Luck of the Draw

by: Addison Albright

Chapter 1: Drawing Straws

Obren, a prince of Canna, had drawn straws many times in the past, but never had the stakes been so high. This time it was not about who would go first or last either in childhood games of years gone by, or in sexual liaisons from more recent years. It was not about who would help pitch the army tents versus dig the holes for the latrine. Or fill them in, later, when breaking camp.

This time, the rest of his life was at stake. Not life or death itself but the direction his life would follow and its potential to bring him happiness.

Obren’s stomach twisted into a knot as his father, King Rogan of Canna, offered his closed fist. Obren drew in a deep breath, understanding, to the marrow of his bones, that any plea to avoid this choice was pointless. A straw must be drawn, and as the older of the two brothers, he would draw first.

Not that the order of drawing mattered. Whether or not he drew the short straw would be down to luck. The luck of the draw would decide his life’s path. His hand twitched as he checked a nervous impulse to smooth down his already neatly styled blond hair.

Obren closed his eyes, shut out the sounds of his father’s heavy breathing, and focused on preventing the quiver building in his gut from reaching his hand as he lifted it. He paused and opened his eyes. Was there any possible stratagem he could employ to boost his chances?

“Just pick one,” Lale hissed. “Let’s get this over with.” Lale, being Obren’s younger brother, was as invested in the outcome as was Obren.

Obren swallowed, squared his shoulders, and snatched one of the two straws sticking up from of Father’s fist. He stepped back and stared at the stick, but it gave him no information.

No useful information, anyway. Length could be both absolute and relative. He could see that the absolute length of his straw was about six knuckles long. But it was the length relative to the straw remaining in Father’s hand that would give the answer.

Lale strode swiftly forward and grabbed the remaining straw. The brothers stood staring at one another for ten solid beats before slowly raising their hands to compare straws.

Obren stared blankly at the two straws, but it was the slow grin spreading across Lale’s face that came into focus first. Lale held the longer of the two straws.

Heat suffused Obren’s face as he snapped his straw in half and let the two pieces drop to the floor.

“Enough of that.” The king used his regal tone, usually reserved for court. “You will do your duty, and you will do it without displays that should have been left behind when you graduated out of the nursery.”

Obren clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t say anything more, but his mouth ran on unheeded. “I’m older. It wouldn’t have been out of order for you to have decided based upon our ages.”

“Your sisters are older still. You’re not even the spare, let alone the heir. You don’t matter.”

Lale snorted, and Obren shot a glare in his direction. But Lale was looking at their father with an unwise look of disgust. The snort hadn’t been directed at Obren; it had been in response to Father’s unkind remark about both of their worth.

Obren softened his expression, and when Lale returned his gaze to Obren, Lale swallowed, and said, “Obren’s right. Neither of us wants this, of course, but it should be me.”

The two brothers had never been the best of friends. Their personalities didn’t align well for that. But they’d always felt the bond of brotherhood, and here, Lale probably felt a sense of duty to repay Obren for saving his life amidst a fierce battle in the final year of the war.

Obren wasn’t entirely sure if his conscience would have allowed him to let Lale take this burden upon himself after winning the draw—probably not, impulsive comment notwithstanding—but that option wasn’t on the table.

“Nonsense. The selection was fairly made,” the king said with a glare of his own directed at Obren. “I expect you to behave like a rational adult at both the reunion dinner this evening and the ball tomorrow night.”

Obren held in his retort and gave a curt nod before turning on his heel and striding, with as much dignity as he could muster, from the room.

Anger roiled through his belly as he raced through the castle hallways to his suite of rooms. His footsteps clicked on the stone floor and echoed through the empty passages. A lingering whiff of the sausages they’d eaten at breakfast still hung in the air.

It was an understatement to say that Father preferred Lale. Had done since Obren had been a schoolboy. In fact, Obren wouldn’t be surprised to learn if Father had somehow manipulated the straws to ensure Obren picked the shorter of the two.

Father had never forgiven him for his mother’s death. As if Obren had deliberately caught the jumping spotty fever. He certainly hadn’t been aware enough during the height of his illness to influence his mother to stay away from him. She’d nursed him, as a loving mother would do, and she’d become ill herself, succumbing to the disease whereas Obren had recovered.

Once in his suite, he flopped face down onto the bed and screamed into his pillow.

Chapter 2: Oh, Dear

Some hours later, Obren’s personal servant, Zeko, tapped lightly then opened the door to his chamber. “Lord Tomo Strugar and Lord Milun Lompar are here to see you, sir.”

Obren heaved himself to a sitting position and sighed. “Thank you, Zeko. Show them into my sitting room, please.”

“Will you require my assistance getting yourself in order sir?”

“No.” Obren shook his head. “Thank you, Zeko. I’ll deal with it.”

With a nod, Zeko backed out and snicked the door quietly closed. Obren took a deep breath, slipped his shoes on, stood, strode to his dressing table, and gazed at himself in the mirror. His pale blond hair was now an untidy mess, but no more than he could repair himself with the help of a brush and without recalling Zeko to redo the plait at his nape.

He poured water from the pitcher into its basin and splashed some onto his face. After patting dry with a soft flannel, he straightened his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, fiddled with his neckcloth, and slipped into his jacket.

His best friends were already seated in his private sitting room when he entered from his bedchamber. He nodded to each in turn. “Tomo, Milun.”

“Were you in there pouting?” Milun asked in a tone a full octave higher than his natural voice. The tone he used to mimic his old nanny.

“Oh, stuff it.” Obren flopped heavily onto a large, soft chair. “I’m not in the mood.”

Tomo leaned forward with a mildly scrunched brow. “Want to tell us about it?”

Obren huffed. No amount of well-meaning advice would get him out of this situation, but at least he could get his grievances off his chest. “You know there’s a marriage agreement in the peace treaty, right?”

They both nodded, and Milun said, “Details haven’t come out, but yes, we know that much.”

“Truly, though,” Tomo said. “It’s not as if you were ever likely to marry for love. You’re a prince. Your father would have arranged a beneficial and diplomatic match regardless of this treaty.”

“We’re rungs below you,” Milun added. “And even we will at best have the power of veto when our parents decide they want to forge an alliance with another family, and we’d best use that power with discretion lest the next one they propose be worse and come with more pressure to assent.”

Obren waved a hand, dismissing their attempts to placate him. “I know that, of course, but listen. There are various ways they could have gone with this, but—” Obren snorted. “It was my father who insisted on this because he claimed Butari would get off unfairly easy otherwise.”

Milun cocked his head. “What are they doing?”

“You know, of course, that all three realms lost either sons or sons-in-law in the war.”

They both nodded. Canna had lost Pejo, Obren’s eldest brother, the former heir. They’d also lost his eldest sister, Jova’s husband. Pretin had lost one of their younger princes, and Butari had lost their daughter’s husband.

“They want the marriages to happen now, with no delay to wait for the younger ones to grow up first, so they’re not being considered at all in the agreement.” The monarchs in Pretin and Butari both had children that fell into that category.

Tomo squinted. “So that leaves what? Four eligible for marriage in each of the realms.”

Milun shook his head. “But there’s an out of balance. Canna and Pretin have two each eligible men and women, but in Butari it’s three men and one woman.”

“Right. Thus, my father’s insistence that it would be unfair if two men merely married noblewomen from the other realms rather than daughters of the monarch.”

“Got it,” Tomo said. “So only two from each realm must marry in the agreement, and you’re one of them?”

“I wish, but no. Father insisted that for a solid alliance, all of the eligible princes and princesses had to be included, and that means one prince from either Pretin or Canna must marry one of the princes of Butari.”

“Egad.” Tomo sat up straighter. “And you’re it?”