“My Lord?” The squire hovered at Usyn's elbow. “My Lord, please come inside. You'll catch cold. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
Lord Usyn Telgar stood atop a rocky vantage on the Helmar Pass, and watched the first light of dawn break over the Aryn Valley. A day's ride north from Halleryn. A day's humiliation. He stood in nothing but his loose pants, boots and undershirt, wrapped in a heavy cloak. His breath frosted before his lips, and the snowline of these first, low mountains of the Marashyn Range began just a short climb up the nearest, rocky slope. Yet he welcomed the cold chill of pain and, through sheer determination, willed his knees not to tremble. It was a small victory, perhaps…but of late, it was the only victory Family Telgar had.
“Call me when breakfast is prepared,” Usyn told the squire.
“But my Lord…” Usyn turned a cold, blue-eyed stare on the young man. The squire paled and swallowed hard. “Yes, my Lord,” he bowed and hurried back toward the tents. From behind, and across the length of the pass, the camp was stirring. Horses snorted in the cold and men chipped at ice puddles for cooking water, or chopped dead wood from the straggly pines.
The dawn was so beautiful. A strip of golden light upon the rugged horizon, fading to yellow, then through all shades of blue and then black in the higher sky. Above, the brighter stars yet shone, glorious in their final moments. Yet the young Lord of Hadryn felt no pleasure in the coming of such wondrous light. The gods mocked him with their grandeur. He had failed, and yet the sun still rose, as if all were right with the world. The gods were infallible. His Verenthane star felt heavy upon his chest. For the first time in his life, he doubted his right to wear it.
The squire returned a short while later with news of breakfast and Usyn turned back toward his tent. Within, Udys Varan sat on a tent stool, hands wrapped about a hot mug of tea, and stared into the central fire. Smoke thickened the air, escaping through a small hole above the centre pole. Several other lords also sat, drinking tea or eating the first strips of bacon that the servant provided. Usyn took his place, received his plate from the squire without a word, and brooded.
From across the fire, Udys Varan looked up. His hair gleamed white in the firelight, his eyes cold. Usyn's father's wisest companion and confidant in matters of war and power. And his most powerful rival. “And what are your plans this fine, cold morning, young Telgar?”
There was a note of dark sarcasm to the old campaigner's voice. A note of accusation. Of disrespect. Usyn struggled to keep a check on the temper that seethed in his gut. “I am Great Lord, Lord Udys,” he said coldly. “My age is none of your concern.”
“Yet you fail to answer the question,” Udys replied. “Have you a plan? Or do you intend to attend the king's great Rathynal as though nothing has happened, like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs?”
“It's not my fault your son was killed,” Usyn bit out. “I recall it was your idea to challenge the Cronenverdt bitch in the first place.”
“My son,” Udys said with blazing eyes and hardening tone, “is but a sign of our predicament! I grieve not only for my son, young Lord of Hadryn, I grieve for Hadryn itself!”
“It's not my fault!” Usyn shouted, rising from his stool. “Not one of you predicted that Lord Krayliss would cast himself upon the king's mercy, you all swore to me that he would fight to the death!”
“It is our fault!” Udys replied, also rising. “We should have known better than to entrust a pup like you to go charging into Taneryn to avenge your father…”
“Enough!” shouted Yuan Heryd, rising as well. He was a big, wide-faced man. Lord of the northern fortress town of Wayn, directly on the Cherrovan border. “This bickering shall achieve nothing. My Lord, please sit. Yuan Udys, please. You have lost your son, yet Lord Usyn has lost his father. Any more arguing and we shall start killing ourselves, and that shall only make our enemies laugh all the harder!”
Varan nodded, coolly enough, and reclaimed his seat. Gestured for Usyn to retake his, with no small irony. Usyn stood for a moment, trembling. His temper seethed, desiring escape, yet no convenient target presented itself. Family Varan were one of Hadryn's oldest and wealthiest. They had many claims to the Great Lordship of Hadryn and there had been blood feuds in the past between Telgars and Varans…all buried now, within the common unity of the Verenthane brotherhood. Usyn was young, yet he knew that Udys Varan had many supporters amongst the other Hadryn nobles. Given his chance, Udys would make his move and claim Hadryn Great Lordship for himself.
Usyn took a deep, shaking breath. Then he sat, fighting to keep his breathing even. This was intolerable. Never in all his life had he felt so trapped, so humiliated, so…small. He was Great Lord of Hadryn. Long had he dreamed of the moment when his father's title would be his. But not like this. Not like this.
Breakfast was eaten in merciful silence. The coming sunlight coloured the walls of the tent increasingly bright. From about the camp, the sounds of activity increased. Finally, Lord Udys spoke.
“Our predicament is not unique,” he said, wiping the last grease from his plate with a piece of bread. “For as long as the descendants of the Udalyn continue to raise the flag across the border in Taneryn, these troubles will continue. They shall trouble your sons, too, my Lord,” with a meaningful glance at Usyn, “and most likely our grandsons and great-grandsons as well. The Udalyn are their inspiration, and our never-ending shame. The Udalyn have survived us for a century, hidden in their valley. We claim to be the greatest of the northern powers and yet we have failed to destroy them. That failure invites others to attack us in the Udalyn's name.”
“This was our best chance,” Yuan Heryd said sombrely. “The death of our lord gave us rights under the crown law. It is the first time we have had the chance to get that bastard Krayliss's head on a pike. Now, he's run cowering to the king for protection.” He shrugged, always pragmatic. Yuan Heryd had that reputation. “We tried. At least he may lose some credibility amongst his own people. He is belittled. We have achieved at least that much…and who knows? The king's law may see his head on a pike yet.”
“The satisfaction shall not be quite the same,” Usyn said icily. It was difficult to speak of such things so calmly as Yuan Heryd. But his father had respected the man. He would try, whatever the effort. “Sometimes I wonder whether our support for the crown law is worth all the trouble it gives us.”
“Young Lord,” said Yuan Varan, leaning forward on his stool, with meaning, “disabuse yourself of such notions. There are only three provinces of Lenayin that follow the true, chosen path of Verenthane. The other eight are weak; their Verenthane nobility lacks the courage to whip their local pagans into shape. In those eight, the pagans remain a majority. We cannot control them on our own. We control them through the king; for the king, though flawed, is a true Verenthane. Such are the unpleasant compromises of power, young Lord. Your father knew it and you should learn it also.”
“That wonderful king,” Usyn said sarcastically, “has spent the better part of my life gallivanting with pagans and serrin demons from Saalshen.”
“The better part of your life, yes,” agreed Udys. “You have barely nineteen summers, my Lord. An eyeblink in the passage of power. For a moment, the king favoured the serrin. That was the doing of Cronenverdt—that man has caused more damage to Lenayin than any other in our history. He claimed credit for great victories against Markield, and the king, believing in omens, foolishly believed that the Nasi-Keth and their serrin puppet-masters were responsible.
“But now, Cronenverdt's influence is fading. He tried to mould the king's heir into his own image, but failed. The second heir, gods be praised, is a true Verenthane, and the north holds his favour. His wife—your dear sister Wyna, my Lord—is the Lenay queen-in-waiting and has already borne us a Hadryn heir to the Verenthane throne. The king now reads new omens, most especially in the birth of his heir's son, and favours the north once more.
“Soon, the war shall come and we shall march to the Bacosh to reclaim the holy lands from the serrin demons. The Verenthane gods shall become strong as they have never been strong before, and with their strength, ours shall increase. We shall strengthen ties with our lowlands cousins in the Larosa and the free Bacosh, for they are the ones who truly know how a pagan should be treated. That shall put some backbone into our southern Verenthanes, at last.
“Soon, young Lord, there shall be none but Verenthanes as far as the eye can see and the serrin demons shall be wiped from the earth. But it takes patience, my Lord. I may not live to see that day. Even you may not. But it will come, and our everlasting glory shall be all the greater for our part.”
“You speak fine words, Yuan Udys,” said Usyn. “But our concerns are more immediate. You tell me that the Taneryn problem will remain for generations, but I cannot now assault Taneryn with Lord Krayliss under the king's protection, for the king's law forbids it! What is the central rule from Baen-Tar truly worth to us if it does not allow us to deal firmly with that which threatens us?”
“My Lord,” said Varan, shaking his head with impatience, “you did not listen. Taneryn is little enough problem. They are poor, and weak, and led by fools. They trade little, grow poor crops and gain little in wealth and power.
“The true problem, my Lord, are the Udalyn. As long as we allow them to resist us, we invite all our enemies to attack us. And our chance to finally end this problem is now.”
Usyn stared at him. About the campfire, all men did. Usyn frowned. “But the king's law prevents us from attacking the Udalyn just as it prevents us from attacking the Taneryn without just…”
“No!” said Udys, triumphantly. “The crown law was written by King Soros a hundred years ago. It recognised the boundaries between provinces as immutable, and a lord's rights within those boundaries as sacrosanct. The king's historical protection of the Udalyn Valley is an understanding, my Lord, not a law. A verbal understanding between King Chayden, Soros's son, and the pagans. It is nowhere in the writings, and had I a copy of the document here before me, I could show you.”
“But…but…” Usyn rolled his eyes in exasperation. “What does it matter? Previous lords of Hadryn have tried to end the Udalyn, but each time the king stopped them! The pagans have spies within our borders and the Udalyn always summon help! We shall have yet another royal army descending upon our heads before we can breach the Udalyn's wall. And if they trap us within the valley, we are finished!”
“My Lord,” said Udys, very intently. His eyes drew them all in, conspiratorially. “Some of us, from all three northern provinces, have been in contact with Prince Koenyg. He wishes for the Bacosh war most strongly. Yet he knows that the war shall be unpopular amongst the pagans. He needs us, my Lord, and the king also needs us. There shall be no war without our support or else the holy lands in the Bacosh shall remain occupied by the serrin demons and there shall be no allegiance with the great power of a united Verenthane Bacosh.
“Prince Koenyg is a strategist and holds his father's favour. He needs us so much, he has made it known that he will not stop us from any pursuit not explicitly forbidden by the king's written law.”
There was a silence within the tent. Usyn felt hope flare, hot and bright. A hope for success. A hope for glory. For the rise to the Great Lordship of Hadryn that he had always dreamed of. A chance to be worthy of his great, departed father.
Udys saw the look upon his lord's face and gave a tight, hard smile. He knew. “My Lord,” he said quietly, “I pray of you. Let us remove this weeping sore from the honour of Hadryn once and for all.”