12.16.13.

I remember closing my eyes and pressing my hands up against my ears as tightly as I could, wishing I could scream. Max’s voice would grow thunderously loud and Papa’s throaty tone rippled with frustration as their discussions grew and longer and more heated. Every night it was the same. Mother would never do anything but cry piteously and beg them to get along. It was no good. I could see after only a few short weeks of Max living at home with us that they would never get along again. He was a man in his own right, and had grown too accustomed to his own views to heed our parents’ any longer. I couldn’t blame him. Papa was set in his thinking and defended the king with bold loyalty, even when no one else in Dunleemar agreed with him. Mother supported him with her every breath, but I could tell from the way her mouth stretched into a thin line whenever we were in public that she would have rather turned the other way and followed Max’s way of thinking. In her youth Mother had been something of a rebel, but every spark of spirit she’d been born with had been drummed out of her by her tyrannical father and six older brothers. After that she’d been married off to an opinionated man with a solid brow and a dark, threatening face which could frighten a bear if he wished it to. So was it any wonder that she was afraid to stand up for her beliefs?

Only Max defied Papa’s thinking, at least to his face. During the village meetings no one questioned my father’s defense of the king because he was a respected leader in the community. But behind his back we would see them whispering. And everywhere from the castle to the coast, a sprouting whisper was growing collectively in the minds of the people.

Revolution.

Revolution.

The word was synonymous with treason, but as the pirate raids grew worse, and more innocent soldiers died fighting a hopeless battle, we were forced to think it.

“Why won’t you see the truth?” Max shouted. His face broken and sad as my father sat there stubbornly, his own gray eyes set in resolution. “Why won’t you help me?” My brother murmured softly, surprising me with the loneliness of his words.

“Because,” Papa muttered. “I am loyal—”

“Loyal to what? A king who has deserted you!  Not your own son.” Max retorted hotly.

“If you had any sense I would support you.”

“But I do have sense. I know that in your heart you agree with me, and so do you.” He shook his head, confused and abandoned. “Why won’t you make a stand, Father? Why won’t you fight?”

He turned and slammed out the door.

They were the last words my brother ever spoke in that house. He didn’t come back.

After Max left, the quiet solitude of our home was almost worse than the arguments. I took to the hills, strolling further and further each day. As I grew up, the nameless hints of the revolt grew stronger, and still there was no war. At the village meetings there was dark gossip, deepening the resentment towards the king. Even some of his officials turned against him. Three of them came to one of our meetings one night, bearing ill stories of ill winds.

“No one’s seen him in days.” One said.

“Days? You mean months. The northern wing is completely sealed off, but some have said that they’ve seen him. I’ve heard he goes every day to the tombs of the ancestors, and sits with his wife.”

“He reads to her, stories and tales that are hardly fit for children.” Muttered the third.

There was bitter laughter.

“And this is our king.” Mordule, the village leader shook his head.

“War is upon us. If we do not revolt our kingdom will fall to ruin. Already there is unrest in the Sal, and then to the East where the Lydians are training an ever-growing army of mercenaries. We’ll be defenseless in a year, after these pirate hoards have sapped us of our strength.” Dargal clenched his fist.

“Isn’t there any other solution?” A few quaked.

People cast about for suggestions, but there were none. Desperate, my village stared into its fate with dismal gloom.

My father said nothing. He looked so much older and more tired than usual that I was afraid. There was a new gray showing at his temples and his eyes were cloudy and dull. His once ruddy face was thinner than ever and pale. I tugged on his sleeve as I had done as a child.

“Are you alright, Papa?”

He smiled down at me. “Shh. I allowed you to come on the strict rule that you would stay quiet, daughter.”

I bit my lip.

“Maybe it would be best if you went home to keep your mother company.” He chucked me lightly under the chin and pressed me away. With tears in my eyes, my reply was a whisper that I had never meant for him to hear.

 “Oh dear,” I sighed. “If only the king could fall in love again, and forget his grief.” Even as I said the words, I hurried out into the murky black night, a lantern in my hand. Behind me I left angry men and a room full of fear, but also something far more dangerous.

An idea.