Chapter 6: The Last Vote
“The Council of Eire is now in session,” read the king, a phrase he’d recited so often he could swear he mumbled it in his sleep. He looked up to see the usual six faces staring back at him. “All are present and accounted for. Chancellor Conn, how have you fared in Dyfed?”
“I long for Dyfed as much you do, my liege,” said the chief of Westmeath, son of a Welshwoman. “But there’s not much I can base a claim on. It doesn’t seem like your family’s ever set foot in Dyfed.” The king frowned. All this talk of claims and diplomatic channels before the war. He had the book. He had his orders to take the Ancestral Lands. That was the only claim he needed, though nobody outside of this castle would ever believe it.
“Well, keep at it. Those tasks are what your talents are for. Steward Natfraech…”
“Tanist Natfraech,” corrected the king’s brother, leaning back haughtily in his chair. Having studied and excelled at proper administration since childhood, the chief of Tir Eoghain had proven such a capable governor that the kingdoms’ electors had declared him heir apparent. Though he secretly envied the crown, he loved his brother more, and hoped to be as faithful a councillor as he could be.
“Tanist Natfraech, of course,” said the king with reluctance. “How is the war chest proceeding?”
“Taxes come almost faster than I can carry them,” his heir boasted. “At this rate you’ll be able to outfit your men with golden swords.”
“Golden swords would be useless in a battle,” interrupted Marshal Ailbrenn, a wandering knight who had pledged himself to the crown’s service. “Although His Majesty will be pleased at our smiths’ latest work, I should think.”
“If you are pleased, then so am I, Ailbrenn. You know I trust your judgment. In all things.” The king leaned slightly closer to his marshal, staring directly at him with a knowing glance. “Onto the next matter. I have a proposed royal decree that awaits the Council’s vote. He passed six sheets of paper, copied by hand, to the council.
“Did you dip your bod in ink for this?” asked Conn, staring at the decree with confusion. The whole text seemed to be scribbled in a haste, its text borderline illegible. What few words could be made out were too strange for the chancellor to comprehend.
“You know I was never too good with my hands, Conn.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, my liege!” said Ailbrenn. “You’re nearly as deft with a sword as I am!”
“Yes, thank you, Ailbrenn.” The king looked back to his chancellor. “You can call it a decree to reward all of you, my faithful council. Each of you have worked so hard and given so much in the name of this kingdom, and I want to ease your burden, give all of you more time to spend with yourselves and your families…”
“It means he’s in charge of everything,” scoffed Bishop Martan, tossing the sheet behind him. The court chaplain was a learned man, but not a civil one. Early into his priesthood, he decided to read the entire Vulgate, from “In principio” to “Iesu Christi cum omnibus.” When he’d finally seen it all, he decided he’d had enough elegant words for a lifetime. He’d only use plain ones going forward. “This vote here? He wants it to be the last vote. He always gets his way, and we can all go to Hell.”
“Are you serious?” asked the chancellor. The whole council was staring at the king now, though he barely seemed to notice, as stoic as ever.
“It’s a mutually beneficial agreement. Better for all of you, even. You’ll all have the same share of the treasury you do now in exchange for less work. With the extra time you can spend on your own desmesnes, you’ll likely make more money.”
“We’re not stupid, Ryan!” The bishop slammed a fist on the table. “You want to rule over all of us like slaves and make sure nobody can stop you.”
“If there’s a slave in this exchange, Martan, it’s me, as I’ll be assuming the full brunt of royal responsibilities.” The king’s eyes sunk lower. He was beginning to believe what he was saying. Despite what he’d become, there was still a voice deep inside him, the remnants of the child that once was before his royal grooming, who knew this was all wrong. He didn’t want this decree. But he needed it. “If any of you have objections, of course, that’s what this process is for. How does the council vote?”
“Nay,” said Conn.
“Nay,” added Martan.
Ailbrenn looked around the room with uncertainty. He was a soldier, not a politician. He barely understood the decree, much less how to feel about it. The only thing he knew for certain was that he’d sworn undying loyalty to the crown, and that much hadn’t changed.
“Aye,” voted the marshal. The king smiled, though just slightly.
“One for, two against,” he counted. “Advisor Fallaman, your vote?”
The king stared at his uncle, a silent reminder of the secrets the two men were privy to. The Duke of Laigin was the youngest son of the time traveler, and by now the only son still living.Though he’d never been a serious candidate for the throne, the late first king made sure all of his children, Fallaman included, understood the plan.
“Aye,” said the king’s uncle. The liege nodded contentedly, only to have the next vote instantly end his mood.
“Nay,” voted Natfreach.
“Really, Steward Natfraech?” interjected the king.
“That’s Tanist … no, Brother Natfraech! And as nice as inheriting absolute power sounds, I could do without the kingdom of angry subjects that come with it.”
“You know about the plan, brother.”
“I do know about the plan, yes. But unlike you, I also know about dealing with other people, getting them on your side. The plan won’t go anywhere if you make the whole world mad enough to want your blood. The bigger you make your crown, the more likely it’ll crush your head.” The king glared at his brother, unsure of just what to say, before turning his attention back to the paper in front of him.
“Natfraech … votes … against,” he read flatly as he wrote down. “Two for, three against. Spymaster Eorcenberht, your vote, please?”
As in most of the council’s meetings, the spymaster had yet to speak a word. Much of this was due to how uncomfortable he was speaking outside of his native tongue. The son of an Essexian duke who did not live to see his birth, Eorcenberht had been brought to Eire by the time traveler to marry Scathach, one of his many daughters. The hope was that he would bring more children to the time traveler’s dynasty, a task he’d utterly failed at.
But though he was a bad husband, he was an able spy, and took full advantage of his talent of disappearing into a room. Why talk when he could listen? In this moment, though, the silence was to his disadvantage, as now the whole room waited anxiously for his vote.
“...Aye,” whispered the spymaster.
“Three for, three against, and in the event of a tie a vote falls to the crown. The motion passes.”
“Diabhal Sassanach!” screamed Martan. The court chaplain ran towards the spymaster, forcing the marshal to get between the two and restrain the priest. “How much did he pay you, Eorcenberht? What did you sell our freedom for?”
“Everyone knows the Englishman would dig up and suck his father if the coin was good enough,” said Natfraech. “You bought him off, you must have.”
“I don’t believe I’m even capable of what you’re accusing me of.” The king straightened the papers in front of him, clearing the meeting room for another day. “As you’ve admitted, I don’t know how to get people on my side.”
“You can’t take our voices like this!” demanded Conn. “Not off of a tie! It isn’t fair! This whole vote was rigged!”
“All the more reason to do away with them, then.” Without another word, the king departed, leaving his council in the chamber to argue and scream among themselves. As he traveled the halls of his castle alone, forced to listen to his own thoughts, he nearly wished he was back at the meeting.
Establishing absolute rule was a difficult decision, but a necessary one. His grandfather’s book said much about the world from which he escaped. Most of it was nonsense beyond the new king’s comprehension, a long series of words he’d never seen before, and that nobody in a thousand years ever would. Other parts, however, were easier to imagine. In the future, he was told, there were still councils and votes and arguments that seemed to never end. Instead of six, though, they numbered hundreds, nearly all of them vile. By the time the Catastrophe had arrived, half of them refused to admit it, maybe even wanted it, and the second half didn’t want to upset and drive away the first. The world ended while they were locked in debate over what to do.
If councilors and votes had doomed humanity once, King Ryan II knew they could again. It was far better to remove any potential hindrances to the plan. The more people who held power, the more chance of power falling into the hands of someone evil, someone who would bring the world to ruin once again. It was better to just act, to do the right thing without worrying about approval. Votes were nothing but trouble, but how could anything bad happen with an absolute dictator?