When the prince said nothing, Afondir went on.‘I may not be much of a military commander, as My Lords Cilbran and Forgard, but I am attentive to what product moves through my lands and the taxes my excise men collect.For the past years, there has been a dearth of raw iron moving through Afondir.Wagons three-quarters loaded that had been full in years past.Either the mines in the Shield Mountains and the southern arm of the Windwall are producing less—in which case, it would be the responsibility of the Count of Glascoed to report such a threat to the prosperity and safety of the realm to Your Highnesses—or what they produce is being stolen.Have you received such reports?’
Owyn’s lip twitched.His hands curled into fists like mallet-heads.Torin could feel the words burning in the young king-to-be, desperate to char Afondir’s accusations to cinders, to respond with accusations of his own.Restrained only, perhaps, by youthful uncertainty.Intemperance ran in the family, it seemed, though the boy king did a better job of holding his tongue.
‘Those sympathetic to the rebellion might be stealing directly from the mines,’ Forgard offered on the prince’s behalf.‘Or lifting from the wagons on the way.’
‘Then at the very least, the count is derelict in his duties to the realm,’ Afondir countered.‘Either by incompetence or complicity, Ifan is responsible.He must be brought to justice.’
Owyn worked his jaw, as though gnawing the gristle of his options.Torin himself was working through a rapidly evolving situation, and a sudden deviation from what had been an already complex plan.
Afondir was an arrogant, ambitious, impatient bastard of an arse.Vicious in the extreme.Unworthy to rule beneath the aegis of the Church for any length of time.At the first opportunity, word would have to be sent—at the very least to Templar Unwith, if not to Tarebach and the Iron Citadel itself.Matters were accelerating more quickly than Torin felt he could manipulate, let alone control.
The prince lowered himself back to his chair, his fury never leaving Afondir.‘I will do as the Count of Forgard and my uncle suggest.’His voice cracked as he fought for calm.‘A small force, in my company, will travel to Glascoed and confront Ifan with these accusations.Whether he is innocent, ensorcelled or a traitor, I will have an answer from him, and we will find this sorceress and these fae monsters.That is all.Leave me.’
‘Your Highness,’ the queen began, troubled by the turn the conversation had taken and Owyn’s reaction to it—but as a mother worried for her son, or a queen worried for her kingdom?‘This is—’
‘Do as I say,’ Owyn roared.‘Leave!’
‘Of course, Your Highness,’ Forgard said with a bow, then led the procession from the room.Torin followed the counts, his mind still spinning at the sudden shift in Afondir’s plans.Medrith lingered behind, her voice following them out, her words hidden by her hushed tone.Testing the prince’s patience, perhaps, but not without reason.Was it courage or foolishness to wager the balance of her son’s love in an effort to restore her influence at court?
‘Dark times, gentlemen,’ Forgard said.He nodded briskly, then turned on his heel and stalked off, the hobnailed heels of his boots ringing on the stone floor.Cilbran muttered something under his breath and followed him, leaving Torin and Afondir alone.
‘You push too far,’ Torin said softly.‘What happened to the subtle game?’
‘Walk with me.’Afondir folded his hands at the small of his back and set off down the castle’s strange hallway.They said nothing until they were far from the door and the possibility that queen or prince might emerge to overhear them, or that a messenger might suddenly appear with some interruption.
‘When will your people be in place?’Afondir said at last, slowing his pace down a long stretch of hallway bereft of doors.Windows framed in lead looked out on the courtyard.Their thick-cut glass bent the limbs of trees to odd angles and bevelled out their trunks like the paunches of old, fat merchants.The count kept his tone low and conversational.Anyone who might appear at one end of the long hallway or the other would not understand his words.A shrewd man, despite his many other faults.
‘I sent word to Templar Unwith,’ Torin answered.‘Knights dressed in common clothes have long since sailed for northern Cilbran.Others have already begun to venture overland into the Greenwood, keeping off the roads.Others have disguised themselves among the fisherfolk of Forgard.They need only prepare the ritual.I will invoke it when—and if—doing so should prove necessary.’
Afondir ran a finger down the white streak in his beard and smiled.‘A time coming soon, I think.’
Torin shook his head.‘As I said, you move too quickly.I meant what I told the queen—our purpose is not to plunge Parwys into war, but to liberate it from its backward ways.To strengthen it and guide it into virtue.’
‘The only way to reforge a broken blade is to melt it down and make it anew,’ Afondir said.‘This kingdom is pitted with rust—this haunting, Glascoed’s betrayal, the druids with their grasps at fading power.The queen will have Owyn attune with the stones in Bryngodre, if she must wrap him in chains and drag him there herself.No.While your sentiment speaks well of you, I do not think things can be made right without some spilling of blood.’
Torin made to speak, but Afondir bulled him over.
‘You may disagree, Anakriarch,’ he went on.‘But the fact is that however little Prince Owyn trustsme, he trustsyoufar less.I appreciate your little attempts to play politics, but leave such games to those who have mastered the rules and the field.We had an arrangement.I will see it made good.’
The count gave a slight bow, the smile lingering on his mouth all the while he spoke, then turned and walked with a slow, easy gait, as though he did not contemplate treason—and in contemplating, hope for the deaths of thousands.
A vicious man, indeed.One whom Torin might be forced to place upon the throne of Parwys.A thought that turned his stomach.Not, he decided, the last dregs of the blow from the sorceress’s staff.He took comfort, however, in knowing that Afondir would rule only until he could be removed.
A wickedness better avoided, but one which might prove necessary.A weight only an anakriarch could be trusted to carry.Not unlike, he mused, the dagger still lodged in the tree-devil’s eye.
Mother and Son
YC 1189
A world defined by transaction and competition corrupts even those bonds most sacred and central to life itself.
The Personal Musings of Archivist Tan Semn,YC1158
‘Do you understand now, Owyn?’Medrith said.She stood across the table from him, leaning on her withered staff, her face a poor mask over frustration and fear.‘We are beset on all sides.The sorceress.The churchmen.Two counts, now, plotting their separate coups.Perhaps conspiring!Leading you into a trap against the walls of Glascoed!They arrived late together.Who knows what passed between them on the road?’
The prince’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair.No one knew—she wanted him to admit this, but did not see how it was as strong an argument against her as for her.All of this, the anakriarch’s accusations against the Count of Afondir, Afondir’s against Glascoed—even the report of Fola’s meeting with these fae acrobats, or whatever they were—was but hearsay.There was no true evidence to speak of.Owyn had seen nothing with his own eyes, heard nothing with his own ears.And yet thesestories—for that was all they were—threatened to drag his kingdom into war.
It was enough to drive a man mad.
