Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) (6 page)

Kestel smiled enigmatically. “Personally? Not at all. However, for a time I was Lord Janoron’s courtesan and I had the pleasure of attending balls and private dinners in the presence of His Majesty. To him, I’m sure I was invisible. I prefer that. When I’m invisible, I can observe better.”

“My father spent more time with the king than I did,” Blaine replied. “They enjoyed the hunt, and father had done Merrill great service in the war against the Cerroden Rebellion. On the few occasions father insisted I accompany him to court, I was rarely included in any meetings with the king. Other than when he banished me, I can only remember being in private company with Merrill twice. But I agree: From what little I saw of him as a man, Merrill seemed even-tempered and fair.”
Blaine’s voice took on a bitter edge. “Even when he banished me, he let me know that he understood—and possibly sympathized—with my reasons.”

“But he had to make an example.”

“It would have set a dangerous precedent not to.” Blaine looked down the slope toward the sea. “What worries me about the news isn’t that Donderath and Meroven are at war, but that whatever’s happened is bad enough that it affects something as minor as the supply ships to Velant. Under normal circumstances, what they send on a ship for the colony is trivial compared to the rubies they take back. A war with Meroven shouldn’t disrupt sea trade. If it’s true that Merrill can’t send more ships, then I’m afraid something has gone horribly wrong.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Kestel met his eyes. “Without shipments of food and money to pay the soldiers, I don’t know how long Prokief can hold the camp, even with the mages. He relies on the ships to send him fresh guards, and he holds the hope of earning a spot on a ship back to Donderath over the heads of the others. If Donderath were to suddenly withdraw its support, Prokief might face a rebellion by his own men.”

“If anyone but the boys in the cabin were to hear us talking like this—” Blaine said in a warning tone.

Kestel’s eyes took on a serious glint. “That’s why we’re talking up here. If Prokief is afraid, he’s going to be more dangerous than ever before. The warden-mages will clamp down. That’s a situation ripe for a coup—”

“Or for a slaughter,” Blaine replied. “Be careful. The news that reaches us here is part rumor and part wishful thinking. If the prisoners were to rise against Prokief and Velant isn’t cut off from Donderath—”

“There’ll be troop ships headed this way to put down the rebellion within a month or two and we all hang.”

“We’ve got to be careful, Kestel. Until we know, we don’t dare make a move in either direction.” Blaine sighed. “Since we’re having this little exercise in treason, here’s another thought.

“Suppose that for some reason, Velant is cut off from Donderath. How long would that last? Suppose that Prokief mucks it up completely with his soldiers and they riot. Gods, the soldiers assigned up here had a choice of Velant or the noose. They’re not the best of the lot. Sooner or later, Donderath will remember we exist. They’ll miss the rubies or the copper or the fish. They’ll get around to sending new ships. It’s one thing if the soldiers have rebelled. But if the convicts revolt, they’ll pin the whole sorry mess on us and crush us.” He shook his head.

“It won’t work. I hate Prokief as much as anyone, but there’s no way to cut ourselves free of him—”

“Unless Donderath itself falls.” Kestel met Blaine’s gaze and for a moment no one spoke.

“And if that happens, it’ll be the freedom of the damned,” Blaine said quietly. “Because without ships from Donderath, I’m not sure that Edgeland can survive.”

T
HIS WAR IS MADNESS.” LORD GARNOC THUMPED
the tip of his walking stick against the wooden floor for emphasis.

“Perhaps,” replied King Merrill. Donderath’s War Council met in an upstairs chamber of Quillarth Castle, in a room as somber as its purpose. “But it seems unavoidable.” The king’s voice was weary. “Meroven shows no sign of backing down, no matter how many troops we send against them. Vellanaj has thrown in their lot with Meroven. I’ve just received envoys from Tarrant with word that their king will honor his alliance with Donderath against Meroven.” King Merrill shook his head. “Mad it may be, but we have no choice except to stand against Meroven, unless we want to be ruled by Edgar.”

Bevin Connor stood in the shadows against the wall behind his master, Lord Garnoc. He had been there long enough that his knees ached and his back cramped, but he kept his post in silence and resisted the urge to stretch. He brushed a lock of dark blond hair back from where it had strayed.

At twenty-two, he had been in the employ of Lord Garnoc for nearly ten years, since his fostering. His responsibilities had
steadily increased as he grew older and as Garnoc’s age took a toll on the old man’s mobility. Connor was grateful for the position, since as the youngest son, he had no inheritance possibilities other than the possession of an old and middlingly well-known noble name. “Middling” was a word Connor thought suited him in many ways: average height and build, unremarkable features, and eyes that couldn’t decide whether they were blue or green. Garnoc said that Connor was a perfect spy because he was good-looking enough to be welcome anywhere and unremarkable enough to be easily forgotten.

Now, Connor’s alarm at the king’s latest news was enough to drive all wish for sleep from his mind.
By the faces of Charrot! What except destruction can come from a war that engages all four of the Continent’s great powers?

Connor had been a silent and largely invisible witness to the debates of Donderath’s War Council since the first skirmishes along Donderath’s border almost three years before. Each time the Council convened, he hoped for better news from the front lines. Donderath had a long and successful history navigating the Continent’s politics, and an equally illustrious record during the skirmishes and wars that had occurred when the major and minor powers had clashed. He had expected the conflict with Meroven to be quickly met and done, a bit of battlefield politics. For it to have burgeoned into a war set to consume all of the Continent’s four major powers was as frightening as it was previously unthinkable.

“You’re certain that Tarrant is sincere?” Lord Radenou’s scratchy voice reminded Connor of the sound of a chair scraping along the floor. “Perhaps they mean for us to overextend ourselves. They have a long history of trade with Meroven. Why should they favor us now?”

“By the gods, man! Think of what you say,” Lord Corrender
exploded. “If Tarrant is against us, that would put us three against one. Meroven’s victory would be assured. Be grateful for such an ally—Meroven, I think, does worse. We should be glad it is Tarrant that wishes to fight on our behalf and not Vellanaj.” Corrender, like Lord Garnoc, was a former military man, though more than a generation separated the two. Corrender’s hair was still full and dark, though it was gray at the temples. He had lost half a leg in battle, and Merrill had requested that he serve in Council rather than on the field.

Garnoc, too, had once been known for his valor in battle, though it had been in the service of the father of Donderath’s present king. As the men at the Council table glowered at each other, Connor took advantage of the pause to step forward and fill Garnoc’s cup with the watered wine his master preferred when in company with the king. Garnoc gave him a nod of thanks and Connor withdrew once more to the shadows.

“The die is cast,” Merrill said, taking a sip from his goblet of brandy. “In this, Tarrant has common cause with us. Our spies have reported messengers between Vellanaj and Meroven for some time now, even before Meroven attempted to seize land across our border. Tarrant realizes that if Meroven and Vellanaj succeed in their attack on Donderath, they will surely fall next.”

“Yet the king of Tarrant wed the daughter of Jeroq of Vellanaj. Is that not an alliance with the enemy?” Lord Radenou demanded.

“And by all accounts, Jeroq was well rid of the harridan,” Garnoc replied. His voice was gravelly with age, and his hair required no powder to be white as snow. Yet his blue eyes snapped with fire, and from the set of his jaw, Connor had no difficulty imagining his master as a firebrand in his younger days. He was still, even in his seventh decade, the most outspoken of the nobles, and the
one to whom Merrill most often turned for private counsel. “One need not have spies to hear the report of how ill matched Zhon of Tarrant is to Jeroq’s daughter. Any courtier who has traveled among Tarrant’s nobility can verify that.”

Radenou shrugged. “An arranged marriage is not for the happiness of the man and wife, but a business deal between the husband and the bride’s father,” he countered. Radenou had the silky manner of a courtier, and the instincts of an assassin. Connor had been privy more than once to his master’s opinions of the recalcitrant lord.

“Such marriages are hardly unknown in Donderath, or do you forget that Queen Loana is the youngest of Edgar of Meroven’s daughters?” Merrill countered. Connor thought he looked much older than he had just a few months earlier. “I’m afraid such brides are mere hostages, and if they commit their affection to their husbands, they are then torn between loyalties.”

I’m betting the king knows a thing or two about that personally
, Connor thought. The marriage between Merrill and Loana of Meroven had been brokered through all of the proper channels, yet it was widely rumored to have been a love match as well. Whether the bride and groom had discovered their affection before or after the vows, Connor did not know, but there was a warmth between them even in their public appearances that he did not believe was mere pretense.

“With Tarrant’s help, can we push back both Meroven and Vellanaj?” Garnoc leaned forward, catching Merrill’s eye with a question Connor was sure his master had timed to help the king out of an embarrassing thread of conversation. A flicker of gratitude flashed in Merrill’s eyes as he nodded.

“I believe so. Vellanaj is not a particularly strong ally, though its navy is sizable. Already, there are reports that they have moved to blockade us.”

“And the Cross-Sea powers? Will they take sides in this?” Corrender’s gaze fell to the map of the world powers that stretched across the table. The Sarnian Ocean stretched a vast distance between the Continent and the Peninsula, its nearest neighbor. “Nearest” was a relative term, Connor knew, since the sea voyage took several months, even with good weather.

Merrill shook his head. “No, thank the gods. They have officially declared their neutrality. This is not their fight, and they want nothing of it.” A weary, cynical smile touched the king’s lips. “Or rather, they desire to trade with both sides, and to have no hard feelings with whoever is proven to be the winner.”

Tiredly, Merrill stood. “Gentlemen. I will take tonight’s comments under consideration. When I receive messengers from the front, we will reconvene. Until then, we are adjourned.”

The others remained seated until the king left the chamber.

“Mark my words, this war will not come to a good end,” Radenou muttered as he pushed back his chair.

Corrender rounded on him. “Is that your prediction—or your hope?”

Radenou shrugged. “Merely my observation. It cannot be good for business or personal accounts when the four major powers on the Continent align against one another. The minor powers will scurry like rats dodging among the horses’ hooves, playing both sides for fools. And when we have all beggared ourselves for want of a few acres of ground, we may find the world more changed than we would like.”

“Much as it pains me to agree with Radenou, I think in this case, he may be right.” They turned to look at Lord Onseler, who had remained silent throughout most of the night’s discussion. Onseler was one of the Council’s younger members, though he was well into his fifth decade. Like the others, he had served his time in battle for King Merrill or the king’s
father. Now the vast connections of his shipping business made him the perfect spymaster for the king. Lord Onseler had never lost the bearing of a career military officer, and his eyes were cold and cunning.

Well aware that everyone’s eyes were on him, Onseler took his time rising from his chair. “I do not like the omens I see. Always before, when the four powers have clashed, it has been over token issues: a strip of long-contested and otherwise useless land, a trade concession, or an imagined diplomatic affront.” Onseler shook his head. “Edgar of Meroven is a very different king from his father—and from King Merrill. Edgar is headstrong and vain, and by all accounts, he’s surrounded himself with ambitious men. Vellanaj’s king is weak and easily led. No doubt he basks in Edgar’s supposed glory,” he said with disdain. “I don’t think this war will be as easily ended as the last skirmishes. I fear this war will redraw the map of the Continent—and we may not like the results.”

Lord Garnoc said nothing until he and Connor were within their private rooms. It was so apparent that he was bursting to speak that Connor barely suppressed a smile, though the subject was no laughing matter.

“By Torven’s horns!” Garnoc swore, and went on to curse in increasingly creative ways until Connor had poured him a liberal shot of brandy. “Radenou makes me wish I were twenty years younger. I’d like nothing more than to put my sword through that wagging tongue of his!”