Drinks and Deaths

Deciding it would be wise to gain more of a sense of one of the future Queen of Sinnabarrow's closest confidants, you agree.

Swain makes himself more decent, scurrying across the room to find several discarded articles of his clothing, then makes for a carafe on an end table. Solla, for her part, is as comfortable in the nude as she is in boiled leather and steel, it would seem.

“A little taste of home.” Swain observes, pouring out three generous measures of liquor. “I may not agree with the Admiralty on many things, but a man should never be without rum.”

“A fine drink, to be certain.” Solla agrees, downing hers almost in one. “For the most part, I find the **** on this continent much more to my liking than those of my home.”

“I'm sensing there's a notable exception there.” Swain perceives with a slight chuckle.

“There is.” Solla responds. “My people used to make this wine, from cacao pods. There's... nothing quite like it over here.”

“Fascinating.” Swain responds. “I'd consider myself fairly well travelled, and I've never heard of such a thing. Then again, I've never truly left the continent proper.”

“The sweetness of that wine...” Solla remarks, leaning back in her seat. “There are few things that make me homesick, but that..."

“Sinnabarrow's tendrils extend across much of the known world.” Swain muses. “Perhaps I could persuade one of our captains of trade to try acquiring some of it, sending it over to Beatha.”

“I-I must say, you have an unusual position here, Benjamin.” you interject. “You're no Sinnabarrovian, but you're so close to the crown princess...”

“Princess Madeleine was... much further down the line of succession when I entered her orbit, Your Majesty.” Swain tells you. “The poor woman's had such bad luck with her brothers. Five of them, all met with untimely ends before her eighteenth summer. More rum?”

You oblige the bard, moving your cup closer. Swain pours out another round for each of you.

“There were her half-brothers first, of course. The King's sons from his first marriage. Gerard was a fine man, and a finer warrior, by all accounts. Died in a spat with the Morlandians. Long before our dear Princess was even born.

“Losing their prince in a border skirmish?” Solla remarks. “No wonder they rely on Beathan aid so much now.”

“Quite so, Lady Solla, quite so. Next was Garnier. His father's favourite, so I hear tell. One of the brightest young men to ever walk the continent.”

“What happened to him?” You ask, nursing your rum.

“Lost at sea, I'm afraid.” Swain says, pouring a measure of his rum out onto the floor in response, a Lagan tradition. “No body was ever found, of course, but the man hasn't been seen for fifteen years."

“Pierre had of course remarried by then. To Queen Emmanuelle, Madeleine's mother. Had more children. Their first son, Pierre, became sickly towards the end of his childhood. Something in his blood, the healers reckoned. Never saw manhood, let alone the throne.”

“I take it that inspired Madeleine's... medicinal preoccupations?” You inquire.

“Possibly. That, and Francois' untimely end, as she relayed to you last night. Shot in the head with his own crossbow. Madeleine tells me there were rumours at the time that it had been no accident. That the wound had been self-inflicted. That Francois had desired the throne even less than Madeleine does now.”

“And what credence do you give these rumours?” you slur.

“Very little, personally. While I can certainly appreciate chafing at the role and responsibilities a man of noble birth is shackled with, I can also envision far more palatable methods of obliviation.” the bard remarks, gesturing to the carafe before you with a smirk.

“Arno was the next to die. Nearly two years ago, now. With four sons lost, King Pierre was rather... protective of his heir. Young Arno chafed against that. He would often sneak out of the palace, ride out into the city, or the countryside, living amongst his future subjects.”

“And how'd he meet his end?” You can't help but ask.

“He failed to saddle up his mount correctly, slipped from the saddle and broke his neck.” Swain relays. “Dressed in common attire as he was, the prince was apparently rather... ripe by the time his father's men located his remains.”

“By the Gods...” you remark.

“So many princes lost...” Solla remarks. “I hate to say it, but the Diacres are cursed, they have to be!”

“Curse is not a word we use around here.” Swain remarks. “Madeleine is quite insistent that, despite the tragedy of each loss, her brothers died due to clearly observably phenomenon, not due to magic or fate.”

“It still sounds like a fuckin' curse to me.” Solla reiterates.

“What does Pierre think of Madeleine taking the throne after him?” You ask.

“I would say the King's feelings are mixed. Pierre has never been much of a believer in women in positions of authority, and Madeleine allegedly gave him a lot of trouble during her childhood. Emotional difficulties, as well as problems with her studies.”

“Problems studying? I thought Madeleine fancied herself a scholar?” You ask.

“She does now, yes. But all her life she's been plagued by a... difficulty. The Princess finds it exceedingly troublesome to read for herself.”

“Madeleine strikes me as many things, stupid is not one of them.” You argue, taking a swig of rum.

“And she isn't stupid, despite the claims of her tutors and governesses. I merely said she struggles to read. Normally, Madeleine's mind is as sharp and inquisitive as anyone I've met. But she has confided to me that, when reading, letters will appear jumbled, scrambled, and ascertaining their true formation can be quite taxing.”

“I've never heard of such a malady.” Solla interrupts.

“A funny thing that, Beatha being so famously saturated with scribes and learned men.” Swain says.

“Fair point.” Solla shoots back.

“I have heard of a few such cases in my travels, however. When I arrived in Sinnabarrow, I eventually lent Madeleine my aid as a tutor. Nowadays, I read and write all her correspondence, narrate books and schematics to her, even take notes during her experiments.”

“You sound... invaluable.” you note.

“Quite so!” Swain laughs. “I often joke Madeleine will one day order me chained to her hip! Ah, but I jest. I'm happy to be of service to such a promising royal scion.”

“I imagine that for a disinherited pirate and bard, the rewards are rather hefty, too.” You can't help but needle him.

“Indeed.” Swain admits. “If Madeleine wishes to reward me for the convenience I grant her, I am not averse to it.”

“You said Madeleine's the heir to the throne, but that's not entirely true, eh?” Solla interjects. “Pierre's married.”

“That... is true.” Swain notes. “Queen Camille is young, beautiful and could very well bear the King a child. In theory. If that child was a male, he'd be the heir, not Madeleine. In theory.”

“And what about in reality?”

Even despite his rum-loosened tongue, Swain grows apprehensive.

“I shouldn't be telling you this, but the King is not a well man. Losing Arno was hard on him. Not long after I came to court, he suffered an attack. Apoplexy, Madeleine called it. A condition of the brain. For weeks, he couldn't walk, couldn't talk. Over time he's recovered some semblance of his old self, but Madeleine fears another event of its like.”

“So while Queen Camille could bear him an heir, in the condition King Pierre is in now, well he's likely no more capable of fathering a son than Solla here is.” Swain explains.