Inside the courtroom, the dissenting ministers' opinions didn't just resound; they bellowed and clashed, a cacophony of frustrated voices. Batukhan sat silently, his gaze steady but his brow faintly furrowed, waiting for their fervor to abate. Yet, it seemed the longer he decided not to interfere, the louder and more protracted their arguments grew, each word a hammer blow against the peace of the chamber.
Batukhan was in his early sixties, having ascended the throne in his thirties. His father had died at nearly eighty, and the crown prince succumbed to illness after only four years of ruling. Since the late king had no son, Batukhan was named successor and took over the country. Most court ministers agreed with King Batukhan's succession, as he was the official general of the Northern Army. He married late and had his first child, Batsaikhan, with Queen Qara before ascending the throne, also naming him his heir. When Batsaikhan was five years old, he fell from a height of two floors, a gut-wrenching thud that echoed through the palace, and injured his spine, rendering him unable to walk. The boy who once chased after palace dogs was now confined, a shadow of the vibrant heir.
Batukhan only took concubines when his queen was unable to conceive further children. Within a year, his first concubine gave birth to his second son, Prince Dzhambul. Shortly afterward, his second concubine gave birth to his third son, Prince Mönkhbat, and Prince Chimgee. For many years, Prince Dzhambul was a general with great military knowledge and the darling of many ministers in the court, his reputation shining brightly.
Minister Tarkhan looked at Minister Esen, his longtime rival since they served in court decades ago, a familiar tension tightening his jaw. He said, his voice sharp with conviction, "Prince Dzhambul has shown deep military knowledge over the years. He is currently training with General Batzorig and is better suited than Prince Batsaikhan to be the next general to lead the Northern Army."
Minister Esen replied, his posture rigid with indignation, "No matter the situation, Prince Batsaikhan is the eldest son and the current crown prince. He is not dead yet, why are we talking about this?"
Minister Tarkhan argued, his voice rising with passion, "To keep the country safe and well-protected, we must use our people wisely. If we are all sure that Prince Dzhambul is good at military strategy, why should we give this position to a man who has never set foot on a battlefield?"
Another minister sided with Minister Tarkhan and expressed his opinion, a firm nod accompanying his words, "I agree with Minister Tarkhan. The title of the next general of the Northern Army should be given to Prince Dzhambul."
One of the retired generals said, a weary sigh escaping him, "I don't understand why we're talking about this. Soldiers will only listen to the generals who go to battle with them; they won't follow orders from someone hundreds of miles away from the battlefield."
Minister Tarkhan said, his eyes narrowing like a predator's, "Minister Esen, do you really believe that Prince Batsaikhan can kill the enemy with a sword on the battlefield?" He stared at Minister Esen coldly.
Minister Esen looked at Minister Tarkhan, his face flushing crimson as he gritted his teeth, and anger overcame him, a torrent of fury threatening to burst forth. "Do you think it is a good thing to deprive the current crown prince of his title? He is not dead yet!" His voice cracked with a barely controlled roar.
Minister Tarkhan sighed at Minister Esen's foolish remarks, a dismissive shake of his head accompanying the sound. He said, "Dead or not, in his current situation, it makes no difference." His expression suddenly changed, a sly, knowing glint entering his eyes. "Or perhaps you try so hard to speak on Prince Batsaikhan's behalf because he is betrothed to your daughter."
Minister Esen pointed his finger at Minister Tarkhan angrily, his hand trembling with rage. "Tarkhan Puntsag! How dare you curse the crown prince? Do you no longer value your head?" His voice was raw with outrage.
Minister Tarkhan said indifferently, a faint smirk playing on his lips, "It's not a curse... I speak logically."
Batukhan listened to the dissenting opinions of the ministers, and his head began to spin, a dull throb behind his eyes. He had suffered many internal and external injuries over the years, each ache a reminder of his fading strength. Knowing that his health was declining, Batukhan agreed with Minister Tarkhan. Batukhan knew very well in his heart that a disabled crown prince in a wheelchair would never see the battlefield and would not receive the full support of his ministers. Then he abruptly coughed, a sharp, ragged sound that cut through the tension. Batukhan continued to cough, the sound growing louder and louder, a rasping, wheezing protest from his weakening lungs, which made the ministers in the court suddenly stop arguing, their faces paling with concern, and refocus on Batukhan.
Tong handed Batukhan a white handkerchief. Batukhan covered his mouth with it, but he continued coughing and wheezing, a desperate struggle for air. Batukhan vomited blood into the handkerchief, a stark crimson stain blooming on the white fabric, and returned it to Tong. Tong quickly folded the stained handkerchief and stuffed it inside his robe, his movements swift and practiced, hiding the grim evidence. He held Batukhan's right hand and helped him get up, his grip firm and supportive.
Batukhan cleared his throat, his voice hoarse but determined, and said, "I agree with Minister Tarkhan. If Batsaikhan had not had an accident, he would be the perfect King of Hmagol." In court, the ministers were happy and sad at the same time, a mix of relief and solemnity etched on their faces. Batukhan walked down the small steps to face his subjects, his shoulders slightly stooped but his gaze unwavering. "Sadly, we can't undo what has been done. Now, Dzhambul is still young, and when he comes of age, if General Batzorig agrees, I will name him the Great General of the Northern Army and hand him the Army Seal."
Minister Tarkhan said, his voice ringing with triumph, "Your Highness, this is indeed a wise choice."
Batukhan said, "Minister Tarkhan, I understand your concern. We soldiers only see the days on the battlefield, but our thinking is mainly military." He turned to look at Minister Esen, a softened expression now on his face. "We have to look at it from the point of view of our country's commanding economic government." He coughed badly, another spasm shaking his frail frame. "Our army is our strength, and our government officials are our knowledge. A nation cannot be made great with only strength or knowledge. A great nation needs strength and knowledge, just as a practical man needs arms and legs."
Minister Esen said, his head bowed in deference, "My king, it is our fault. We should not argue before you."
Batukhan said, a faint smile touching his lips, "I am glad to hear that you seek different opinions. Sometimes we need a different voice to open our eyes."
"Report!"
The word came loudly into the courtroom, a sudden, urgent cry that shattered the fragile peace. A guard rushed in, his armor clanking, and knelt before Batukhan. His strong voice echoed in the quiet courtroom, a stark contrast to the whispered conversations.
Batukhan said, his voice regaining some authority, "Speak."
The messenger guard, his chest heaving from exertion, said, "Southeastern Province reported that thousands of civilians were killed by a flood. Tu-Tshua province was overwhelmed, and the governor demanded that rations be sent immediately." He took out a letter and extended his hand to Batukhan, his eyes wide with the gravity of the news.
Tong took the letter and handed it to Batukhan. Just as Batukhan was about to open the letter, another guard rushed in, his urgency even greater than the last.
"Report!" The guard knelt before Batukhan, his voice strained.
Batukhan said, "Speak."
The guard lowered his head, his voice thick with dread, and said, "General Batzorig's army has been defeated, and the city of Nue-Li has fallen. Of the eight thousand soldiers, only fifty-four survived. General Batzorig was seriously wounded. Prince Dzhambul's whereabouts are unknown; his life is at stake. Life and death are equally possible."
Batukhan suddenly felt a sharp, searing pain in his chest and coughed heavily, a gasp escaping his lips as his eyes widened in disbelief. "What?" He spat out a mouthful of blood, a crimson spray that shocked those around him, and fell into Tong's arms again, his body going slack.
Tong quickly hugged Batukhan to prevent him from falling to the floor, his face a mask of alarm. All the servants in the court fell to their knees, a collective murmur of horror rising from them, and the ministers rushed to Batukhan, their earlier arguments forgotten.
Minister Esen shouted, his voice raw with panic, "Call the royal doctor... call the royal doctor!"
In Batukhan's bedroom, ten of his loyal ministers stood outside, their faces drawn with worry, their hushed whispers filling the hall, waiting for news from the royal doctors. When the five royal doctors walked out of Batukhan's bedroom chamber, their expressions unreadable at first, the ministers hurried forward, their anxiety palpable, to hear the news.
Minister Esen asked, his voice tight with apprehension, "How is the king?"
The chief imperial doctor said, his tone calm but firm, "The king is fine. He fainted because of too much pressure. His Highness needs to rest."
The ministers thanked the five doctors, a collective sigh of relief sweeping through them. Tong walked out of Batukhan's chamber and said, his voice hushed, "Ministers, His Highness ordered everyone to go back." He looked at a maid standing beside him, a silent instruction passing between them. "The king wants to have a few words with Crown Prince Batsaikhan."
The maid replied, her voice barely a whisper, "Yes," and walked away from the men, her footsteps soft.
Tong walked back inside Batukhan's bedroom chamber.
Outside, the murmurs began anew.
"Why do you think the king would seek an audience with the prince at such a time?"
"I don't know."
Many ministers whispered outside Batukhan's bedroom chamber, their curiosity and concern battling within them.
In Batukhan's bedroom chamber, Tong pushed Prince Batsaikhan to Batukhan's bed and parked the wheelchair beside the king's bed, the gentle whir of the wheels the only sound. Batukhan opened his eyes, a flicker of recognition in their depths, and looked at Prince Batsaikhan.
King Batukhan said, his voice weak but clear, "Crown Prince, the ministers in the court have different opinions. Most of them do not approve of you as the next king and want me to hand over the military power of the Northern Army to Dzhambul." He looked at Batsaikhan, his gaze searching. "What do you think?"
Prince Batsaikhan said, his voice calm and steady, betraying no hint of resentment, "I have no problem with that. This land still belongs to father, and I agree with whatever father's decision."
King Batukhan said, a weary sigh escaping him, "No matter the outcome, the throne is still yours." He sighed again, a deeper, heavier sound. "It's a pity that my queen gave birth to a princess, not a prince."
Batsaikhan said, a gentle smile on his face, "Her name is Princess Chinua."
Batukhan, his voice softening, "Chinua..."
Batsaikhan said, "Yes, the queen allowed me to name her."
Batukhan said, a hint of wistfulness in his tone, "I feel like I'm a failed king in many ways. Many kings have so many princes and princesses. I only have eight children." He sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation.
Batsaikhan said, his gaze unwavering, full of quiet determination, "Father, I understand that in the eyes of many Hmagol's ministers, they do not believe that a good king does not need to hold a sword and shoot arrows." He looked at Batukhan, his eyes reflecting understanding. "I believe I can be a good king and lead my people beyond the borders of Hmagol."
King Batukhan said, his voice gaining a touch of intrigue, "Now that you know this, what are you going to do to secure your position as a future king?"
Batsaikhan said, his voice firm, almost serene, "Father, to be honest, I know in my heart that I won't be able to do anything worthy of the ministers' praise. When the time comes, father could rest assured. If father agreed to spare the lives of the Queen and the Princess, I would step down without a fight."
Batukhan asked, his eyes piercing, trying to gauge his son's sincerity, "Are you sure you won't fight for it?"
"Because I don't want to die for something I know I can't win," Batsaikhan said, his tone utterly pragmatic, devoid of self-pity. "I'd rather surrender, save my life, and try again when I know my chances of winning are guaranteed."
Batukhan smiled, a rare, genuine smile that reached his weary eyes, and praised, his voice filled with pride, "Very good... He who has never learned to obey cannot be a good commander."