A Setting Sun
King Dawentar felt old. So very old. He maintained his upright posture on his horse even as his back threatened to revolt. He wondered if that was how his friend Ceuwen felt like, those many years ago during the Farsenca crisis. But then, Ceuwen is the Kings advisor. He... he is the King.
The King must look like the King.
Beside him rode two men of his blood. His older brother Prince Sarca rode to his right, slouched over in the saddle napping. Once an explorer and sightseer, age has pressed down upon his brow as greatly as it does any other man. He knows ten languages, but now he can only remember three. Thankfully, Leun remained one of them.
To his right, riding militarily erect, was Harca, Sarcas son. His nephew. A veteran of fighting the Zarcasen on the western coast of Parthe, and official commander of the largest army in Parthecan history. A fighting man. A loving man. One who loves his country so much, he is willing to cross the seemingly endless seas and fight for its glory.
Looking upon the serious, stale face of the young Princling brought another face into Dawentars mind. His son, the crown prince, Kansutdo. A prince he has left behind in the old decaying city of Parta, who preferred it over the polished and new Tarwa. His son hated his city, a city he built with his hands, his mind... his heart. But his son loved him, and loved his country. Best of all, his son doubts himself, but is decisive in making his decisions. He will be advised well. He will be taught well. He will be a good king.
Behind him marched five thousand Parthecan sons.
One thousand are veterans of the endless Zarcasen wars. Scarred bodily and mentally alike, they are silent as they headed south. Led by their grim captains, they have seen war far too much already, but they are willing to see more for the good of their nation. They speak often, but they know each other deeper than some men know their wives. Their conversations are, not with words, but in the sparkle of the eyes, the gestures of the arms, the movement of the brows.
Four thousand are new recruits. They sang and joked as they marched, for the only combat they faced was the loud cries of their trainers, merging the clansmen into a single Army and Will of the King. They can fight, but they have never fought before. Unlike the veterans, they are still lead by their chosen clansmen, and they divide themselves from groups of twelve to two hundred, sometimes snubbing their Captains commands to gather under their own chieftains calls.
As they stopped for noon, one final ridge before reaching Teora, Dawentar ruminated on his decision once more. Has he just sent these five thousand men... these four thousand boys to their deaths? To die across the sea, unburied and unremembered? They looked so young, even the veterans still have youth in the set of their faces, hope glinting in the light of their eyes.
He felt so old. He closed his eyes for a second.
He opened his eyes. It is time to leave. The brief noon break for dried fruit and stretching has ended.
He has not eaten.
He is not hungry.
He is merely old. One old, confused man leading a thousand men and four thousand boys to their unsung deaths across the sea. He frowned.
As he lead them over the hill, towards the Leun colony of Teora, he calmly dusted away his doubts, one by one, rehearsing his lines, bringing union to where there was once disunity. He set his face calmly as cries ran out from the low walls of the Leunun town. As the gates opened and the leaders of the town rode out, he nodded to the dealer, asking for a new round of cards. Cards of fate.
His men will cross the sea.
It was boring, official business. The Leunun representative from their distant capital spoke animatedly with Sarca on the governing of Partas newest city, and with Harca on the disposition of his five thousand men. Time seemed to flow around him as he sat kingly on his high horse, nodding and shaking his head as necessary. He stamped what needed to be stamped, he thanked those who desired thanks. Protocol. Meaningless protocol. Watching as the younger men stumbled through the processes, he felt once again old. He is older, much older than all of them, except for his brother beside him. Is he wiser? No. No doubts. The cards have been dealt.
After an eternity of meaninglessness, it is done. Sarca and the representative, elbows bent, clasped left hands. Then they pressed their right hands on the outside. Pressing their foreheads onto this bond, sealing the deal by their minds.
Disengaging, they then used a more familiar gesture. A Parthecan gesture. The two men placed their right arms across their chest, their open hands over their hearts. Then, at shoulder height and with straight elbows, they pressed their open palms together, sealing the deal by their hearts.
The representative bowed to Dawentar. And returned to the town. As the army slowly moved again, Dawentar can hear the criers as they announced the new leadership in Teora.
The whistles and drums sounded has he passed under the gate, heading for the center of the newest town in his realm. He rode steadily towards the raised ground of the podium. A nod. Soldiers spread out through the city, led by their captains to relieve the Leunun garrison and militia of their duties. Others walked practiced paths, handing invitations to the true leadership of Teora- the crafty merchants and shippers whose livelihood depended on Parthecan friendship.
He dismounted.
His body complained as he walked step by step, stair by stair, towards the top of the speaking stand. The merchants of Leun gathered, one by one, before the King. Their faces were shrewd, young. They listened as Sarca gave a speech in their native tongue. He himself never got the hang of it, although he could somewhat understand when listening.
It was his turn. As he stepped up to face the crowd, he felt another dizzying spell of immense age upon him. These men are so young. He would have to offer them granddaughters and grand nephews.
I come to Tehnoras he began. He does not remember what he said, but he has rehearsed it often enough as the words poured through his lips and spread out onto the world beyond. He watched their faces instead, as they listened to his offer. They, the old ruling class of Teoras, will marry into the new rulers and with unity help lead the city, and the whole of Parthe, into a new age.
Their faces showed shock, disapproval, disgust and uncomfortability. All well hidden of course, but he could see through their meager shields, their card-playing faces. He was old, they are young. He knows their secrets.
He continued his speech, now amused at the manlessness of the men before him. He was offering them beautiful brides. A future. A dowry. And yet?
Finished, he added a postverse to his speech. Gentlemen, my children are beautiful, the opportunities are endless. Consider carefully, for this marriage shall help us all more than you can imagine.
He was disappointed. Young men, all of them, but not yet men enough to accept additional wives, and the ceremonies and gifts that come with them?
Sarcas nervously prodded him as the men in the crowd begun to mutter in that strange, flowing language of theirs. He turned around, a frown decorating his face, and queried his brother. Sarcas replied: Brother. The Leun, by custom, cannot have more than one wife.
