First Rider's Call
Page 23
A silence hung in the air.
When the king finally replied, his voice was entirely reasonable. He did not shout, yet his rebuke resonated with kingly resolve. “You forget yourself, Lord D’Ivary. These people you seek to remove forcibly under the royal banner of Sacoridia are Sacoridians. They may look to no lord—not even to me, their king—to govern them in the northern wildlands, but they still live within Sacoridia’s borders.
“Do you fail to comprehend their importance to commerce? They provide the timber and pelts our merchants require. They have also been a buffer in the north, fighting off raiders. Fighting for survival is an everyday occurrence for them, making them independent-minded. Only now has the frequency and intensity of groundmite attacks forced them to seek safe harbor. And you would turn them out, refusing them help in their hour of need?”
Zachary shook his head in disbelief. “In time these folk may tame the north, further strengthening Sacoridia’s commerce, and its borders. Until then, Lord D’I-vary, Sacoridia may be made up of twelve provinces and the free holdings of the borders, but it is all one land. Devastating battles were fought to unify this country, and I will not turn Sacoridian against Sacoridian.
“Think of some other way to help them. Your cousin, the late lady-governor, might have found some other solution in which the refugees were put to work assisting with farming in exchange for food and lodging.”
D’Ivary’s smile faded to a ghost of itself, and a hardness settled into his eyes. “My cousin was a kindly soul, but weak-minded. A flaw with her line.”
Laren clenched her hands behind her back. His cousin had died because she courageously resisted Amilton’s claim to rule. She had died in this very room, a torturous, painful death. Weak-minded, indeed.
“She allowed our provincial militia to dwindle to a house guard. My nobles would be hard pressed to call up an army of commoners more interested in farming, as they should be. These northern outlanders are of no use to my province.”
“Not all strength is shown in force of arms,” Zachary said.
D’Ivary rubbed his chin, a shrewd gleam lighting in his eyes. “Well said, sire. I could not agree more. For instance, there is the matter of an heir to ensure the strength of Sacoridia’s rule. I would not be alone in expressing concern about the country’s stability should no heir be produced within a reasonable amount of time.”
The king froze at the abrupt change of topic—a veiled threat?—his knuckles whitening as he clenched the polished armrests of his throne. Laren could tell he struggled to contain himself. The scritch-scratch of a pen as D’I-vary’s secretary made notes was counterpoint to silence.
It would not be the first time the matter of an heir had been brought up, nor would it be the last. It seemed every noble in the lands desired to parade a daughter or sister before Zachary in hopes of securing the favor and alliance of the high king. One eastern lord-governor in particular had been more persistent than the rest.
Had Zachary’s father lived longer, no doubt this matter would have been resolved long ago. Left to his own devices, however, Zachary turned away all prospects, and this one issue he refused to discuss with Laren. His subjects called him, appropriately enough, the “Bachelor King,” and the situation was a favored topic of speculation among aristocratic circles. Laren had even caught wind of actual wagering; nobles casting lots on who and when Zachary might marry.
To keep the confidence of the realm, to end this speculation, he must marry one of suitable rank and produce a royal heir. Soon.
Laren found his resistance confounding. There were no ongoing illicit romances, despite various rumors of a secret lover tucked away in some tiny hamlet on the coast somewhere, and though he had not always led the chaste life of a cleric, he hadn’t even sired any bastards. She had checked.
Colin Dovekey broke the tense silence. “We were speaking of refugees.”
“And so we were,” D’Ivary murmured, his gaze intent on the king.
Zachary crossed his legs. He was not in good humor, but he refused to rise to D’Ivary’s bait. “I do not condone the use of force,” he said, ignoring the subject of an heir altogether. “Nor will I provide you with soldiers. Much of my force is patrolling the north anyway. If the refugees are such a drain on the province, find a way to make use of them so they help themselves. Lord Adolind has found a way to manage, and he possesses fewer resources than D’Ivary Province.”
D’Ivary scowled, then forced a neutral expression on his face.
Zachary leaned forward. “Not so long ago you swore an oath of fealty to me when you took on the mantle of lord-governor. Will you give me your word on your honor that no harm will come to these refugees?”
D’Ivary puffed out his cheeks. “Of course, sire.” He bowed. “I shall abide by your wishes. On my honor.”
Laren fingered her winged horse brooch, reaching out to D’Ivary with her special ability to determine the honesty of his words. The answer came to her like a caress in her mind, and it surprised her.
After D’Ivary departed with his secretary in tow, the king turned his gaze upon her. No longer the stern king, he simply looked a very weary man.
“Well?” he said.
Laren smiled weakly. “He spoke truth. He will not harm those people.”
Zachary raised his eyebrows. “You are certain?”
“It was a clear reading.”
He removed the shiny silver fillet from his brow and passed his fingers through light, amber hair. “Of course. I shouldn’t even have to ask. You’ve never been wrong before. It’s just . . . It’s just that he’s difficult to trust.”
When the king finally replied, his voice was entirely reasonable. He did not shout, yet his rebuke resonated with kingly resolve. “You forget yourself, Lord D’Ivary. These people you seek to remove forcibly under the royal banner of Sacoridia are Sacoridians. They may look to no lord—not even to me, their king—to govern them in the northern wildlands, but they still live within Sacoridia’s borders.
“Do you fail to comprehend their importance to commerce? They provide the timber and pelts our merchants require. They have also been a buffer in the north, fighting off raiders. Fighting for survival is an everyday occurrence for them, making them independent-minded. Only now has the frequency and intensity of groundmite attacks forced them to seek safe harbor. And you would turn them out, refusing them help in their hour of need?”
Zachary shook his head in disbelief. “In time these folk may tame the north, further strengthening Sacoridia’s commerce, and its borders. Until then, Lord D’I-vary, Sacoridia may be made up of twelve provinces and the free holdings of the borders, but it is all one land. Devastating battles were fought to unify this country, and I will not turn Sacoridian against Sacoridian.
“Think of some other way to help them. Your cousin, the late lady-governor, might have found some other solution in which the refugees were put to work assisting with farming in exchange for food and lodging.”
D’Ivary’s smile faded to a ghost of itself, and a hardness settled into his eyes. “My cousin was a kindly soul, but weak-minded. A flaw with her line.”
Laren clenched her hands behind her back. His cousin had died because she courageously resisted Amilton’s claim to rule. She had died in this very room, a torturous, painful death. Weak-minded, indeed.
“She allowed our provincial militia to dwindle to a house guard. My nobles would be hard pressed to call up an army of commoners more interested in farming, as they should be. These northern outlanders are of no use to my province.”
“Not all strength is shown in force of arms,” Zachary said.
D’Ivary rubbed his chin, a shrewd gleam lighting in his eyes. “Well said, sire. I could not agree more. For instance, there is the matter of an heir to ensure the strength of Sacoridia’s rule. I would not be alone in expressing concern about the country’s stability should no heir be produced within a reasonable amount of time.”
The king froze at the abrupt change of topic—a veiled threat?—his knuckles whitening as he clenched the polished armrests of his throne. Laren could tell he struggled to contain himself. The scritch-scratch of a pen as D’I-vary’s secretary made notes was counterpoint to silence.
It would not be the first time the matter of an heir had been brought up, nor would it be the last. It seemed every noble in the lands desired to parade a daughter or sister before Zachary in hopes of securing the favor and alliance of the high king. One eastern lord-governor in particular had been more persistent than the rest.
Had Zachary’s father lived longer, no doubt this matter would have been resolved long ago. Left to his own devices, however, Zachary turned away all prospects, and this one issue he refused to discuss with Laren. His subjects called him, appropriately enough, the “Bachelor King,” and the situation was a favored topic of speculation among aristocratic circles. Laren had even caught wind of actual wagering; nobles casting lots on who and when Zachary might marry.
To keep the confidence of the realm, to end this speculation, he must marry one of suitable rank and produce a royal heir. Soon.
Laren found his resistance confounding. There were no ongoing illicit romances, despite various rumors of a secret lover tucked away in some tiny hamlet on the coast somewhere, and though he had not always led the chaste life of a cleric, he hadn’t even sired any bastards. She had checked.
Colin Dovekey broke the tense silence. “We were speaking of refugees.”
“And so we were,” D’Ivary murmured, his gaze intent on the king.
Zachary crossed his legs. He was not in good humor, but he refused to rise to D’Ivary’s bait. “I do not condone the use of force,” he said, ignoring the subject of an heir altogether. “Nor will I provide you with soldiers. Much of my force is patrolling the north anyway. If the refugees are such a drain on the province, find a way to make use of them so they help themselves. Lord Adolind has found a way to manage, and he possesses fewer resources than D’Ivary Province.”
D’Ivary scowled, then forced a neutral expression on his face.
Zachary leaned forward. “Not so long ago you swore an oath of fealty to me when you took on the mantle of lord-governor. Will you give me your word on your honor that no harm will come to these refugees?”
D’Ivary puffed out his cheeks. “Of course, sire.” He bowed. “I shall abide by your wishes. On my honor.”
Laren fingered her winged horse brooch, reaching out to D’Ivary with her special ability to determine the honesty of his words. The answer came to her like a caress in her mind, and it surprised her.
After D’Ivary departed with his secretary in tow, the king turned his gaze upon her. No longer the stern king, he simply looked a very weary man.
“Well?” he said.
Laren smiled weakly. “He spoke truth. He will not harm those people.”
Zachary raised his eyebrows. “You are certain?”
“It was a clear reading.”
He removed the shiny silver fillet from his brow and passed his fingers through light, amber hair. “Of course. I shouldn’t even have to ask. You’ve never been wrong before. It’s just . . . It’s just that he’s difficult to trust.”
