Viewing a single comment thread. View all comments

SilasCrane t1_j6l6zl9 wrote

The marionette danced on the thin silken strings that ran from its limbs to the wooden frame held in Barbicayne's slender, nimble fingers. The King and most of his court laughed and applauded, as the little wooden pig dressed in nobleman's finery chased the fluffy woolen sheep the king's fool controlled with his other hand, around and around in a frantic circle.

"Around and around, that pig chased the poor ewes, sure that the shepherd would ne'er hear the news!" Barbicayne narrated the story as the dolls acted it out, tossing his head with each line of his recitation, so that the bells on his motley cap jingled.

Only two of the nobles in the audience seemed less than amused by the farce: scholarly Lord Gray, who looked oddly thoughtful, and the gaudily dressed Duke Horace, whose narrowed eyes and gritted teeth left no doubt as to his opinion of Barbicayne's show.

The latter was easy to understand, if one was observant enough: the surcoat and trousers the wooden pig wore were markedly similar in shade to the Duke's own colors, to say nothing of the tightly curled black hair on its head, which was even an even better match for that of the seething nobleman. More than that, however, it took little imagination to draw parallels between the pig puppet's amorous fixation on the ewes of the shepherd's flock, and Horace's purported disgraceful penhant for lechery with the young peasant maidens on his country estates.

"But before the young ewe could be chased into bed..." Barbicayne began, and then, with a quick sleight of hand, he snapped the sheep puppet up to his hand, and exchanged it from another he drew from behind his back. This one was a bearded farmer, with unkempt golden hair that almost resembled a crown. In one hand it held a meat cleaver, painted half red, and in the other it bore a shepherd's crook.

"...the shepherd appeared, and cried 'Off with his head!'" the fool finished. Now it was the pig's turn to be chased round in a circle by the outraged shepherd, as the court laughed and cheered, all except for Duke Horace, who stared in wide-eyed horror. Barbicayne suddenly made the puppets collide, and the impact knocked off the pig's head, which went clattering away across the marble floor.

"That silly old pig thought that he was unseen!" the fool chanted, capering from foot to foot, before raising the shepherd puppet high above the floor, and spinning it in a slow circle, as though to take in the assembled gentry. "But the shepherd sees far -- and he keeps his blade keen!"

A final ripple of applause and laughter ran through the crowd, some from King Roger himself, and Barbicayne made a comically elaborate bow. The jester's performance had marked the end of the day's court, and the king withdrew from the throne room along with a favored few while the rest filed out, and Barbicayne began collecting his juggling props and puppets.

Only one stayed behind: the somber Lord Gray. "A fine show, Master Barbicayne."

Barbicayne shrugged modestly. "You are too kind, m'lord -- I fear I am as yet but a journeyman at my craft, else I'd have had the whole court in stitches with that farce about the pig. Duke Horace, for example, looked less than amused."

"You are too humble, Barbicayne." Lord Gray said, raising an eyebrow. "To admonish old Horace about his debauchery before the entire court, and warn him to mend his ways or suffer the king's wrath, all without giving him cause to object or take offense? That was a masterwork. And still rather amusing, in the bargain."

The jester's smile became suddenly brittle. "And yet, I must say that you didn't seem as entertained as the rest, your lordship."

"My mind was elsewhere." Lord Gray admitted.

"Really? You might wish to keep a closer eye on it, then, m'lord -- you never know when you'll need it." Barbicayne quipped, as he began to stuff his props and puppets into his sack a bit more swiftly.

"While the others were laughing, I was thinking," Lord Gray continued, refusing to be diverted. "Who really sits on the throne of Amberholm?"

"I'm...sure I don't know what you mean, my lord." the fool demurred.

"And I'm just as sure that you do." Lord Gray shot back. "We both know His Majesty well, Barbicayne -- he's a good man, but the Divine did not see fit to imbue him with...shall we say, a contemplative temperament. This clever farce of yours was not of his design."

"Some tasks are beneath the dignity of the monarch, my lord." Barbicayne said, quietly. "Yet they need doing, nonetheless."

"And how many such tasks has he delegated to you, Master Barbicayne?"

The fool paused, eyeing the baronet appraisingly.

"What is it that you want from me, my lord?"

"What any historian wants," Gray said, lifting his chin. "The truth."

The jester smirked. "One has only to crack a history book to give the lie to that statement, your lordship."

"And is the situation improved by concealing the truth?" Lord Gray retorted.

"Truths, my lord, are like green vegetables -- they might be good for you, but no one wants any when they're served up plain and simple." Barbicayne said. Then he held up one of his colorful marionettes, "If a cook is truly concerned for the health of those he nourishes, he must artfully conceal such unpleasant morsels in something a bit more palatable."

"In a handsome, likeable fellow wearing a crown and a royal stole, perhaps?" Gray suggested, and Barbicayne's expression darkened slightly. "Don't mistake me, Barbicayne. I've not come to try to expose you. If I'm right about half of what I suspect, I imagine that I'd...suffer an accident, before I could do any such thing."

"Then why have you come, my lord?" the jester asked.

"To know the truth." Lord Gray explained. "To do my duty to record the true history of my people, even if no one else sees it in either of our lifetimes, so that it will not be wholly forgotten."

"As long as I remember," Barbicayne said. "It won't be. And my memory is longer than you can imagine, my lord."

"As long as eternity?"

"Perhaps."

"But perhaps not?"

Barbicayne thought for a moment, and then gave a nod of concession.

"Then let me commit what you remember to the page. Keep my writings if you must, but conceal them somewhere they may be found if, one day..." Lord Gray trailed off.

"If one day there ceases to be a fool in the Court of Amberholm?" Barbicayne asked, smiling slightly. He let out a long, tired sigh. "Very well, my lord. Let me tell you a story..."

293

SilasCrane t1_j6p3n0d wrote

"You have guessed, I'll warrant." said Barbicayne, "That the nature and pedigree of Barbicayne the Fool, such as it is, is not so simple as it appears to be?"

"The less canny among my peers believe you're just what you appear to be: a common man, if slightly mad, who's a savant of song and verse." Lord Gray said. "Those who are more perceptive think that you're the king's spymaster, your guise as a fool a pretense to keep you close to the monarch and his court."

"The best stories have layers," Barbicayne said, with a grin, spreading his hands expressively. "A little something for everyone."

"And the truth?" Lord Gray pressed. "You're no common man -- if you are one at all."

"Questioning my manhood? Really, Lord Gray, I'd have thought such base jibes were beneath you." Barbicayne smirked.

"Rather your humanity, Master Barbicayne." the old scholar replied.

"Ah! Well, I've given some cause to question that, over the years. But I am quite human, as it happens -- on my mother's side, at least." the jester said.

"Is this story of yours going to start soon?" Lord Gray asked, impatiently.

"It started long ago, m'lord." Barbicayne replied crisply. "My story begins before great Sigismund the Wanderer first looked upon these fair lands while they dozed beneath a layer of orange autumn leaves, and fell in love with his new 'Amber Home'."

"There are no primary sources that authenticate the tale of Sigismund; that's just an old legend." Lord Gray protested.

"Then it's in good company with me," the fool retorted, crisply. "Now where was I? In those days this world was still new, like a young child still surrounded by its jostling elder siblings. Once such older sister to the world of man coveted its youth and beauty, and her children sought to lay claim on it."

"The Magi speak of a time beyond memory, when worlds overlapped and converged..." Lord Gray mused.

"At the moment, I speak of it." Barbicayne observed, testily.

Lord Gray raised his hands in placation, and the jester continued.

"The denizens of that world were powerful, with vast knowledge born of countless eons. And yet, the world they sought was not made for them. Too many substances common to this land proved to be their bane. Iron, hawthorn wood -- the sort of thing every peasant farmer trusts to ward away evil spirits, even today." Barbicayne went on. "Still, they were unwilling to abandon their conquest, even though this world was all but poison to them. Instead, they beget children with mortals, offspring who could have both a share in the power of these Outer Lords, and birthright to the world they coveted."

"You...you are..." Lord Gray said, eyes widening.

"A changeling? A fetch? A hellspawned wretch?" Barbicayne wryly rhymed. "We have been called such, my lord, and not without cause. But before we were any of those things, we were but children. What more can be asked of a child, than that he learn the lessons his parents teach, and do as they bid him?"

"Do you...do their bidding still?" he asked, uneasily.

The jester shook his head. "That ended long ago. The worlds were pulled apart by forces even the Outer Lords could not resist, and their voices could no longer reach the progeny they left behind."

"So you were abandoned." Lord Gray said, his expression softening.

"Yes. But this is not the sad part of the story, my lord." Barbicayne said. "We were better for it. We were bereft of our parents' power, yes, but we had a measure of that in our own right. More importantly, we had our freedom. Though many of us abandoned the ambition of ruling over this world, which was never really our ambition to begin with, the children of our second and now only home were not quick to forgive. We were hunted, and despite our power we were few, and they were many."

Lord Gray frowned. "So it often fares with men among each other, as well. The lust for vengeance is a bloody circle."

"Until one decides to break it." the fool observed. "As did the warrior sent to hunt me down: Sigismund of the Red Blade."

"The Wanderer?" Lord Gray exclaimed. "You're saying he actually was real?"

"Real indeed, though not called 'Wanderer' then. That epithet came afterward, when he was exiled from the mountains he hailed from, for the crime of sparing the monster he'd been commanded to dispatch." Barbicayne sighed. "His own kith and kin turned their backs on him, spat upon his name, and banished him on pain of death should he ever return."

"Incredible..." the scholar murmured. "The stories were always fragmentary, but most thought he was called wanderer because he was an explorer, not an outcast."

"Time does strange things to history, as you well know. It did even stranger things, before you started writing it down." Barbicayne said. "But don't look so glum. That is not the sad part of the story, either."

The jester leaned against the wall. "As you may have guessed, I decided to travel with Sigismund. I was already gravely injured when he found me, and needed time to regain my strength -- at the time, he was the only man I could trust not to kill me, if given the chance. He was an extraordinary man, and eventually became the closest thing to a brother, to me. I stayed with him even when he settled in his beloved Amber Home, and he founded what would eventually become the royal line."

"And that is how you came to be the power behind the throne?" Lord Gray demanded. "Ruler of your friend's kingdom in all but name, his descendants merely your puppets?"

Barbicayne sighed. "As I have said, the ambition to rule was never mine -- that was the will of the Outer Lords, and I am long since free of it. No, my lord, that is not why I do what I do. Before he died, Sigismund called me to his side, and asked me to protect his kingdom, and guide his heirs. Amber Home was still a tiny kingdom then, with wild and quarrelsome lands upon its borders, and he feared for its survival when he was no longer there to protect it. So, I gave him my word that I would do as he asked."

"And have you?" Lord Gray pressed. "Is this...charade truly what he desired?"

Barbicayne shook his head, slowly. "Of course not. But it is not what I desired, either. For generations, I stood by the throne, and offered my advice and insight. Only Sigismund knew the full extent of what I was, and what I could do, of course, and that remained his secret. His heirs knew only that I was something old and wise, whose counsel could be trusted -- but that became a problem."

"Their trust was a problem?"

"A great one. They trusted me implicitly. Eventually, they sought my advice on virtually every decision, and could make none for themselves. I saw what this was doing to them, and I withdrew into hiding, working only behind the scenes, counseling them only through third parties, but that did not correct the problem. The heirs of Sigismund no longer believed they had a mystical counsellor whose insight bordered on prophecy. They now believe that they simply lead charmed lives -- somehow or other, things always seem to just work out for them." Barbicayne said closing his eyes as if in pain. "I settled on this role several centuries back, and the king's favored fool became a convenient tradition. Every few decades, I simply don a new comical mask, and I am able to be where I am most needed."

"Could you not have withdrawn entirely? Let the royal line stumble from time to time, so it could learn to stand on its own?"

The jester smiled wanly. "I have a share of my sire's powers, my lord, but also a share of his weaknesses -- like a being of that Outer World, I am bound by the letter of my word as if by iron fetters. In haste, and in love, I carelessly agreed to do as Sigismund asked: guide his descendants, and protect his kingdom. I cannot now do otherwise, even if in doing so I make my beloved brother's progeny little more than pleasant throne room ornaments, dancing at the end of the strings I pull from the shadows."

Lord Gray was silent, his eyes on the ground as he contemplated the weight of Barbicayne's words.

"And that, my lord," Barbicayne said, with a sigh. "Is the sad part of the story."

45

Czorzhais t1_j6ldcn7 wrote

I love it! All the metaphors are quite fun. Do you plan to write a part 2?

38

ThatTubaGuy03 t1_j6lzitp wrote

Fantastic. I know you completed the prompt to perfection, and we can't ask for more, but if you have a bit of free time to tell us the fools story, I'd love to hear it.

21

mrspear1995 t1_j6lvqzs wrote

What great dialogue, smart and charming all the way

14

PlantainSame t1_j6n1e72 wrote

This hole setup gives my vibes the doctor from doctor who or murlin

12