My work begins as soon as I arrive. There is little time for training or introductions; since, as Martha puts it, “the records office never rests.”
The records department is responsible for sending, storing, and safekeeping all confidential papers generated by the royal family and their associates. And there are a lot of papers. The department occupies two whole floors of the palace’s south wing, both the ground floor and the basement, sixteen fireproof rooms packed floor to ceiling with steel filing cabinets. Decades ago, we shared this space with the royal library, but over time, pushed it out like invasive weeds in a garden crop. The library moved to the north wing, but judging by the speed at which the royal family generates new documents, the day is not far off when the records department swallows up the rest of the palace, too.
To my dismay, I will soon become more familiar with the rest of the palace than the records department itself. Martha has started me out as “the runner.” I am the lowest rung on the ladder and the youngest clerk in the office. Thus, until we hire a faster, younger, and newer clerk (or until my feet and legs literally fall off from exhaustion), my job is to transport files to people within the palace. Dossiers, legal records, internal memoranda, and urgent mail are all mine to deliver.
Even in my fervent quest for information, though, I have little opportunity to sit and parse through this wealth of knowledge. My deliveries are timed. Based on the distance between the records department and my destination, as well as the number of other records requests still pending, I have a limited amount of time to pick up the file, travel to my destination, and ensure delivery to the intended recipient. But to my surprise, this limitation has unforeseen benefits. I had come to the records office assuming that I may glean information through reading the records, yet at this rate, I might not need it—I may learn everything that I need simply by meeting the people requesting the records. That is, the royal family themselves.
I. The King
The largest volume of our requests come directly from the King’s court. This makes sense. King Edwin Rosencrantz III is the final arbiter of all disputes and signature upon all laws in the kingdom. I need not waste precious ink describing all that a king does. His rule and court are nothing out of the ordinary in this regard. I fetch all manner of papers on their behalf, and spend most of my day en route to or from his throne room, which sits at the top floor on the furthest end of the north wing, the furthest possible destination from the records department. It is also the place where I died in my last life, but somehow this fact is less insulting than the distance that I have to travel. I am usually more preoccupied with the pain in my feet than any traumatic memories.
King Edwin III is quite unlike the man I read about in the papers. Political pundits always illustrated him as a mustache-twirling, ever-cackling and cartoonishly lanky villain, usually lounging atop a pile of money. While it is true that his throne is made of solid gold, I am surprised at how utterly normal he looks. In fact, the first time I push my records cart into the courtroom, I assume the king is absent, since the throne is empty and I see no figure in lavish furs or a bejeweled crown. Imagine my surprise when a sympathetic palace guard, recognizing the look of confusion on my face, whispers to me that the king is the white-haired man in the corner, chatting with a group of nobles and almost indistinguishable from them in his finely tailored, but otherwise unremarkable maroon suit. He looks just like any other man in his seventies, thin and slightly hunchbacked, and bearing all the wrinkles and fragility of old age…his mustache isn’t even long enough to twirl.
Knowing now that Prince Edgar is my father, I suppose I am a descendant of King Edwin III as well. In the course of my job, I interact frequently with the king, if only to hand him papers and request his signature on the receipts of delivery. We do not chat. I do not linger; it is not my place to. But in these short exchanges, he always says “please” and “thank you.” And in all my time at court, I never once hear him raise his voice, much less cackle villainously. I can almost imagine warmth in his dark brown eyes. It is easier than ever to wonder if, behind the title of king and the enormous political power he wields, Edwin III is merely an elderly man doing a job…and to wonder if, were it not for the circumstance of my birth, I might have grown to know him as my grandfather.
But I try not to think about that. His fate is, soon enough, to fall asleep and never wake up. So I must only bow my head and do my job.
II. The Queen
I know that Queen Philomena will die first, so it is fortunate that I do not need to become closely acquainted with her. She is often away from the palace. Unlike the historically traditional queen, whose duty was to stay at home and manage social affairs, Queen Philomena follows the modern trend of the queen who manages the kingdom’s international relations. In fact, for a very brief time in my past life, she and I occupied the same circles. Part of her job is to scout unclaimed territories for the kingdom’s acquisition—as was my job, except I sought to purchase the land at low prices and sell it to the highest bidder. Philomena and I may have even shaken hands on a deal before she died, but Odric and I speculated on so much land that I honestly cannot recall. Shaking hands with royalty was an everyday affair.
Her paintings, however, are all over the palace. I once thought that royalty did not marry for love. King Edwin III, however, must love his wife so dearly, as Philomena’s visage graces every dining hall, gallery, and conference room. The paintings document every stage of her life in exquisite detail. The young debutante, a glittering engagement ring upon a perfectly sculpted hand, a lively sparkle in her green eyes. The blushing bride in an ensemble of white roses, leaning her chestnut blond head against the shoulder of her new husband. The revered mother with a veil on her head and a bundle in her arms, wreathed in a radiant glow like a saint. And at last the exalted matriarch, crowned with braids of pure silver, a confident smile and a gaze that seems almost too real for a painting.
Though it may sound callous, I hope I do not meet Philomena before she meets her end. Those strange green eyes, even when merely painted, somehow threaten to see right through me.
III. The Knights
Although I see the king most often throughout the day (not counting, of course, the queen, whose face stares down from almost every wall), I see the Twin Regents and their progeny almost as often in passing. They are, as my nickname for them suggests, twins, identical except that Edwin IV is a man and Emerlane a woman. Otherwise, they are the mirror image of each other. Tall and built like warriors, with Philomena’s chestnut blond locks, spring green eyes, and dazzling smile. It may seem unusual for both twins to be named as the crown prince or crown princess, but if one legend is to be believed, they were born in such quick succession, one right after the other, that the midwives cannot remember who came out first. The other legend claims that Emerlane was also born a boy, but since she has given birth to several children herself, I do not think this one plausible, and it seems to simply be slander against the first female commander of the Saelic army. I rarely see either Edwin IV or Emerlane without their badges of office, full plate metal armor and scarlet military capes bearing the royal crest.
Unlike many heirs, who sailed lazily into their positions, Edwin IV and Emerlane are well-respected as having earned their honors, even though they likely didn’t need to. In their younger years, they gained fame for their overwhelmingly successful military campaigns, fortifying the capital city and outer borders of Saol Eile into a fortress against foreign invaders. They led their troops on the front lines and did not retire until the work was over. By then, however, both twins were in their late twenties, with mounting pressure on them to marry and produce heirs for the throne.
Legitimate heirs, that is. I do not miss the detail that none of my cousins are older than me. The eldest is fifteen. Whether he belongs to Edwin IV or Emerlane, I do not know nor care. The twins famously married a sister and brother of the same noble house, so the six children they produced all look alike, and in keeping with royal tradition, all of their names begin with E. So the cousins might as well be fungible. At the same time, I feel strangely superior whenever one passes me in the hall. You barely spare me a second glance, I cannot help but think. Yet I am the very reason you were born.
IV. The Rook
I immediately dislike Prince Ezra. Not just because I know he has the capacity to go on a frenzied killing spree (though that is a not insignificant part). Of the royal children, Ezra is unarguably the black sheep, but there are plenty of signs to indicate that the designation is self-inflicted. He is a drunkard and a slob. All of his interactions with me are unpleasant. I am told that he has a job in the palace, though I am not entirely sure what it is, which means that he is either (a) not very good at it, (b) not assigned anything of importance, and just given busywork to make him think that he is important, or perhaps (c) assigned something very important and extremely good at it, allowing him to lead such a repulsive lifestyle without question as to his methods.
Whatever his job is, it mostly requires the handling of personal dossiers, detailed files on specific people of interest. My exchanges with Prince Ezra usually go like this: I am awoken from a deep slumber by the ringing of a bell, signifying that a request has come in. Laurie, the night shift clerk, has the dossier pulled from the file cabinets and ready for me by the time I light a lamp, pull on my shawl, and trudge half-asleep to his desk. Then I wander through the darkened halls of the palace towards Prince Ezra’s bedchambers, where he does all of his work. It is not entirely uncommon for me to knock on the door and have it swing open, revealing Ezra in coitus with one or more courtesans, a sight that once horrified me and now is just a cue to close the door fully and wait for the sounds to stop.
When Ezra invites me back in, he is often only partially clothed and almost always drunk, his dark eyes lidded and listless, his scraggly brown hair falling across a thickly-bearded face. The second he sets eyes on the dossier in my hands, those eyes glimmer with something odd and unsettling, and I rush to complete the exchange before he asks me to join the courtesans on the bed, which he did ask exactly once. Thankfully, perhaps after seeing the absolute disgust that sprung to my face, he rescinded the offer and never asked again. But I can never be too sure.
If it happens again, I have half a mind to just tell him that I am his niece. If I’m lucky, he will be too drunk to remember. If I’m unlucky, he might find it exciting. I shudder at the possibility and abandon the idea altogether.
V. The Bishop
My father does not get this designation solely because I am running out of chess pieces. He is, as I learn, actually an ordained minister, as well as head of the state church. Traditionally, the head of the church has been the king, or sometimes the queen in times of war. But times are changing. The church is not solely for worshiping the gods and saints. It is more accurately described as an institution of anything extraplanar, which of course includes the gods and saints, but also magic. And nowadays, it is mostly magic. Since people are willing to shell out insane amounts of money to see their minister call down lightning from the sky, the state church of Saol Eile is only about 5% traditional “churches” and 95% arcane academia, encompassing everything from research laboratories to massive eldritch libraries to boarding schools for gifted young sorcerers. Prince Edgar Rosencrantz oversees all of them. It is a massive responsibility, one ill-suited for the already-busy King Edwin III.
This is how, I assume, my father came into knowledge of elysium. Quasicurrency is on the cutting edge of arcane tech, and even though the majority of research done on elysium is by independent wizards in the Belsie Archipelago, it is not unheard of for the royal crown to fund foreign research. Most likely, Edgar funded a part of the research with a royal grant, and in exchange, he received a chunk of elysium. It is my goal to determine exactly how much my father owns.
To review, I need to build enough wealth to afford protection. Perhaps a plot of property in Belsie Port away from the jurisdiction of Saol Eile, plus an independent militia and armaments. Essentially, I seek to make Mama a queen of her own “mini-kingdom.” Based on the appreciation of elysium in my past life, I will have only barely enough to achieve that goal, so I am planning to purchase more with my first few paychecks. But making my mother rich off of elysium will do no good if my father owns even more—he could expend that wealth to hire mercenaries, assassins, or a rival militia to easily defeat my own, and that is a possibility I have no contingency for. Coming face to face with him for the second time, I fear that he may be more cunning than I ever gave him credit for.
Edgar resembles his father to an uncanny degree, besides the green eyes so generously distributed by Queen Philomena. Like King Edwin III, Edgar is tall and slender, with a full head of wispy, pale hair but very little in the way of a beard or mustache. All that separates him from the king are the markings of age. Seeing him from profile for the first time, I notice that his nose, thin and aquiline, with a prominent bridge, is quite identical to mine; his cheek and jaw are similarly defined, leading to the overall appearance of a narrow, sharp, and nearly undernourished face. He is also, I realize with dismay, the source of my widow’s peak. To recognize these similarities for the first time, anxiety clenches at my chest. What if he turns to look at me, and recognizes the same?
But this worry is quickly quelled. My father rarely looks up from his work. When he calls for me, he takes the records and signs the receipt of delivery without a single glance. No words are exchanged. I am a tool for him, indistinguishable from the rest of the records department.
“This is a good thing,” Martha tells me at my first week’s performance review. “I do not wish to hover over your work forever. Given the conflict of interest between you and Prince Edgar, however, I hope you understand why such close scrutiny is necessary.”
“I understand,” I respond.
Though she has never confirmed it aloud, she certainly knows of my true parentage (I once glimpsed her dossier on me, and a single document poked out of the side, granting a peek of one damning phrase: annulment of marriage ).
Martha continues: “If you can demonstrate that you are able to work closely with His Highness without substantial distraction—and the inverse, if Prince Edgar does not notice your resemblance to Imogen Rossach—then we may be able to reevaluate some of your responsibilities. You are a talented young woman, Eloise. I admit, you have surprised me; although I do not wish to speak prematurely, your full potential might be wasted in running files.”
I beam. “Thank you!”
“Nevertheless,” says Martha, “you still have a lot to learn. And I would not take opportunity from my other clerks to accommodate a new hire. Keep up the good work…and keep your head down.”
VI. The Pawns
I hold Martha’s advice in the dearest regard. Though she is strict, like a disciplinarian schoolteacher, she means well, and her methods produce incredible results. Our records department is world-renowned in its efficiency. We keep everything, and we throw almost nothing away, yet thanks to Martha’s intricate indexing system, we still know exactly where everything is. Or, if we don’t know, we have a way of finding out.
As I mentioned earlier, I am the newest and youngest of twelve full-time clerks, not including Martha. I do not know the other clerks very well, but even if I was not a runner, I still might not know them. Six of them are “senior clerks,” each of them dedicated to maintaining the files for one member of the royal family—Mr. Hatfield for King Edwin III, Ms. Byrd for Queen Philomena (I will likely never meet her, as she travels abroad with the queen), Mrs. Vaughn and Mrs. Webster for the twins, Mr. Kleinfeldt for Prince Ezra, and Mr. Pym for Prince Edgar. Their names are not wholly important for this narrative, as most are almost entirely absent in it; though I find it necessary for my own account to record them here. Most of the senior clerks are older in age and far more experienced, so they have more privileges and higher pay. They are even permitted to return to their own homes and families at the end of the day.
The other six “junior clerks” tend to be younger, and like me, live at the palace to keep the records office open after hours. We also do the tedious tasks that the senior clerks feel are beneath them. Laurie, the night shift clerk, is the junior clerk I know the best. He is an eccentric, but friendly young man of about thirty, with a contagious laugh and a severe coffee addiction. His hobbies include sleeping all day and playing sudoku all night. Three of the junior clerks, the ones who work the mailroom, are only known to me as “the girls.” According to Laurie, they were all hired at the same time a few years ago and have been fast friends ever since; they are polite enough, but so tightly-knit with their inside jokes and habits that I am reluctant to try making friends with them. Then there is Nigel. He was the runner before me, the second-youngest clerk, a bookish boy whose small stature, large eyes, and skittish demeanor remind me distinctly of a barn mouse.
Even if I wanted to make friends with any of them, though, I do not think I would have the time. We, of course, are the pawns. We serve only to advance the strategy of our betters. My every waking moment is spent walking briskly throughout the palace with my cart full of files that I do not have the chance to read. Mama sends me letters, as she promised, but I so rarely have the chance to respond besides a few rushed sentences. I am so exhausted at the end of the day that I scarcely have time to read the regression novels I packed for study.
Far from my new job opening doors to discovery, it seems to have merely opened the door to more locked doors. And behind those doors, any number of threats may await. So I must play this game carefully. I cannot possibly hope to win while still learning the rules. Martha is right: I should keep my work up, but my head down.