The barons war shattered.., p.6
The Barons' War (Shattered Lands Book 3), page 6
He turned to assess their situation. The ship listed at nearly thirty degrees, its starboard rail almost touching the water at high tide. The hull was cracked in multiple places, water flowing freely in and out with the waves. Most of their supplies remained intact, though many were soaked with seawater.
“Can she be repaired?”
“It will take work, Your Highness,” the carpenter said. “We’ve lost sections of the keel, and the hull planking is shattered in a dozen places. But it can be done, given time and materials.”
William nodded. “How long?”
“A month? Maybe two.”
A month on an island where ships and crews vanished without a trace, with a bunch of superstitious sailors.
This wouldn’t be easy.
“Begin salvage operations. Gather all weapons, tools, food, and medicines first. Everything else can wait.”
“Eskild, take four men and scout the immediate area. No more than half a mile inland and stay within sight of shore if possible. Sir Drummond, organize the men into watches. I want eyes on the forest at all times.”
The ship’s crew busied themselves with securing what remained of the vessel against further damage. Sailors climbed the tilted rigging, furling sails that had somehow survived the journey. Others worked to drain the flooded compartments now that they had reached relatively stable ground.
“This is a bad place to be,” the captain said as they watched the men work.
“And yet, it’s where we are. Get this ship repaired as quickly as you can. Tell me what you need, and my men will help you find it.”
The captain nodded and headed off to keep his men moving as William looked from the rocky shore to the foreboding tree line.
A bad place indeed.
Rendalia City, Rendalia
Isolde gripped the crushed scroll in her hand, which was still trembling. She had read it again and again until the tiny, precise script blurred from the tears filling her eyes.
The message was terse but very clear. Her father, Emperor Baudric Montbore the Eighth, Defender of the Ancients and ruler of the Lynesian people, was dying. He had collapsed during a formal council meeting three days prior. The Disciples had done everything in their ability to help him, but their treatments were proving ineffective and his condition was deteriorating rapidly.
There was no love lost between herself and her father, but still, she’d been unable to contain the tears. Perhaps the news had just shocked her and the reaction had been because the news was unexpected. Or maybe she had just learned that, in spite of the evil things the man had done in the name of power, she still loved him, somewhere deep inside.
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed out the crumpled message, making it legible again. She needed to think clearly. Her father had never been a hale man, too fond of rich foods and sweet wines, too averse to physical exertion, but he had always seemed … indomitable. Like a statue. Something that would always exist.
She rang for her handmaiden. When the girl appeared, Isolde spoke with quiet authority, mostly to hide the quiver in her voice.
“Send word to the stables to prepare horses. I must travel to Valemonde with all haste.”
“Shall I inform Baron Pembroke of your intentions?”
She frowned at that. She knew the girl, one of her Sidorian handmaidens, was trying to get ahead of her wishes, but it still felt more like a suggestion than a question.
“I will speak with him myself. But first, have my traveling clothes laid out and send my secretaries to me. There are arrangements to be made.”
As the girl hurried away, Isolde rose and walked to the window, looking down at the only other place she had called home aside from Valemonde.
Three months ago, she had been a princess of Lynese. Now, she was the wife of Prince William Whitton, who had been in line to the throne of Sidor until he joined the civil war to remove his own adoptive father from the throne. The irony did not escape her. She had left Valemonde as part of a peace treaty and walked right into another war.
Her secretaries arrived within the quarter hour, and Isolde gave them precise instructions: letters to be drafted, provisions to be secured, and the like. When they departed, she changed into a simple riding dress of deep blue, her only concession to her royal status was a silver brooch bearing the intertwined sigils of Montbore and Whitton that she had recently commissioned.
Baron Pembroke was in the council chamber, bent over a map with two local nobles when Isolde entered. He dismissed them with a nod and turned to her, his green eyes noting her attire with immediate concern.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing slightly and then pausing as he looked at her face a second time. “Is everything alright?”
Isolde handed him the message. “No, it isn’t. My father is gravely ill. The healers say he has little chance of recovery.”
“I am truly sorry,” he said, quickly reading the message. “Your Highness, Emperor Baudric is a formidable man.”
A very diplomatic way of putting that.
“He is. I came to inform you that I am going to visit him, to see him before it’s too late.”
“To Valemonde? Your Highness, I must counsel against such a journey at this time.”
“I have already begun preparations. I plan to leave first thing in the morning.”
The baron placed the message carefully on the table between them. “Princess Isolde, I understand your desire to be with your father. It speaks well of your heart. But I must ask you to reconsider. Rendalia is still in a state of transition. Your presence here is vital.”
“My father is dying.”
“Perhaps we might send representatives in your stead? Trusted emissaries who could convey your grief and good wishes to the Imperial court.”
“Baron Pembroke, I value your counsel in matters of state. But this is a matter of family. I will go to my father.”
“Please, sit for a moment before you rush off,” he said, gesturing to a pair of chairs.
Isolde hesitated, then took a seat. She knew Rowan Pembroke to be a wise and measured man. William had spoken highly of him, and in the short time she had known him, since William had left, she had come to respect his judgment. The least she could do was listen.
“Your Highness. Rendalia stands at a critical juncture. We have only just begun the process of dividing the territory into proper baronies. Large portions of land remain without direct noble oversight. We face a shortage of Sidorian administrators familiar with local customs, and the governance problems that creates are significant.”
“I am aware of these challenges, Baron.”
“I know you are. But your status as both Lynesian royalty and wife to William provides crucial legitimacy to Sidorian rule here. The common folk look to you as a bridge between their old allegiances and their new sovereign, which is especially difficult considering the conflict Sidor is currently in. Your departure at this delicate time could undermine all we have worked to build.”
“I respect your concerns. But I do not believe my temporary absence will cause the duchy to collapse.”
“It is not collapse, I fear. It is opportunity; the kind that our enemies seek. There are those who would exploit your absence to sow dissent among the former Lynesian subjects. Already we have heard whispers of discontent in some border villages.”
“Whispers only. The common folk of Rendalia care little who sits on a distant throne, Baron Pembroke. Whether they pay taxes to Valemonde or Starhaven makes small difference in their daily lives.”
“Perhaps. But symbols matter in times of change. And you, Princess, are a powerful symbol.”
“I am also a daughter. Think of how it would appear if I did not go to my father’s deathbed. Would that not seem cruel? Would it not damage relations between Lynese and Sidor far more than my brief absence from Rendalia?”
“What of Prince William? Based on when he left Sidor, he should be here in a few weeks. Do you not wish to be here when he returns?”
“If my father’s condition is as dire as it seems, I should return before William arrives. And if not, William will understand my decision.”
Pembroke paused for a moment, frowning. He was a man used to getting what he wanted and was clearly frustrated by her blocking each of his arguments.
“May I speak plainly, Princess?” Pembroke finally asked.
“What have you been doing so far?”
“Your relationship with your father has been … strained, has it not? You have told me of his angry disagreements with your choices regarding ruling Lynese. You once said you were happy to be gone from the palace. Why seek reconciliation with a man you couldn’t stand and who’s known for his stubbornness? It may prove impossible.”
The question struck closer to Isolde’s heart than she expected. She rose from her chair and walked to the window, gathering her thoughts.
“I never said I was happy to leave Lynese,” she said. “My feelings about my homeland are more complex than that. Yes, my marriage was a political necessity. But I have found it to be a positive arrangement overall. I have grown to love the Sidorian people, but that does not mean I hate my former subjects or my family.”
“Of course not.”
“My dual loyalties are not in conflict. They complement each other. I believe I can serve both Sidor and Lynese better by embracing both parts of my heritage. Beyond politics, however, there is the matter of my soul. The Acolytes teach us that when we end, we ascend to join the chorus of ancestors. How can I allow my father to pass into that realm with bitterness between us? In the writings of Elder Elianzo, we are told, ‘The unresolved conflicts of the living become eternal barriers in the realm of the ancestors. Make peace in life, lest the discord pass down through generations.’ I must make peace with my father before his death. Not just for his sake, or for mine, but for my future children’s sake. If there is even the slightest chance for reconciliation, I must take it.”
“I agree that the spiritual obligation is significant,” Pembroke acknowledged reluctantly. “But …”
“I am going,” Isolde interrupted, her voice firm. “That is my decision. The only way you could stop me is to put me in a cell, and I do not believe you would do that.”
“No, Your Highness, I would not,” he said, with much the same frustration her father always had with her. “Very well. If you are determined to go, we must make proper arrangements. I will assemble an escort of my finest men to bring you safely to Lynese.”
“Lord Agravaine will be administering most state affairs with my father bedridden. He would never allow Sidorian soldiers to enter Valemonde at such a vulnerable time.”
“Then how do you propose to travel? I am not comfortable with you traveling on your own with just some handmaidens.”
“I will write to Lord Agravaine today. Lynesian soldiers can meet me at the border and escort me the rest of the way.”
“I dislike the thought of you traveling without Sidorian protection for any part of your journey. You realize, Your Highness, that once you cross into Lynese, you will be beyond our reach. If your father should recover, or if Lord Agravaine should decide your political value is too great …”
“I appreciate your concerns, but my mind is made up. I must see my father before he dies. I will return to Rendalia as swiftly as possible after seeing my father.”
“I believe you mean that, Your Highness. But intentions and outcomes do not always align in matters of state.”
“No,” Isolde admitted. “They do not. But we must act according to our best judgment, must we not? And my judgment tells me I must go to my father.”
Pembroke sighed and said, “Then go with my blessing, Princess, and with my prayers. I will make the necessary arrangements for your journey.”
“Thank you,” Isolde said, relief evident in her voice. “I knew you would understand.”
“I understand your heart, Your Highness. It is the hearts of others that concern me.”
She didn’t disagree, but she had to go. She had to see him one last time, before he left this plane.
Chapter 5
Starhaven, Sidor
Edmund knelt on the cushion placed in front of the basin, his head bowed in silent contemplation. Or at least he hoped that’s what it looked like.
The private scriptorium was like others found in keeps and villages across the Shattered Lands, only much nicer. Smaller versions of the massive Hall of Ancients on holy days and special occasions when the pomp and pageantry or the large halls found in major cities were not needed.
They tended to be refuges for those desperate for answers.
Edmund was not normally one of those people, but appearances must be maintained, so here he knelt, in one of the highest floors of the castle’s east tower, pretending to seek the ancients’ forgiveness for the indulgences of summer and their wisdom to get through the privations of winter.
A robed disciple attending his cleansing pulled out a small pouch of herbs and poured them into the still water in the basin. A sharp, acrid scent filled the air as soon as they hit the water.
“I seek your wisdom, to cleanse my mind of doubt,” Edmund recited. “I seek your strength, to cleanse my body of weakness. I seek your truth, to cleanse my soul of impurity. With these waters, I wash away my excesses and prepare my body for the coming darkness of winter.”
He dipped his hands into the basin, disturbing the floating herbs. The water felt cool against his skin as he cupped his palms and lifted them, letting the liquid spill between his fingers. Three times he repeated this, as tradition demanded, before wetting his face.
Next was the chanting. He hated the chanting.
Before the disciples could continue, the door opened a crack and Orlan stuck his head inside. The disciples looked disapprovingly as the scribe stepped inside and closed the door, standing next to it.
They so loved their rituals and did hate to have them disturbed. Edmund was happy for the intrusion, although he knew if Orlan was here, now, then he almost certainly had bad news.
“Leave us.”
The robed men hesitated briefly, but even they did not argue with a king. Bowing, they filed out of the room. Edmund waited until the door shut before turning to his aide.
“They are going to make me start this all over, you know.”
Orlan bowed. “Forgiveness, Your Majesty. I would not have interrupted your cleansing if the matter did not require immediate attention.”
Edmund rose from his knees, ignoring the protest of joints stiffened by the hard stone, which was barely blunted by the cushion. “What happened now?”
“Ambleton and Langmere have fallen, Your Majesty.”
Edmund’s face remained impassive, though anger flared hot in his chest. “I hope they haven’t joined the rebels.”
“No, Your Majesty. Taken by force, following up on their attack on Gainsborough. The rebel army continued north after sacking Gainsborough and taking Milbourne. They overwhelmed our defenders at both baronies.”
“Casualties?”
“Significant, Your Majesty. Nearly seven hundred men between the two engagements. Many more wounded or captured.”
Edmund crossed to a side table where a crystal decanter held dark red wine. He poured a generous measure into a silver goblet. The cleansing traditionally required abstention until sunset, but Edmund had never held much regard for such strictures.
“I guess we will have to plan funeral services for Falkirk and young Blout. Quintine should have had more sons before he joined the ancients.”
“They did not die, Your Majesty. Both barons live, retreating with their remaining forces. They head west toward Tansley.”
Edmund slammed the goblet down, wine sloshing over the rim. “They fled?”
“They claim they were outnumbered three to one, Your Majesty.”
“Kenilworth was outnumbered at Millbrook Ford and died with his men rather than abandon his post. Falkirk and Blout should have learned from his lessons.”
“That is not all, Your Majesty. Ambleton’s storehouses were already being filled with the early harvests. Much of that was to be shipped in the coming weeks to the army assembling at Silverhall.”
Edmund drained his cup and refilled it. “So they gain territory and supplies while my appointed defenders flee at the first sign of battle. Incompetence. That is why we are losing this rebellion. Where are their families?”
“Baron Falkirk’s wife and children were at their summer residence near Middlewood Forest. As it happens, the new Baron Blout’s mother and younger sister were with them. All have been taken to Donnington in Swanstock.”
“Send riders to Donnington. I want all of them brought to Starhaven as our honored guests. For their protection. Then tell the quartermaster to divert twenty wagons of supplies from the western territories to replace what we lost in the retreat.”
Orlan nodded, clearly understanding Edmund’s meaning. More importantly, the barons, even the young one, would know what the gesture meant as well, and hopefully use it as motivation to be more aggressive in their defense of the kingdom.
“There is more, Sire. We received word of setbacks in Iron Keep. Lord Sinclair has retaken several holdings from our forces there and is moving up the peninsula. Duke Cadogan reports difficulties getting more men across the narrows to reinforce his men already in the field and is asking for help in clearing Althear Bay of the pirates that swarm his ships.”
“That fool can’t manage anything without help. Tell him I will see what we can do, but half the bay is now controlled by barons in open revolt and he controls most of the rest of it. If anything, he should be the one clearing the bay.”
“I will relay your message,” Orlan said, which sounded suspiciously like he would reword it to be less offensive, but Edmund let it pass.
He didn’t have time to get into a pissing match with the northern goat lovers. However, if Cadogan couldn’t do what he promised, then Edmund would start looking at his barons for a suitable replacement for Duke of the Icelands.
“If that is all of the bad news you have, then leave me in peace. I’ve heard enough for one day.”
