Its not porcelain 1299

Alphonse XV, King of Orim, Vicar of Christ and Lord-Protector of the Horns of the East, arose with the sun glaring at from the West. A large stained glass window, portraying the upside-down, damning crucifixion of Cuernos Iesu, filtered in the light, the Saviour's pooled blood casting an eery red glow over Alphonse's room.

Dressed in the light woad robes from his long since finished Northern campaign, he strode to the sacrificial font, its head shaped like a lion, one of the beasts that had fed upon Christ's flesh. He cupped his hands and drew the warm, thick liquid up to his face, savoring the tinge of iron. He splashed the remainder on his face, washing away the sweats and visions of the night past.

Dark men had danced about, mocking the Lord, the Horned One, adorning themselves in fusions of flesh and gold, destroying men with a glance. It had been a horrible vision, one to bring sweats and shivers and gibbering screams. Alphonse wondered if it was one brought on by old age or by portents in the East. He hoped the Mohammedans were not stirring once again. But with the gold and darkness, it could be the Jews living underneath the city. But the dark men's tall statures indicated those oasis wanderers...... but they were not worldly men.

That was the problem of his visions. In a simpler world, they could be useful. But, with the many threats of this world, they could mean anything. Perhaps something Alphonse had not even thought of.

He made the sign of the horns and then the sign of the cross before he left the fountain. Ritual had to be obeyed, even away from the eyes of believers. Or unbelievers.

He rang the chimes in his bedchamber to call in his servants. He needed to be dressed and prepared for court, holy water couldn't remove age. At least not Alphonse's dignified sixty.

His servants, both males, strode in. Humble men, broad and tanned from their former work in the fields. Alphonse preferred humble servants, men who relied solely on him for their position in life. He did not have to worry about threats of murder from them. And he didn’t have to worry about them gaining ears at court, for they both spoke an incomprehensible Hillman dialect.

They dressed him in a simple linen robe; silk and wool were too hot for the day. They secured his crown with its resplendent horns upon his head, and fastened on his cape, with cross glorious upon the humble coarse cloth. Then, they left him, back to their own chambers where not so holy pleasures could be found. Alphonse had lost that taste years ago, but he had it in his youth. He had no idea how many whoresons he had helped birth, but he was certain anyone of the street-rats was better than his legitimate son.

Sometimes the only reason he continued to live was to prevent that idiot from taking the throne.

He left his bedchamber to enter his court. He had ordered it closed to all below Viceroy. Of course, that simply meant that the viceroys had more of an opportunity to annoy him.

The worst was Porfirio. Alphonse had barely made it out of his bedchamber before he was pounced upon by the fat, pox-marked man, the man with the hungry eyes and face of a selfish opportunist.

"There is a merchant, rey. He wishes to see you."

Alphonse did not look at the fat squat man and continued to walk down the hallway to his antechamber and throne room. "Is he chartered?" He did not try to hide the disinterest in his voice.

"No."

"Does he wish to be chartered?" Alphonse was wondering why Porfirio didn't just sell the damn merchant a charter illegally and get it over with.

"No."

"Then what by the Horned Christ does he need me for?"

"You must see, rey. You must see to believe. Not even the Saints could be this faithful, I tell you."

"Fine. What is this merchant's name?"

"Capitan Jhonen. He was on the Spice Winds and he brought something amazing....."

"It had better be good, Porfirio, or you shall lose your post and with it, your illegal charters."

"It is that good, rey. You will be amazed."