Once seated, Pasevalles was quiet for some time, considering. At last he stirred and said, “If I may be perfectly truthful, my king, I think you should go. Both of you.”
“Really?” Simon was pleased, but he wanted something more he could offer to Miriamele, because he knew she thought it a bad idea. “Why?”
“Because this is no mere feud between families, though feuds are nearly as common in Nabban as an afternoon meal. It stems from a real problem, but there is another cause too.”
“What is this real problem, do you think?”
“For years now, the northern and eastern lords of Nabban have been pushing into the grasslands, building castles and settlements in lands the horsemen have always thought theirs. The Thrithing-folks, as you know, Sire, are a disorganized rabble, each band with its petty chieftain, and even the most powerful chief that they have, Rudur Redbeard, is only Marchthane of the Meadow Thrithing, and cannot call all the clans to war. But still there are many of them, many thousands of armed men who are raised to fight. In the past, most of their fighting has been against each other. Now they perceive two common enemies—Nabban and Erkynland.”
“Erkynland?” Simon was startled. “What have we done to them?”
“Nothing like what the Nabbanai are doing, but the grasslanders have a long memory, and they still are angry about the last war they fought against us, despite it being one of their own who roused them to violence and led them into defeat. We also share a long border with their lands, and many new settlements have been built along the river road as far west as Gadrinsett, the town that had grown from a camp where Prince Josua fought against his brother, King Elias.”
“Still, there has been very little fighting in the High Thrithing lately, Lord Chancellor. We have kept a close watch on those towns for exactly that reason, so as not to follow the bad example of Nabban.”
“True, Majesty, but the horsemen have trouble distinguishing between the Nabbanai nobles and the High Throne here in Erkynland that permits those nobles to encroach on Thrithings land.” He raised both his hands at Simon’s outraged expression. “I do not say it is true, Majesty, simply what I fear the grasslanders believe.” The chancellor leaned forward, his face serious. “I know these people, my king. I grew up on the verges of the Lake Thrithing. They are a fierce folk, and they not only nurse grudges, they pass them down from generation to generation. If nothing is done, one day another leader will rise among them and there will be bloodshed all along the border—not skirmishes, but all-consuming war. I am sad to say it, but I believe it is true.”
“Good God, man! Good God.” Simon was shaken. “But what does all this have to do with that damnable wedding?”
“It is the greatest issue dividing the two sides in Nabban. Most of Dallo Ingadaris’ followers are eastern lords. They fear the Thrithings-men despite the fact that it is they themselves who have angered the horsemen. They want to punish the grasslanders so fiercely that they will give up their raids entirely. But Duke Saluceris is of a more careful mind, so the Stormbirds, Dallo’s faction, call him a coward who will not defend his own people. Thus, any end to the struggle between the two factions will require some solution to the towns and great houses being built on Thrithings territory.”
“Good God,” said Simon again. “Now that is a poser. But I think you said there was something else at work as well? Or have I misunderstood?”
“No, Sire, you are right. And it is this: Drusis is a leader who is loved and respected by his men because he is fierce. He plays on the fears of the easterners, who live near the threatening horsemen, or perhaps he truly believes it all himself—I could not say. But I think that those who lived through the days of the Storm King’s War can appreciate exactly what the problem is between him and his brother.”
Simon was a little confused again. “Which is?”
“Which is that although the younger brother Drusis is bold, resolute, and never lets himself be distracted by complication of any kind, Duke Saluceris is the opposite, a man who would rather give something to everyone to keep the peace, and who will not stoop to lying for advantage.” Pasevalles gave the king a significant look. “Does that remind you of any two brothers you have known?”
Simon nodded. “Of course. Our own King Elias and Prince Josua.”
“Exactly, Majesty. Now imagine that Josua had been born a year earlier and was raised to the throne, while your wife’s father had been given little of importance to occupy himself and his vaunting ambition. What do you think would have happened then, if Josua had been the older and Elias the younger? That is what is at the root of Nabban’s problems. The brother who most think should have been the duke is not the duke.”
Simon sat back, overwhelmed. “I have not thought of it in this way before, Pasevalles. I thank you. And you think the queen and I should attend this wedding? But I do not want my wife endangered. You make it sound like Nabban is little better than the Thrithings these days.”
“It will take the full prestige of the High Throne and the High Ward, I think, to solve this problem.” Pasevalles stood. “I beg pardon if I have been too forthright in my talk, but you asked to know my thoughts. Matters in Nabban are more delicate than they have been since the Storm King’s War. The High Throne must take the lead, I believe, if only to remind the Nabbanai that they are part of a larger kingdom.” He bowed. “Forgive me for taking so much of your time, Majesty. If you will excuse me, I must get these letters back to the Chancelry so they can be dispatched.”
Pasevalles backed up several paces before turning his back on his king, always the correct courtier even in such an informal situation. After he had gone, Simon could only sit, staring at his royal seal and the stick of wax, wondering whether he and Miri were to spend the rest of their lives trying to prevent fools from harming themselves and others, and never to have a little peace for themselves.
45
A Nighttime Sun
Zhakar sucked the rest of the meat off the haunch, then threw the rabbit bones into the fire where they popped and sizzled as the marrow boiled. Before they got too hot, he plucked them out with calloused fingers and snapped the bones in half, then sucked out the contents. He wiped his forearm against his mouth, leaving a trail of grease through his beard, and made a noise of satisfaction.
“Are you finished with your meal, Stepfather? Or do I interrupt you?”
Zhakar flinched and nearly fell off the bottom step of his new wagon. He had not noticed the tall shadow looming only a short distance away. “By the Piercer, how long have you been standing there? And where have you been? I thought you had left for good, all these days missing.”
“Today I have been to a wedding,” his stepson said. “I did not see you there.”
“Ah! May the gods curse it, is today the day? Drojan’s wedding? No one sent for me.” Zhakar was clearly ill at ease, and still did not look up to meet the younger man’s eye. “Ah, hell’s stripes on them all. How was the food? Was the food good?”
“I left before the feast.”
Something in the younger man’s tone finally made Zhakar look up. “Well, don’t expect to share any food of mine, because it’s all gone.” His eyes narrowed. “What have you been doing? Your clothes are covered in dirt. And is that blood?”
“It could be. I was in a fight.” Unver came forward into the full light of the fire. The sun had all but sunk in the west and the sky was striped with purple and red. “But I do not come here for food, Stepfather. I come here for answers.”
The older man half-rose, putting one hand behind him for balance. “Answers? What do you mean? How dare you strut in after all those days missing and talk to me this way?”
A brief flash of firelight on metal, then the point of Unver’s long knife was against his neck, pushing until Zhakar gasped in pain and terror. “Were you going to go inside your nice new wagon and lock the door against me? Do you really think that would stop me?”
“What are you doing? Have you gone mad? I am your father!”
“No, you are my stepfather, and a poor one at that. Where did this wagon come from, old man? I think Odrig sold it to you. Am I right?”
“Yes! Yes! Why do you act this way? He sold it to me for some horses!”
“But those horses were mine, old man.”
“They were in my paddock! That makes them mine!” Zhakar let out a sudden screech as the knife poked deeper into the wattle of flesh beneath his beard. “What do you want?”
“I told you. Answers.” Unver sank down onto the steps. “Where do I come from?”
“What nonsense is this? I told you!”
“You told me I came from a clan far away across the grasslands.”
“You did!”
“Tell me their name!”
The old man gasped in pain as the blade prodded him. “I do not remember! No, wait! It was one of the clans from the High Thrithings. They sent you to us.”
“You told me my father and mother were both dead. Is that true?”