Chapter 11: The search begins

King Aric stood ready, dressed with purpose but without unnecessary grandeur. His black leather boots were polished but bore the marks of long use, reflecting a man who was not afraid to tread the same path as his people. A thick belt, adorned with the royal family’s crest, cinched his waist, and from it hung a large knife—more practical than ceremonial, a tool of action rather than display.

His tunic was a deep, simple green, unadorned except for a few gold clasps at the collar, symbolizing his readiness for the serious task ahead. The only outward sign of his royal station was the simple crown upon his head, small yet unmistakably marking him as the king, a symbol of both his authority and the weight of the responsibility he carried.

He moved with quiet determination, his presence commanding without the need for excessive display, as he led the scholars toward the archives in search of the answers that could save his family’s future.

“Scholars, we are going into the archives to find the history of my family, this kingdom and how to break the curse that has plagued my family for generations. Somewhere, down there, is the answer and we are going to find it!” he said, his royal authority challenging and exciting the scholars gathered before him.

With a final word from the king, he turned and led them all down into the archives.

Days were spent poring over scrolls, tirelessly searching for the information they so desperately needed. Each time a new box of ancient scrolls was discovered, it was carefully carried up to the library, where the natural light of day illuminated the faded parchment. In the large, sunlit room, scholars worked in harmony—some reading the delicate texts, while others recorded, cataloged, and organized every finding with precision.

King Aric himself was among them, his eyes scanning each scroll with determination before passing them off to be documented. The atmosphere was tense yet hopeful, the room filled with the soft rustle of parchment and the murmurs of quiet discussion.

After days of tireless work, one last container was unearthed. As the scholars unsealed it, a junior scholar’s voice rang out, breaking the silence. “I FOUND IT!” he cried, his face alight with excitement.

The king jumped from his chair and rushed over to the man who held in his hand a scroll of unknown age, but unimaginable importance.

“What, what did you find?” he said in a rush.

“Sire, I found the curse,” the young scholar said, his voice trembling with both excitement and dread. He unrolled the scroll carefully on the table, his hands steady despite the gravity of the moment. All eyes leaned in as the faded words revealed the story of that fateful day, long ago, when one of King Aric’s ancestors was presented to the kingdom. The scroll spoke of a simple rose—offered by an old woman as a gift for the future king—and of the moment the king rejected it, dismissing it as unworthy. It recounted her words, the curse she laid upon the royal family, and her quiet exit from the hall, her vengeance set into motion with a single, discarded flower.

King Aric sank into a chair, his hand rubbing his face as the weight of the revelation settled over him. The selfishness of his ancestor, the arrogance—how could he not see? All gifts are precious when given in earnest, he thought, the enormity of his family’s suffering beginning to gnaw at him. How could something so small have caused so much pain?

“Is there anything else? What happened to the rose?” the king asked, his voice hoarse, as though the air itself had grown heavier.

The young scholar moved again, his fingers searching the bottom of the box that had held the scroll. His brow furrowed as he found something, something long forgotten. Slowly, he pulled out a small, ancient box, its surface worn with age. He placed it on the table, and everyone leaned closer. The box bore a single silk loop on the top, just large enough for the tip of a finger. The scholar hesitated, then hooked his finger through the loop and pulled.

The lid lifted easily, and the scent of summer—fresh, warm, and fragrant—spilled into the room, wrapping itself around the men like a memory long buried but never forgotten. Each man inhaled, their eyes widening as they exchanged glances, smiles flickering across their faces. But the king stood frozen, his heart pounding as he stepped forward to peer into the box.

There, resting within the folds of time, was the rose. The very rose his ancestor had scorned. Its petals were still the color of blood, fine as silk, and its stem still green, bristling with sharp thorns.

For a moment, King Aric hesitated. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached into the box and lifted the rose. He held it with reverence, cradling it gently in his hands, and raised it for all to see.

“The rose...” The words were barely a whisper, echoing softly around the room as the men stared, awestruck.

“Go,” the king commanded, his voice low but filled with purpose. “Get water. A vase. Call the royal gardener. We must plant this rose.” He looked down at the flower, its beauty and danger intertwined. “This rose will save my son ... and my grandchildren to come.”

The significance of the moment hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. The future of the kingdom rested in his hands, and everyone in the room knew it.

The king held the vase that contained the ancient rose as he walked through the castle. They didn’t know where they were going to plant it, but King Aric’s feet took him to a corner of the royal gardens where few ever walk or eat. There he stopped as he gazed at the rose, sitting gently in the vase of water. He pointed with a silent hand to the ground. The gardener moved instantly with shovel in hand and turned the soil over and then opened a hole for the flower. The king reverently picked the rose from the vase and moved silently, carefully, putting the stem in the ground. He held it there as the gardner pushed the soil around the rose holding it in place. The water from the vase was poured on the soil, wetting it. King Aric stood up, still gazing upon the rose, his mind silent as he looked at it.

“If he had only planted the rose. None of this would have happened.” he said, quietly, under his breath.

The rose seemed to pop open, blooming and sharing its fragrance with the whole area. The smell of summer flowed out of it so that all assembled nearby could marvel at the rose.

The rose seemed to gain strength from the ground, moving slowly and deliberately as it got bigger as they watched it. What was once a single bloom, turned into two, then four, then eight and stopped at nine blooms while the king stood watching.

The king took a haunted step backward, then fell to his knee before the rose bush. “On behalf of my family, my ancestors and those yet to be born, I am sorry.” he said with his head bowed.

He reached for the bush and punctured his thumb with a thorn drawing blood. He then touched the first bloom of the bunch, smearing his blood on that bloom. Then withdrew his hand and wiped his thumb on his tunic.

He didn’t know what was to happen, but it just seemed like the right thing to do. He rose from his knees and turned to the scholars who stood by watching it all happen.

He spoke to the gardener, “Tend to this flower. Protect it and let none eat here. None are to pick its blooms either. Understand me?”

“Yes sire.” the gardener said, bowing his head and moving away from the group.

He went to the scholars and led them back to the library. The scroll and the box that contained the rose were given special attention as the rest of the scrolls were gathered up, and put away. The catalog of the scrolls they found was given special attention and everything was cleaned up as their work was done. They left the king and went back to their business as the king walked the halls.

Why nine blooms?

Why the sudden growth of the bloom?

What is the significance of nine?

Questions bounced around in his head as he walked the halls. Alistair was always nearby as he walked, muttering to himself, talking through the riddle, the significance of nine blooms where only one started, and how to break the curse.

His feet took him to his son’s room where all nine...

“NINE!!!” he exclaimed as he stood looking at the crowd of expectant mothers, one proud son and one very proud queen.

“THAT’S IT!! NINE!!” he shouted then turned to Alistair. “GO! Gather the young man who found the scroll, bring him here and his master at once.”

Alistair nodded his head, and moved quickly to find the young scholar and his master just as the king asked.

The king moved to the bed, a smile on his face, excitement in his body, as he asked them all “Do you love my son?”

Each woman looked at the others, trying to figure who was going to speak first. Anya, the youngest and shyest of the group, was first to speak. “Yes sire, I do.”

The other eight women all looked at her.

The king moved the bed, and held out his hand to her, drawing her from the bed. Dorian also moved to embrace her.

“You do?” Dorian asked her, his arm embracing her.

She pressed her naked body against his, wrapping her arms around his body as tears of joy sprang from her eyes. “Yes Dorian I do. You have given me everything I could ever hope for. Protection, love, a baby in my womb. You accepted me, loved me, and accepted me for who I am even for what I am.” she said, then unleashed her emotions on his bare chest.

Dorian could do nothing but bend down and pick her up and hold her close. Her face was near his neck as she cried and admitted over and over again how much she loved him.

The room was silent except for Anya’s cries.

“Anya, what about my curse? The child in your womb may be cursed?”

She pulled back and looked at him. “So? So what if he is? I love you, I see the man that you are inside and I will love the baby we have made even if he is cursed.” she said forcefully. More forcefully than she had ever spoken to anyone before.

The king moved to his wife and put an arm around her shoulders pulling her close as she also cried at the declaration of love between Dorian and Anya.

The other concubines also moved to embrace Anya once she was standing again. Roslyn was part of this hugfest as well, she too was crying tears of happiness.

Roslyn moved to her husband. He bent down and picked her up so that her face was near his and she wept tears of joy into his neck.

She was so overwhelmed by the love of the moment, something in her heart broke open for the first time and she whispered to him, “You are amazing Dorian. Thank you for loving me and for giving this baby in my belly. I love you so much, I was so stupid before, I could have had this the whole time, but I was stupid. Thank you for loving me and letting me love you back.”

Dorian hugged her tightly, her smaller and more toned frame pressed against his chest in front of everyone.

As the joy calmed down, Dorian left the mothers-to-be alone as he was taken from the room by his father and brought to the garden.

“We found it, Dorian. We found the scroll of that day when our family was cursed. This rose bush is that rose that was written about and the cause of our curse.” Aric said, standing near the rose and the small fence the gardener had erected around the bush as protection of it.