The King with Six Friends

Erik

(Twelve years earlier)

Erik sat at the harpsichord's bench creating a song no one knew but him. His mother, Viscountess Idonea, lounged on the loveseat in front of a blazing fire. She read a simple-worded novel about an affair between a queen and a rogue.

Erik liked to play harpsichord in the sitting room because it had the biggest fireplace. But if he had his way he would play his sonatas and concertos at the mansion in the South Kingdom where it was warmer. Here, in Castle Brackhill, the keys would freeze up if the servants didn't put hot coals under the berth of the instrument. The wood had warped from freezing and thawing, so some of the keys were off by that much. Erik played anyway; it was the only thing he could do besides sleep through his tutor's arduous lectures.

"Play the one that sounds. . . gentle," Mother softly requested from the couch, "It's the one that's quiet and graceful." It was the sonata he wrote in the F-major key. He liked that one too.

Just as Erik began the trembling preamble, his father, Viscount Kerlen, stormed into the sitting room with the air of a thunderstorm. Erik abruptly stopped mid-note.

"Hello, dearest," Mother said without looking up from her novel, "I hope the other monarchs are well."

"All well, fat, and warm," Father grumbled bitterly, standing by the fireplace. "My aunt can't seem to find her words or senses at these summits. I'm not sure why I even went with her."

"Be kind, please," Mother gently chided. "The Grand Duchess might be getting on in years, but that doesn't mean she's unreasonable."

Father scoffed. "The 'Grand Duchess' doesn't notice that her people are dying by the hundreds every winter, let alone thousands these few years." He poured himself a glass of ale from a servant's tray. "I swear to God above, if she doesn't do something about it soon I'll have to kill her myself and take over." He chuckled to himself darkly.

Erik's back and shoulders tensed up at those last words. Erik wasn't facing his father, but he knew what was behind him. He could feel his father's heavy presence wherever he was. It was dangerous to be in the same room as his father when he talked like this. Erik had learned that it was always best to be as passive as possible to avoid his attention. Mother was silent as well.

"Anyways," Father continued, falling back into an armchair, "Our old friends in the South Kingdom are well. The ride back up was horrid. The grooms are chipping ice off the horses now. The sooner we get some gold out of the mountain, the sooner we can clear out of this frozen hell on Earth."

Erik felt a pang of loneliness. He missed his best friend, Kiera, who used to play with him almost every day when they were younger. Even though she was a princess and he was a lower-class noble's son, they saw each other simply as friends. Erik desperately wanted to go back and see her again.

"No need to be so pessimistic, darling," Mother said, "I've found Brackhill to be charming in its own way."

"'Charming'," Father muttered, "As charming as a snow tempest morph."

Erik gingerly slid out from the bench and tried to sneak away out the door.

"Erik," his father suddenly addressed him. Erik turned and faced him. "What have you learned from your tutor today?" The query caught him off guard.

"I- I learned about Greek and Roman mythology," Erik fumbled.

He had also learned some grammar and arithmetic, but mythology was the only thing he remembered. The fantastical stories of gorgons and demigods were mesmerizing to listen to.

"Mythology," Father mused, "Aesop's fables and Heracles' trials?"

"Yes," Erik said cautiously.

"Entertaining, but useless overall." Father took another swig. "A future king should not waste his time with fairytales."