There Is No Worst, Only Worse

The king's party did not finally rejoin Cardinal Mazarin's party until the following afternoon. They met in the town of Versailles, some four French leagues from Paris—one league being roughly four kilometers. There were forests, hills, and marshes there. Henry IV had originally built a Renaissance-style château there while hunting, along with a small chapel, several houses, and inns. Later, people gathered there and formed several small villages, but there was still only a single road wide enough for horses to gallop along.

Even after Louis XIII had expanded this remote royal residence, it still had pitifully few rooms. The king, the Queen Mother, the king's younger brother, the cardinal, and the royal guards packed the entire second floor, while the ground-floor spaces once used as stables, armories, and furniture storerooms became bedrooms for those of lesser importance.

Even the king had to share a room with the cardinal, but he did not mind in the slightest. He sat in a chair as the cardinal came over and poured him a cup of warmed wine. "A pity there is no honey, Your Majesty," he said. "But drink. It will at least warm you up."

The king accepted the cup but had no desire to drink. He felt that he needed to stay clear-headed.

"You seem burdened with worries," Bishop Mazarin said perceptively. He sat down before the king. Mazarin was a handsome man with regular features, wearing a Louis XIII-style beard—a combination of a handlebar mustache and a goatee—and long, curly brown hair. His complexion was fair, and the deep crimson robes of a cardinal lent him an added air of authority and holiness.

"We encountered werewolves."

"Oh, Your Majesty, yes." The cardinal furrowed his brow. "Werewolves—a pack of devils from Serbia. Yes, we must get to the bottom of this."

"You know about werewolves?" the king asked in surprise.

"I had thought werewolves were not uncommon." The bishop raised his brows in puzzlement. Though the king had not yet come into contact with state affairs, the court never lacked gossip and rumors.

"But those are only legends... I mean, fictional, false, just like..." Louis wanted to say fairy tales, but he was not sure whether the genre of "fairy tales" even existed at this time. After all, the concept of childhood was still terribly vague in this era. People either regarded children as "animals" or as adults. "In short, things that do not exist in reality."

"Why would you think so, Your Majesty?" The bishop paused, then looked probing. "Who gave you that idea?"

Louis realized he had made a mistake. Of course, if he truly were only Louis XIV, a boy born in the seventeenth century, then even if he was destined to become King of France, he would not possess the rational understanding of an adult who had received decades of materialist education several centuries later. Like everyone else, he would believe that gods, devils, Heaven, and Hell all existed—and werewolves were no exception.

Though this perhaps sole materialist of the seventeenth century now had no idea how long his rational understanding could endure before collapsing. "I had never seen a werewolf before—until one came within a French foot of me." A French foot was about 325 millimeters.

"That was my oversight," the cardinal said. "But, Your Majesty, by common reckoning, you are still young." In truth, neither the Queen Mother nor Mazarin had intended to expose him too early to the outside world and political affairs. They indulged him greatly, practically saying, Go on, go play, and let the adults handle all those troubling matters.

Though he had once been an adult, Louis had never minded that. When he was still a five-year-old child, his mother had placed him upon the throne. As others criticized, before 1642, power in France had been seized by Cardinal Richelieu. After Richelieu's death, the country had been governed in his stead by Louis's mother and Richelieu's successor, Mazarin. Yet Louis bore neither the Queen Mother nor Cardinal Mazarin any ill will. Having passed beyond the mindsets of infancy, childhood, and adolescence, he understood very clearly that what he needed most was to learn about and grow familiar with this strange world brimming with dangers. Mazarin and the Queen Mother might be greedy for pleasure and power, but without them, the hyenas gathering around would likely have torn the young king and his brother limb from limb long ago—when someone is willing to shield you from wind and rain, do not complain that he forgot to give you sunlight.

Likewise, Cardinal Mazarin was not worried about the king's peculiar understanding. The only thing he needed to ascertain was whether someone had whispered dangerous words into the young ruler's ear and influenced his mind. But if those thoughts came from the king himself—then Mazarin was rather pleased. After all, this age was full of fools who blindly listened, readily believed, and could not or would not think. Of course, if it were a farmer, a merchant, or even an earl, that did not matter. To overstep a little, the Church might even wish for more such people; at least the priests delivering sermons would have to waste less breath and thought. But for a king—especially the one Cardinal Mazarin supported and served—he would rather accept an ending of neglect and exile than work with a complete idiot who did not know how to think and judge.

"However." The cardinal's tone shifted. "Since such an incident has occurred today, I must bring you into a new course of study ahead of time, Your Majesty. I had not intended to let you come into contact with another world so early, but unfortunately, our enemies do not share that intention." He sighed.

The king considered this. He had many questions, but tonight was clearly not the right time to ask them. "You said earlier that those werewolves came from Serbia."

"Different werewolves have different characteristics," the bishop explained. "After the priests skinned them and burned the skins clean away, their corpses changed from wolves back into human form. That is a sign found only in werewolves from Bohemia or Serbia. Their pelts are also richer than those of werewolves from Poland, Hungary, or Moldavia. Only Russian werewolves can compare, but Russian werewolves' pelts are mostly silver-gray, thick and dark in color. Only Bohemian or Serbian werewolves possess this sort of pelt."

"Then Turkey had a hand in this assassination attempt?"

"Hard to say," Cardinal Mazarin said. "It may have been the English, the Austrians, the Spanish, or perhaps the French."

"That is hardly news." Louis frowned in distress. The Bourbons had no shortage of enemies, whether within France or beyond it. The depressing answer plunged the room into brief silence. By the time the wine had gone entirely cold, the king raised one finger. "One last question... Mali Mancini."

Mazarin looked at the king gently. "She is my niece," he said. Then he added, "And a witch."

Though he had been prepared, the king could not stop himself from crying out, "A witch! A witch! Bishop, Innocent VIII issued a papal bull condemning witches only in 1484!"

Mazarin spread his hands. "It seems your history teacher was quite conscientious, Your Majesty. That gentleman did indeed dislike Wizards somewhat." He added kindly, "Though the more persuasive reason was that the Holy See and the kings were all rather short of funds at the time."

"Yes," he continued. "This is not something that can be discussed openly. Your Majesty, many people believe that our relationship with Wizards is like fire and water, but the Church's historical records have always held secrets that cannot be glimpsed by unrelated persons. For a long time now, aside from war, I have not known what other word could describe our struggle with these heretics. Yet you absolutely cannot simply call it a war... We are indeed mortal enemies, but sometimes, even with the devil, we must join hands and dance... especially when..." Here, he gave the king another meaningful glance. "When we must face some grave crisis together. Those who have never gone through it or encountered it can never imagine how fierce and complicated the situation among the three sides can be."

He looked toward the fire in the hearth. "A clever person knows that he needs angels, and he also needs devils. But if you do not show a foolish person how formidable devils can be, he will surely throw the angels aside along with them. Sometimes we are helpless as well, but that is reality."

"But... she is your niece, which means your sister... No, do not tell me you are a Wizard too."

"The influence of Wizards in Italy runs deep indeed, but my family consists only of ordinary mortals. No, no, no, Your Majesty, the Holy See has not fallen to such a state." Mazarin smiled. "It is my sister's husband. People think he is merely a wealthy merchant, but in truth, he was born into an ancient Wizarding family. In the world of Wizards, his family possesses both power and influence. I must admit that I have benefited greatly from it as well..." He rose and stirred the fire in the hearth to brighten it. "For certain reasons, Mali had to leave her parents and come to my side, but I assure you that she is trustworthy. I believe she has already proven that, has she not?"

Louis nodded. He had previously thought Cardinal Mazarin had arranged for Mali to ride with the king and Queen Mother in order to protect his niece, but in fact it was the opposite—or rather, that was only one of the reasons. "Did you foresee that we would be ambushed by werewolves?"

"At first, I was not certain. We originally had an established rule: though every court had bishops and Wizards, extraordinary powers generally did not appear in worldly struggles. But when I discovered that all the werewolves in the outskirts of Paris had suddenly vanished..." Cardinal Mazarin stared into the flames. "Werewolf packs are fiercely exclusionary. Outsider werewolves are hated and driven away, but if the outsiders are stronger or have allies, then the native pack will be wiped out completely." He made a dreadful gesture. "They crossed the line, Your Majesty. I had no choice but to let you learn certain things at an inappropriate time, things you should not yet have encountered. I suspect matters will only grow worse from now on—so I detest people who do not follow the rules."

Clearly, the cardinal believed that this conversation of barely more than ten minutes was enough for the young king. After all, it contained enough information to drive an ordinary person mad. He left, but Louis had completely lost all desire for sleep. Compared to his exhausted body, his mind was as active as if he had been injected with morphine.

What could be worse than discovering, while still in swaddling clothes, that you were Louis XIV?

Of course there was. For instance, it was a fantasy version.

But that was life.