Royalty: a notion devised in an attempt to consolidate tyranny through genetic inheritance, to deny the rightful aspirations of the common people, to cripple the Class Struggle and thereby institutionalize feudalism.
In Argan, the real power has, in most places, been for generations in the hands of the guilds and immortal government bureaucracies. Even so, lip service has still been paid to the notion of the superiority of the Favoured Blood -and those of the Blood have clung fiercely to any surviving privileges remaining to them.
Superstition, assiduously cultivated by state propaganda in the form of fairy tales, has long convinced the common people of Argan that those of the Favoured Blood are in fact their actual rulers – and that only such are fit to rule.
Night.
Drake and Zanya, drowsy with love, lay between grubby sheep-skins, talking.
'You'll throw out Plovey's head tomorrow, won't you?' said Zanya.'Why?'said Drake.
'Well. . .gloating is all very well, lover dearest, but soon it'll start to smell.'
'I want to keep it till I'm lord of the Gates of Chenameg,' said Drake. 'Then I'll plant it on a stake by way of display.''You think to master the Gates?' said Zanya, amused.'Why not?'
'Dearest heart, you don't have the necessary stature to become a ruler.'
'That's all right,' said Drake. 'I'll get a pair of built-up boots.'
'That's not what I meant, and you know it,' said Zanya. 'I mean, you're not of royal birth.'
'I'm rightful king of Stokos,' said Drake, 'for King Tor named me his heir.'
'You've told me all about that,' said Zanya. 'Thrice. But he's dead. And you never got to marry his princess daughter. You'll have to do better than that, I'm afraid.'
'No problem,' said Drake. 'I've a world of fatherhood to choose from. Should I be a prince of the Rice Empire, perhaps?'
'No, fool!' said Zanya. 'For the Rice Empire is an ancient enemy of the Harvest Plains.''Then I'll think of something else,' said Drake.'Think of me for a change,' said Zanya.'Dearest. . .' said Drake.And thought of her diligently.Sometime later, drowsier still, Drake said:'Did I ever tell you about Blackwood and Miphon?'
'Miphon I know well,' said Zanya, 'for I spoke often and long with the wizard on Burntos. But Blackwood? Who's he?''A woodsman,' said Drake. 'Remember? In Estar-'
'Oh, yes!' said Zanya. 'I remember now. He found us when you'd got us lost in the forest.'
'When I'd got us lost! It was you who said that strange little path would lead to safety!'
'Me?' said Zanya. T said it looked interesting, that's all. I never said we had to walk down it through five thousand leagues of mud and brambles!''Gah!' said Drake.
'Anyway,' said Zanya. T remember your Blackwood now. He had a wife. Misral? Mysral?' 'Mystrel,' said Drake.'Trust you to remember the woman!' said Zanya. 'But she wasn't anything to look at. Neither was that Blackwood. A rather dull fellow, in fact.'
'Yes,' said Drake, 'but did you know? Blackwood and Miphon both became questing heroes in company with Morgan Hearst.'
'Oh, Hearst!' said Zanya. 'that warlord fellow! He killed all gossip in Selzirk for days, for all the talk was of him. I wonder where he got to in the end? Anyway -what's all of this got to do with you and me?'
'Don't you see?' said Drake. 'If someone like Blackwood can become a questing hero, then what's to stop me being anything I please?'
'There's a big difference,' said Zanya severely, 'between being a questing hero and being a king. For a start, in every fairy tale I ever heard, potential kings always had a great doom written on their brow.''That's daft!' said Drake.
'Yes,' said Zanya, 'but that's what the fairy tales say, so that's what people expect. You won't get far without it.'
'I don't hold with this writing stuff,' said Drake. 'Not on my brow or anywhere.'
'You've got a snake ruling your love life,' said Zanya, 'so what's a few words on your forehead?'
'The snake's private,' said Drake. 'Nobody sees it unless they're entitled to. But words on my brow – man, people will laugh themselves sick.'
'They won't,' said Zanya. 'These are troubled times. People are desperate for leadership, for belief. Talk boldly, and you'll gather them in to your leadership.''So you do think I can do it!''Of course, darling treasure snake.''You sounded doubtful enough before.'
'Don't you know when I'm teasing you?' said Zanya. 'Tomorrow. . . tomorrow we'll make a start.'
The very next day, Zanya scavenged some paint. With that paint she wrote A GREAT DOOM on Drake's forehead in Galish orthography.
They were ready to begin.