward. Less of a conundrum. Meant he didn’t have to experience the inner conflict and turmoil that came from defying his father every time he assisted Keladry. Attempted to guide her safely through the spidren’s web of page training. Still, he had to point out the gray storm cloud looming on the horizon. “Lord Wyldon will be furious, Papa. He’ll see it as continued interference in Keladry’s probation.”
“He would see continued royal interference no matter what since you volunteered to sponsor Keladry.” Papa made a dismissive gesture. “Better to be hanged as a wolf than a sheep as they sing in the bandit ballads, son.”
Roald’s mouth twitched. Fighting a rueful grin. “Better still to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing evading suspicion and not getting hanged at all, Papa.”
“Yes, if you are clever enough to pull off such a disguise.” Papa chuckled. “Are you that clever, Roald?”
“I will try to be,” said Roald gravely. His being so quiet was probably an advantage in masquerading as a sheep, he thought.