A Prince's Duty: Part 1

To your left stands your eldest brother, heir to the crown in his gleaming knight’s armor. To your right stands the middle brother, a cleric of the holy orders and destined to assume the mantle of high priest. Behind you sit your parents upon their golden thrones, monarchs of the mighty kingdom of Myrn. Gathered before you around the base of the stepped dais stands a dazzling assemblage of the most sought after marriageable women in all the realms and beyond. Casting your eyes about you see the hulking leather-clad form of a green-skinned orcish chieftess. You see the translucent mass of an azure slimegirl in a fetching hourglass humanoid shape, the single twinkling pink jewel embedded in her forehead signifying her as a princess of that strange race. You see a young short-haired human woman with gleaming green eyes, her unrefined manners, nervous stance and homespun peasant dress revealing her to be out of place among such lofty company as is gathered here. You see the slender figure, tapered ears, and golden hair of a true elf, the elegant silver robes of a high mage and her transcendent beauty setting her apart from even this once in a century gathering. You see these and a dozen other noble wannabe brides-to-be in their gaudy paints, perfumes, frills and lace. Beyond them were hundreds of distinguished guests and dignitaries here as witness.

And at the center of it all, with every eye in the grand hall fixated upon your every movement and gesture, stands you. The third born son. The pawn. From the day you were born your entire existence has been building to this moment. Until the end of your days there would be nothing to surpass it as you faded into the footnotes of history. This was your moment. Your only moment. The only decision you would ever make that would make a difference in anything. So said tradition.

The Law of Communion was as old as the venerable kingdom itself. It was set to vellum in the founding document of this land. For any king blessed with a third legitimate son surviving to the age of 21 years he was to offer this son, pure and unsullied, for marriage to the world beyond his borders. It would become the foundation of a lasting alliance. As valuable as this was the rewards went far beyond the mere political. It was said, and borne out by history, that if the son was legitimate the union, once fruitfully consummated, would see the kingdom and its people blessed above all others by God himself until that son’s offspring drew its last breath. Some thought it mere superstition yet every golden age in Myrn’s history could be plausibly traced to a third non-bastard son and his first born. Though the long spans between could be dark and brutal the years of Communion always saw this land ascend to a new age of glory. Beyond these stone walls a population of millions waited to celebrate this joyous event despite the late hour.

“Back straight!” Just loud enough for your ears alone your eldest brother hisses without breaking his smile for the crowd. “You’re representing all of us here, whelp. You’re a royal. For at least this one time, act like one!”

“Yes, Sir.” You snap to attention and force your most regal grin, which you knew from long practice in the mirror looked more of a cringe.

“Mother will wish to meet with the high mage immediately following the ceremony.” Says your other brother. “Do not forget. There are many arrangements that need to be sorted. You may run along and do as you do, but we will need to speak with Nerwenye and her retinue without delay.” He glances at you from the corner of his eyes. “You’re sure you spelled it correctly? It has to be exact.”

“Yes, your Holiness.”

He sighs in that same exasperated way as your father. “How many times do I have to tell you? Until I attain the mantle it is Reverend.”

“Sorry, brother.”

“Reverend.”

“Reverend.”

In his holy hands your brother held the platinum envelope that held the decision that would define you. He already knew the name contained within, as did the rest of your family and half the royal court, yet still you sense a touch of apprehension in your brother as he gripped the envelope tightly. Nobody but you had been allowed to read the letters of proposal and nobody but you had seen the slip of magical parchment that had been sealed inside. He knew well enough that you would do as you were told but he also knew your predilection for screwing everything up.

You take a deep breath and nervously smooth the hideous green and yellow tunic you’d been forced to wear. Combined with the puffy feathered hat, yellow pantaloons and green hose you would have felt less humiliated had you been made to wear the jester’s garb. Thankfully the ceremony was nearing its end, along with your time here in the only home you’d ever known.

An excited ripple runs through the crowd as your priestly sibling raises his hand for silence. There is a tremor in your own heart as the moment you’d been dreaming about these past six weeks since you received the letters was at hand. You peer back over your shoulder to see your mother and father perched upon their gem studded thrones. Neither of them noticed. Their shrewd focus was on the powerful elven wizard who was to be your betrothed. You were not surprised though you were disappointed. But you were accustomed to disappointment. With a sad sigh you look forward again.

A hush falls as a short prayer is spoken, then deepens as the envelope is raised and opened with the ceremonial blade. As he pulls the slip from the envelope you take another fortifying breath and raise your chin proudly to face your destiny with courage.

Your brother hands the envelope off to an attendant. He unfolds the paper. He is about to speak the name loud and clear when his breath catches in this throat. He blinks and reads your handwritten letters again looking as if his own eyes were trying to fool him.

In a far more muted tone than during rehearsal he mutters. “Brigitte Baudelaire? By God, Jacarian! What have you done now? Who in the realms is Brigitte…?” His eyes widen in horror as the name is dredged up in his memory. His face falls. Eyes full of terror he looks at you as if upon the devil himself. Ohhhh, it was even more delicious than you’d imagined! “The Countess!”

“What’s going on?” Grumbles the eldest from your other side. “Speak the name!”

The middle brother drops the slip and stumbles backward down the stairs of the dais. “No! Jac, you fool!”

By now a confused din had rose from the gathered nobles. Along the front row the suitors looked back and forth among themselves wondering who among them could have caused such a reaction from the holy man.

Your father stands and in a booming voice cries. “What is happening?”

In answer to the king’s question…the flickering torches in their sconces and magical orbs in the great chandelier above all begin to dim.

“What is this devilry?” Says your knight brother as he casts his eyes about, his hand immediately on the handle of his sword.

The floor beneath you begins to…bleed! An instant later it disappears completely! The stone of the top circle of the dais is replaced by a yawning chasm of darkness. Your stomach twists as you are seized by the sensation of being about to fall a great distance. You do not fall however. Instead, from out of the void, rises a figure.

Up and up rises a woman clad in shadow, close enough that you could feel the chill emanating from her body. Her long hair was the color of moonlight, her lips the color of night, her skin as pale as fresh snow, and her eyes a sanguine red. Her narrow face was fine-boned with delicate yet noble features. She was tall, half a head taller than you at least. She wore a black and crimson cape over an inky black gown with a plunging neckline that accentuated an impressive bosom for a woman so lithe. The only jewelry she wore was around her neck, a black choker with a deep red ruby at the front. She was beautiful! An ethereal type of beauty that made your heart ache just to behold it. Those illustrated storybooks in the library didn’t even come close to doing her justice.

Ageless, powerful, humbling. The dread presence of the mother of all vampires fills the grand hall.

You hear shouts from the knights, the screams from the guests, the casting of spells and the invoking of prayers but your gaze was locked upon those deep, red eyes.

Paying the chaos around her no mind she says in a voice that was a winter wind through your soul. “You chose me?”

Your voice trembling you whisper. “Yes, Mistress.”

Slowly her black lips curl to form a smile, eventually revealing the white fangs beneath.

There is a blinding flash as a spell explodes around you. Within the circle however there is not so much as a breeze to rustle your hair. Men at arms try to take the stairs but the slick blood that continued to stream down the stone steps make them all but unclimbable. Even your surefooted brother cannot hold his stance and goes tumbling down, not before grabbing for you however. An error on his part as the flesh within his gauntlet withers so severely the armored glove slips from his blackened hand during the fall.

“Ahhhh!”

His eldest son’s cry of pain rouses the king to speak. “Dread Countess of the Withermire! You have broken the pact! The prophecy…”

“Father.” My priestly brother says, his voice quavering. “She was…invited.”

“Invited? Nobody but I may give an invitation to…”

With a shaking hand he points at the slip of paper that was gradually turning red as the blood wicked into it. “She was chosen!”

“What? No. No!” Your father’s eyes snap to meet yours as the realization hits him. “Jacarian!”

Your courage failing you you turn away from his hard, piercing gaze as you always did. For the first time in your life you find an embrace waiting for you. In complete disregard of your father’s royal authority long, slender arms wrap around you protectively.

“Get away from my son!”

“He is not yours, feeble king. He has given himself to me.”

“Jac would…” His voice falters. “He would never do that!”

“Wouldn’t he?” She laughs, a cold and hollow laugh.

Her hands on your shoulders, though gentle you could feel an unearthly strength within them, she turn you around to face your parents. Wrapping her arms around your chest she nuzzles into your neck before giving you a strong lick up your cheek. Her tongue was long, tapered and rasped at your flesh like a cat’s tongue.

“Jacarian…!” Your mother calls to you and tries to approach, but your father holds her back.

Looking deep into your eyes he discovers more than wanted to. Frightened, shook like you’d never seen him, and profoundly disappointed the king shakes his head. “You foolish, foolish boy. You have no idea what you have done. Whatever hold she has on you…whatever lie she told you…”

“You are the fool, not him.” Your betrothed says. “You know I could not do this through trickery.”

Addressing you in a grim tone he says. “For this I will kill you, boy. You may be my blood but I will send you to hell.”

“NO! Jacarian!” Mom reaches for you. “Don’t do this!”

“It is already done, Grewalt whore. He has chosen. I am to be his bride. But do not fear, mother dear.” The vampire croons, her dagger sharp nails lengthening as they drag across the front of your tunic to slice it into ribbons. “I will look after him now.”

The shadows begin to coalesce around you and you could feel yourself fading away from this room.

Your father’s eyes, now full of rage, bore into yours. “Before you go, fool boy. Tell me why. Why have you doomed your country? Why have you betrayed your family? Why have you ensured your own death? SAY SOMETHING!”

With the Countess’ long arms tight around you and his wretched, stinking face dimming from view you find the bravery to say…

Part 2