The cheeseman

"And what then? Are we left to rage against the sickly weakness of this... this shattered mortal shell?" Enhiras laughed, turning the dagger in his hands. "Seeking for the glories of old is vain. The only glory is what we take for ourselves. By war, by death, by conquest. You," he pointed the dagger at Ceshmir, who sat upon the throne of Neldomark, "had your niece assassinated when she would ascend that very throne."

"What I did, I did only out of need and of love for this kingdom. The weakness of the mind, the lust after a peace that cannot be gained is more abhorrent than the weakness of any man's body." But both is the most terrible, especially in a king, Ceshmir thought. He leaned forwards in the throne, his eyes intent and fiery. "What have you to say of your actions in Bar-covern? I ordered the city captured, not sacked and leveled."

Enhiras sneered, his weaselly face pinching and becoming uglier as he spoke. "If you really want to secure this kingdom, you would have gone after Baeryvun first. You chose to ignore the rumors spreading out of there, and now we're fighting a war on two fronts." He slammed the dagger back into its bejeweled scabbard. "Not the best decision, I think."

Ceshmir's breath began coming quick and sharp, and the fire in his eyes spread across his face in a violent rage as he stood from the throne. "You," he said, his voice quiet and piercing, "knew."

"And yet, neither you, nor Kharne, nor Maelon, when he lived, listened to my counsel," Enhiras replied, his voice heavy with scorn. "What was it that Jaryn Enly wrote? 'What sorrow that such foolish men should lead, and that such wise should be slain'?"

"GET OUT!" Ceshmir's voice thundered in the throne room of the Palace-Beneath-the-Dawn, with the Maerin* exchanging glances and the servants cringing in fear. The last time the king had had such a violent fit, it had taken nearly a week to scour all the crimson out of the seams in the marble and obsidian floor.

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*the king's personal guard.