Sword of Sedition

Julian cleared the rope lines with only a cursory check of his identity, as he was well known to the security detail in charge of Harrison’s safety. From there, he forced himself to walk sedately. No matter how late. No matter the reason he had been held up at the palace. No one in Harrison’s i

Peace Park camped in the shadows of the magnificent Davion palace, rebuilt along with all of Avalon City after the Jihad. A favorite weekend picnic area where citizens explored the maze of paths that wound between meadows and monuments, soft creeks and sunlit sports fields.

Today, however, access had been restricted as two thousand New Avalon citizens—nobles and military men, and commoners drawn by lot—waited for the final ceremonies. The speech would be a short one, but no one minded. They were here to see and be seen, or to enjoy their fifteen minutes with the first prince. Noble finery and starched uniforms mingled with civilian Sunday-best suits and sundresses.

Julian moved among them, elbowing through tight knots and circling around the larger enclaves, always moving down into the amphitheater’s bowl. Only when he approached a cadre of military officers did a path magically open, the military men and women showing uncomfortable deference to the prince’s champion. To a civilian and to many nobles he was just one more man in uniform, thankfully. They tended to overlook him, which was useful. As he walked, Julian caught more than one concerned glance down into the amphitheater’s shallow depression.

Drawing closer, he soon saw why. Harrison. The first prince stood on the natural granite outcropping which had been shaped and polished into a low stage…

…waiting with Khan Sterling McKe

Leader of the Raven Alliance, McKe

Then again, he had to admit that she was a good fit for the bear of a man who waited on stage next to her. Julian would have recognized the broad back and great fall of curly dark hair from a hundred meters easy.

McKe

His full beard showed gray on the underside of the chin and in the sideburns, and his eyes had permanent laugh lines in the corners. Other than that, the sixty-five-year-old leader was aging well. There was no doubting the strength of his grip, which had contributed to his nickname of “The Bear,” or the good humor behind those heavy brown eyes, a joy that had been missing for too many years before Sterling’s arrival at court.

“About time, nephew,” the larger man said, his voice gruff but warm. Cousins, actually, but Julian had forever known Harrison as Uncle. “Would have started without you, too much longer.”

With so many from the palace press corps so close by, Julian forced a smile at the old saw. It wasn’t too hard. “I see you’re still wearing your own clothes.”

It was a public joke, for which Harrison himself was responsible. The prince generally preferred paramilitary uniforms with a noble’s cape of rank. Or, at least, that was the way his valet dressed him in the morning. But in parades and public meetings, he was prone to trade a dress jacket and starched button-down for a colorful T-shirt that caught his eye or was handed to him as a gift.

It was one of his more endearing traits, so far as the public was concerned. The line of “Harry Bears” brought out every month by Excalibur Collectibles always featured the prince’s latest fashion travesty.

Harrison’s mouth opened, then clamped shut against laughter. The prince did not take laughter lightly. His laugh came from deep in his chest, full of humor, and it would not be appropriate today.

He pumped his champion’s hand again. A public relations aide waved frantically from near the front of the stage as Harrison threw the ceremony’s stringent timing off, but the prince took the extra few seconds. “Good to see you, Julian.”

Julian wished he could return the salute, but not replying was the best way to clue in the prince that there was a problem to discuss. And better now than having to force a word in after the ceremony, when the press and the people would throng the stage and give the security detail fits as everyone called for a moment or memento of their prince. Julian remained quiet, letting a touch of strain show on his face.

For all his bluff and bluster, Harrison was no fool. He barely missed a beat, slapping Julian’s back with good-natured strength and pulling him toward the podium where the prince would make his a

A sidelong glance that lasted a single heartbeat. That was all.

Julian nodded.

“My dear,” Harrison called Sterling McKe

McKe

One of the most dangerous moments in any leader’s life, Julian knew. Even in Peace Park, where access was controlled and attendees had been screened by the best security team in the I

Victor Steiner-Davion had deserved to die in his bed. It bothered Julian that the paladin had been robbed of that. He’d earned the privilege, one so many I

Julian’s father had pointed that out to him once, when Julian returned from a day of secondary schooling and asked why the family did not take full advantage of its birthright.

“Seventy!” he’d said. “I would rather look forward to another forty years or more with my family.”

Julian had looked it up himself. Sure enough, his father had been right. I

It just wasn’t a good idea.

So the prince’s champion sca

While Harrison stepped up to the forward edge of the podium, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Thirty days,” he said without preamble, no doubt trying to make up for his late start. The soft buzz of quiet conversations fell away into total silence. “Thirty days of mourning for one of our own. And Victor Steiner-Davion was one of our own.”