Chapter 5
Miles asked Silas:
“What do you mean useful?”
Silas barely looked at him.
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
Gwendolyn entered behind her son.
She heard enough.
“You promised him stewardship.”
“And he would have had it.”
“For how long?”
Silas sighed.
“Until Peter was ready.”
Miles laughed.
It sounded hollow.
“Ready according to who?”
“The council.”
There it was.
Miles had imagined temporary power becoming permanent.
Silas never had.
My cousin turned toward his mother.
“You knew?”
Gwendolyn shook her head.
I believed her.
That did not help her much.
She had been willing to help destroy my son emotionally because she thought her own son would rise.
The fact that she misunderstood her reward did not reduce what she did.
Silas looked at me.
“This family needs continuity.”
“No.”
I spoke quietly.
“You need relevance.”
His face changed.
Finally.
Silas had retired.
His generation faded.
My father died.
Old captains stopped calling.
I dissolved the advisory dinners.
He still attended birthdays.
Still gave speeches.
Still sat near the head.
But he no longer decided anything.
Then he found a way to make himself necessary again.
Kill the sitting head.
Install a steward.
Create a council.
Become kingmaker without needing the throne.
I almost admired the design.
Almost.
“Who are the six?”
Silas smiled.
“You’ll find out.”
Miles answered for him.
“Arthur Keene. Vincent Shaw. Lorraine Blackwell. Thomas Vale. Emmett Crane. Harold Mercer.”
Silas turned.
For the first time, anger.
Miles looked back.
“You called me useful.”
Good.
Coalitions built on hierarchy eventually remind lower members they are lower.
Then Gwendolyn whispered:
“Peter was supposed to sit beside me tomorrow.”
At the funeral.
I looked at her.
“And?”
“I was supposed to tell him what to say.”
My stomach tightened.
Not only cry.
Speak.
“What?”
She started sobbing.
“Daddy loved Blackwell. Uncle Miles will keep it safe until I’m big.”
A child’s grief converted into political endorsement.
That was the moment Silas lost any remaining claim to tradition.
May you like
Tradition does not need a five-year-old script.
Propaganda does.
