The Six of Cups

The Advisor moves to the edge of the dais, clearing his throat with all the theatricality of a town crier. "All rise for the King; may the gods preserve him and the Heir Apparent, Princess Clara!" He reads from the ledger with a flourish, announcing the court officially in session.

All heads bow, some deeper than others. Clara wonders which are feigned and which are genuine. She settles back, trying to look composed and utterly failing to stop her leg from bouncing under the folds of her skirt.

Noah leans toward her, voice pitched so low she's sure it's for her alone. "You will watch and learn. That is your duty for now. I will call upon you only if necessary. Speak with dignity, and never contradict me before the court." Noah explained to Clara in a stern voice that could rattle the bones of any veteran.

Clara nods, though a flicker of doubt lingers in her eyes, as she doesn't entirely agree. Her father has always been a steadfast man of tradition.

Noah continued, almost as if speaking to himself, "I trained Atlas for this. Gave him every lesson, every privilege. I never once thought—" His words trailed off, and he looked straight ahead, his jaw tightening for a brief moment like a vice. "You will do better than your brother." He finished in a lower tone than before, gruff.

It's not quite a compliment, but Clara accepts it as one, feeling the weight of the words settle on her shoulders.

Clara wonders if her father remembers the stories he used to tell her as a child, the ones where the clever Queen outwitted the gods with a riddle or a trap. She wonders if those stories were warnings or just bedtime amusements. It doesn't matter now. The audience is assembling, and there is no more time for sentiment.

She looks down at her hands, fingers curled tight in her lap. The promise ring glints in the sun, a small, stubborn circle of silver against all the gold and marble. Clara is here to learn. She will do her best even if it's a massive pain in the ass.

The scrape of hinges and the soft click of the side door interrupted the anticipatory hush. All attention swings to the entryway as Queen Zia strides in, every inch the ruler's consort. Her gown is an architectural wonder—layers of shimmering blue velvet over bone-white silk, embroidered with patterns so intricate that Clara can't tell if they're meant to be waves, clouds, or the veins of some ancient leaf. The Queen's hair, a loose cascade of blonde threaded with silver, spills down her back in deliberate contrast to Clara's rigid braids. A circle of deep sapphire rests on her brow, catching the sunlight and scattering it in tiny motes.

Zia's entrance halts the Advisor's mid-gesture. She moves without haste, each step slow and measured, yet the effect is as if she glides over the marble. The Queen acknowledges the assembled with a slight nod, then mounts the dais and claims the throne at Noah's right.

"Your Majesty," she says to Noah, but her gaze flicks sideways to Clara. "I have just received word from the Duchess of Alderfell. Apparently, the next round of court sessions will include not only the usual grievances but several eligible sons as well." She informs her husband and her daughter. She masked her amusement well.

Noah's brows furrow. "Suitors, you mean." He responded in a low, grave voice, a sigh escaping his lips before he could stop it. The political games always became more complicated when marriage was involved.

"It seems the entire north has readied their most promising young men. One might think the realm itself is seeking a husband for our daughter." Zia replied in the same even tone as before. She remembered what she had gone through before she became the Queen. Zia's smile is the kind that could sweeten honey or curdle milk, depending on the recipient.

The word "daughter" fell like a heavy stone, carrying more weight and significance than Clara had anticipated. It reverberates in her mind, echoing with all the layers of meaning and expectation, leaving her momentarily breathless.

Queen Zia's eyes narrow just a fraction. "You'll have no shortage of choices, Clara. Perhaps you'll find one who doesn't faint at the sight of blood or wilt in the heat." She said this in a slightly gentler tone. The choice Clara made would affect the whole kingdom; she was sure Clara felt the weight of the pressure.

Clara's mouth opens, then snaps shut. A half-dozen retorts jostle in her mind, but she decides to bite her tongue instead. She contents herself with the faintest shrug, a gesture she hopes reads as unconcerned rather than outright defiant.

King Noah clears his throat, dragging the subject back to firmer ground. "The petitioners have gathered, Zia. Let us begin. The sooner we address their needs, the sooner we can move on to matters of state." He said as his hand rose to signal the Advisor.

"Of course." The Queen responded with a short nod.

The Royal Advisor steps forward once more, hands trembling with excitement or perhaps just age. "Very good, Your Majesties. If it pleases the court, I will call the first case to the dais." He glances down at his ledger, mouth moving in silent rehearsal.

As the Advisor signals the guards, Clara leans back in her seat. She looks out over the sea of faces below—commoners, merchants, a smattering of lesser nobles—and tries to picture which of the "eligible sons" will be the most unbearable. She'd take a hundred squabbling farmers over a single preening suitor any day.

Two men enter the chamber together, their clothes equally dust-stained, but their expressions worlds apart. One—narrow-faced, fists clenched tight around a battered cap—looks like he's been holding a grudge since birth. The other, burly and pink-cheeked, has the resigned air of someone who's survived this process before. Neither seems inclined to make eye contact with the other or with the dais. Instead, they keep their gazes fixed somewhere above the Advisor's head as if hoping the ceiling might open and swallow them whole.

The Royal Advisor clears his throat, projecting both importance and irritation. "Your Majesties, the first matter of the day: a dispute between Farmer Hobb and his neighbor, Milo Redfern, regarding the alleged mistreatment of livestock."

"Let them speak." King Noah doesn't so much as blink.

The Advisor nods to the smaller man. Hobb steps forward, his cap twisting in his hands like he's trying to wring water from it. "Begging Your Majesty's pardon, but it's the sheep, see. My neighbor's been—" He falters, glances at Milo, then mumbles, "—been doing things to 'em. And now half my flock's gone sickly."

There is a ripple through the chamber: a titter here, a suppressed cough there. Clara feels her mouth twitch despite herself.

"What things, precisely, has your neighbor been doing to your sheep?" Noah's tone is flat.

"It's not proper to say, Your Majesty," Hobb replies quickly as his ears turn crimson.

"But you must. This is a court of law." Queen Zia leans forward, her eyes glittering.

Hobb gulps audibly. "He's been, er, sleeping with them, m'lady. Or so I was told by the healer, on account of what's wrong with them." He stumbled over his words, trying to avoid any… indecent words.

A longer, louder ripple. Clara catches a glare from Olivia in the gallery and immediately looks down, face burning with effort not to laugh.

"Is there truth to this accusation, Redfern?" Noah turns to Milo, whose jaw is set in a way that suggests he's ready to take a punch.

Milo steps forward. "No, Your Majesty. Hobb's always hated that my sheep grow faster than his. If there's something wrong with his flock, it's because he's a careless bastard, not because I did anything unnatural." Milo exclaims in a defensive tone.

Clara bites her tongue; she can already see where this is going.

Hobb jumps in, voice shrill. "But the healer—he said it was a, a disease! A special one, caught from only one thing! He said—"

The Advisor interjects with uncharacteristic relish. "If it pleases the court, the healer in question has submitted testimony. The sheep are indeed afflicted with a rare pox, typically spread—" He glances at the ledger, deadpan. "—through intimate contact."

Noah closes his eyes for a moment. "And why do you believe your neighbor is the source?" He asked in an even tone that seemed to hint that he was losing his patience.

Hobb's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, which unfortunately carries in the cavernous hall. "Because I heard that Milo had it, too." He explained hesitantly.

Milo's face flushed red. "How'd you know what I got, Hobb? Unless you're peeping in my windows?" He exploded as he turned fully towards Hobb.

"I heard it from your wife, you lout!" Hobb blurted out in defense as he turned towards Milo.

The room erupts in a wave of poorly concealed snickers. Even the guards exchange glances, and Clara swears she hears Lue stifle a cough behind her. Zia is openly enjoying herself, lips curved in a slight smile. King Noah, however, remains grim.

"Order," the king says, though his voice barely rises above a weary sigh. "Hobb, Milo, you both claim to be wronged. Yet all I see is two grown men squabbling over sheep and rumors." He spoke in exasperation but masking his genuine disdain.

"But—" both men start, then stop as Noah raises a hand.

"I have heard enough." Noah's eyes pin on the Advisor. "Is there any proof beyond the testimony of the healer and the men's wives?" Noah questioned his tone, remaining firm.

"None submitted, Sire." The Advisor checked his ledger.

Noah nods, then addresses the two farmers. "For wasting the court's time with innuendo and for the suspected infidelity of both parties, I sentence you to three days in the castle dungeon, where you can sort out your differences without harming livestock or reputation," Noah ordered, then gave a nod; his word was final. He then gestured for the guards.

The farmers both gape, stunned into silence. The guards move quickly, each taking a man by the elbow and steering them toward the side exit. Hobb sputters, "But my sheep—" as Milo shouts, "He's the one who should—"

The door closes behind them. The room breathes out in collective relief.

Clara risks a glance at her mother, who gives a tiny shrug: What can you do? The Advisor, meanwhile, is practically vibrating with anticipation for the following case, eager to move on from the sheep scandal.

King Noah turns to Clara. "Well?" he says, sotto voce. "Is it what you imagined?" He asked as he relaxed his shoulders.

"Honestly, Father, I thought it would be worse," Clara responded after she swallowed a laugh and arranged her face into something more stately.

"Give it time. The day is young." Noah almost smiles.

Queen Zia leans over, her words barely audible. "If you survive this, the rest of the kingdom's burdens will seem light by comparison," Zia said to Clara with a slight smile on her lips.

Clara's fingers drum the arm of her throne. She's not sure whether to dread or relish what's coming next.

The Advisor clears his throat, already prepping for the next round. "Your Majesties, the next matter is of some import…"

Clara straightens, brushing invisible lint from her gown. She's ready—at least, as prepared as anyone can be to judge the madness of her people.

Bring on the next disaster.