The Chronicles of Ki
Book 1: In The Beginning
© Copyright 2024 Frank Walters Clark ~ All Rights Reserved
Delay breeds misfortune, Lord Dalu thinks.
At his king’s bidding, in full royal attire, he is to present himself before the royal couple at 05:00. One niggling hour from now.
He stalls, pacing about his bedchamber, kicking furniture, throwing e-tablets and knick- knacks. Growling like a great cat, caged and angry, waiting for the right moment to escape.
They want me to take a bride, I know it. His royal duties already are becoming a nuisance, Lord Dalu reasons. Why would he
acquiesce to the role of pecked husband? Doomed to the stench of drooping diapers, the vile evilness of vomit-soaked sleeves and tunic pads.
Why would any man in his right mind subject himself willingly to such horrors? He has not forgotten, though. As heir to the throne, he is required by traditional blood-oath to contribute his seed to furthering the royal line.
Tradition, my ash! Better a concubine than a bride, any time.
Taking a spouse is no laughing matter, Dal thinks. What were they thinking when they crossed fist-backs over each other’s hearts?
When they drew blood?
Tied together with sacred vows sealed in blood, bonded with a band of gold. Broken after a few angry words, unwilling to counsel much less consider their children’s feelings. Again, how does that work?
Why would I even consider acting in a play of that nature?
Resigning himself to his duty, Lord Dalu two finger-temples up his com link and calls for his royal guards and his R-2 platform. Delay does breed misfortune.
* * *
Rather than the high-back, bejeweled throne that traditionally accompanies the kingship, Dalu notes his father, King Dal, has newly chosen a posh incliner for his royal hindquarters. Its cushionings are covered in gold-trimmed red-velvet, and the frame, Dalu has discovered on a midnight jaunt around the castle, is capable of flexing and folding in ways his royalness might never imagine, much less put to use.
I can think of a few delicious ways! he thinks. Bending her this way and that… over and under… up and down… a useful incline, father!
King Dal wears the black feathered and winged-cape standards of the Royal Annunaki Guard, and his emerald-studded gold helmet is cocked at an angle, giving him an air of joviality. His hair and beard are finely braided and hang in long strands down his back and chest.
Lord Dalu’s mother, Queen Dal, has been consigned to an elegantly plain unpadded wickwood chair at his side. Under her gold helmet, her hair is taken up off her neck in a twist by a pearl clip, and her emblazoned black silk imperium gown cascades straight down off her shoulders in long pleated falls. She rests regally, easy in her place.
Sitting to one side, Lord Xib and Lady Nols also wear the helmeted Annunaki standards.
Lips sealed, quiet and observant, both know they are only here as royal witnesses and nothing more.
For himself, Lord Dalu has chosen the uniform of the Black Gloves. His white hair secured in a top knot and piled inside a black, gold-trimmed horned helmet. A black silk jumpsuit is secured at his waist and crossed diagonally on his chest with a blood-red sash.
Medallions and ribbons decorate his uniform; a short gold tassel hangs at his hip, and high-gloss, two-inch-heeled black boots complete the ensemble.
Pirouetting as he approaches, Lord Dalu sweeps and bows and smiles, then tweaks his mustache and cones his beard.
“My king! My queen!”
“What is the nature of your uniform Dalu?” His eyes half-lidded King Dal is squinting.
Managing to unwittingly mimic the face of an old philosopher nodding at his evening meditations.
“This my king?” Dalu says. “Just some rags I threw on at the last moment. Please, do not envy, father. I labored hard and long to achieve this fashion.”
Unlike your royal baggage…who would not know fashion if it kicked him squarely in the ash…
Smiling, Queen Dal rises and tents her gown with one hand. Then, dip-stepping around him, she dances, touching his face, his arms and shoulders, around to stroke his neck and down his back to caress his buttocks.
A prelude to a seduction! Dalu thinks. Wickedly done…
“I think he looks gorgeous, Dal, do you not think? The uniform, if it is a uniform, very smartly attends his handsome form. And those boots, those boots! I could paint my face in them!”
The shine would fade before success with that act, mother…
Sorely tempted to step on the edge of her gown and then snicker when she stumbles, Lord Dalu instead turns to the real purpose for his presence here.
“The bride apparent is where? Lady Qon?”
Lady Qon poop, more…
He pushes…
“Have her feet grown cold?”
Ice queen that she is…
Pushes harder…
“Has she skipped lightly down the path leading to her cliff-top home?”
Stumbling, likely…
Harder still…
“Or hopefully… fallen over the side?”
Like a turd into a pot…
Rage flushes his face, and King Dal stands, pointing a finger at his heir.
“You will show proper respect for the lady, or you will suffer my wrath!”
Erect and motionless, Dalu stares coldly at the king. Wings of blackness reel across his brain, and a snaking evil slithers through the chambers of his heart.
“I am at your command.”
When you are dead…
King Dal’s eyes narrow at perceived slights. “Can you not even in respect say, my king?
Or I will obey?”
Lord Dalu is bored and refuses to reply.
You are not my king…
King Dal raises an arm toward the doorway, his face dark with intent.
“You will leave my presence this moment!
There will be no more discussions of a royal coupling until I am ready, and you are less remiss.”
Lord Dalu bludgeons…
“Cleave, you old trudgeon sack!” “What say you foul! The mouth of a
common seed-sucking whore you have! How dare you address your blood king in such fashion!”
King Dal strides down off the dais and puts his nose close against Dalu’s, then growls deep and strong.
“Not for the first time am I torn asunder by you, trudgeon, but it will be the last. I hereby rescind your royal signet. You are no longer my heir apparent. You will leave my home!”
“Guards, remove this man from my presence before I kill him!”
As the Royal Guards drag him backwards away from the royals, Dalu shoots fiery daggers at his mother and father.
The rift has been opened… Finally.