[Vox]

Gustave woke up around the same time, but in a far different frame of mind. His companion of the night, an amiable guardsman, had already slipped out to be about his duties, and Gustave had a lingering hangover. Blast it. The lands were to be his, of that he was certain, but the title, less so. Apparently the lord Duke, his uncle, did not have that title properly, and so his heir could not inherit it. He might remain a prince only, duke in all but name. His most loyal counselors advised him not to fight this, but the more Gustave thought about it, the more rankling it was. Why should he not be Duke?

He was a far better ruler than his uncle had been, and a better man, too. He listened to his counselors and commanded as they advised, so commerce and public health and safety were as high as any place could be in France - no, in all of Christendom. He invited men and women of culture to the palace, and treated troubadors well. None had any reason to sing ill of him. He didn't abuse peasants or force himself on lesser-ranked noblemen's daughters. Sex with him was always consensual, and he worked hard to make sure his breath was always fresh and his person groomed.

It isn't fair. I have worked so hard.Gustave watched the sunrise without really seeing it. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. An unwitting victim of red-green colorblindness, he saw the vivid pinks as dull, washed-out yellows. He often wondered what the hell people were talking about when they gushed over purple irises or crimson robes, and concluded they must be lackwits.

He quoted bitterly to himself, "A son can bear with equanimity the loss of his father, but the loss of his inheritance may drive him to despair." Well. All was not lost. He would surround himself with the wisest counselors, treat the Bishop and his retinue with the utmost courtesy, and keep a well-armed guard around him at all times - just in case. A discreet show of force could do wonders.

His morning ablutions were simple: his servants bathed him in water from a fresh mountain spring, shaved him with the finest Spanish steel and dressed him in a rich dark blue doublet and hose, spangled with silver. A soft cap with an ostrich feather topped his red-gold curls. During his breakfast, a pair of castrati from Italy sang beautifully in harmony, and his mood lightened considerably.