Chapter 10

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

Captain Bramwell stood outside the heavy oaken door leading to King Serwyn’s personal study, taking a moment to prepare himself before raising a gloved fist to knock firmly three times. The sound echoed down the stone corridor, almost like a warning. One of the commanders he’d brought with him flinched slightly at the sound.

Instead of being bidden to enter, as he had the other times he’d been forced to interrupt the king, the door was flung open, surprising Bramwell. Standing in front of him was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a cruel smile. Bramwell didn’t hide the sneer on his face at the sight of the man. Colm Thranton was the jumped-up thug that the duke used as his personal bagman and guard. Bramwell had never understood why the duke would trust someone like Thranton, who’d just as easily stab you in your sleep as do your bidding. And yet, he did.

The last Bramwell heard, Thranton wasn’t in the capital. He’d remained in Silverhall when the duke had come to care for his injured brother, before his death. As far as Bramwell was concerned, Thranton should have stayed there. He hated Thranton, and knew the feeling was mutual. The two men stared each other down for a moment before Edmund called from within the room.

“Colm, let the Captain in.”

Thranton stepped aside with a mocking little bow. Bramwell signaled his commanders to wait in the hallway and entered, back straight and jaw tight, edging away from Thranton, who shut the door and moved to stand in the back corner of the room. Part of him wanted to turn, to keep the man in sight. He didn’t enjoy having the duke’s pet attack dog behind him.

Even without Thranton, it was an intimidating room to enter, designed to show the opulence and power of the king with tall arched windows along one wall overlooking the city below, framed by heavy velvet drapes in the white and gold of the House of Whitton. A few bookshelves laden with leather-bound tomes sat against one wall, dwarfed by a large collection of weapons lining the paneled walls. The weapons weren’t ornamental or ceremonial. These were worn pieces, used in battle. Weapons that had tasted blood. Not the king’s trophies, though. If Bramwell had to guess, they were relics from the king’s late father. Thoughts Bramwell would never let cross his face, knowing his fate if he did.

The young king himself sat at a ornate desk inlaid with gold filigree, the richly carved legs depicting snarling lions. His normal petulant scowl had turned to one of annoyance as he shuffled through papers in front of him, absently slipping one off onto a separate pile as Bramwell approached the desk. Duke Edmund loomed over Serwyn’s shoulder, one of his finely manicured hands resting on the back of the king’s chair almost possessively as he reached over and straightened the document the king had just thrust aside.

He didn’t envy the duke his task. Tutoring a king had to be perilous work, since all tutoring involved some kind of discipline, and who could discipline the most powerful person in the kingdom?

“What do you need, Captain?” the duke asked, not even bothering to look up from the documents the king was reading or mask the annoyance in his voice.

Bramwell stopped a few feet in front of the king’s desk, posture straight, arms behind his back, and said, “I’m afraid there are more reports of unrest throughout the city, Your Majesty. After the riot in the Royal Courtyard and the subsequent one in Peddler’s Square were put down, there has been a significant increase in ... disloyal talk among the lower classes.”

The king dropped the papers he was holding and looked up, pale eyes fixing the captain in an intense, unnerving stare. The boy might have been young, but he had his father’s legendary intensity. Bramwell had only ever met King Gavric once, while traveling in the duke’s service, but the brief meeting had left an impression. The former king had a way of holding anyone he spoke to spellbound, making them feel as if they were the center of his world. He’d found the experience both intimidating and exciting at the same time. Serwyn, on the other hand, made the focus of his attention feel like they were about to be executed at any moment for the crime of annoying His Majesty.

Bramwell withered slightly under the king’s glare as he said, “They ... I am sorry to have to repeat the words, Your Majesty, but they call for an end to the edict of travel and ... some have suggested, perhaps a change in ... leadership.”

Starhaven, at least these days, was a place where the messenger often paid the price for the message they carried, sometimes excruciatingly. Had it not been a dishonor to him or a disservice to his men, Bramwell would have sent anyone other than himself to deliver this news. Telling the king that peasants were demanding his head, not to mention some of the things they called him, could have been almost certainly fatal. He’d originally tried to find Duke Edmund, so he could give His Grace the news and let him break it to his nephew. Unfortunately, the duke had been with the king as he often was, and this was not something that could wait.

After the riot in the Royal Courtyard, the duke had ordered him to report on any other disturbances. The duke might not have been as vicious as his nephew; he was cleverer, but punishments, while not generally fatal, could be unpleasant enough all the same, leaving Captain Bramwell in an unfortunate position.

“And you let them do this?” Serwyn demanded. “Isn’t dealing with such matters precisely your role as captain of the city guard?”

“It is, Your Majesty. My men have instituted curfews in the most problematic areas and arrested dozens who were spreading seditious claims against Your Majesty’s rule. But the dungeons are overflowing, and the tide of resentment has yet to turn. I have concerns...”

“Damn your concerns. You should have heads on pikes. Of course you have seen no change. Letting treason go unchecked is asking for more treason.”

“I’m sure the captain is doing his best to ensure the traitors are dealt with,” the duke said, moving his hand from the chair to the king’s shoulder. “I have every confidence he will correct this issue and is only notifying us of the situation. We appreciate your report, Captain. Please use all means at your disposal to keep the peace, prevent any more uprisings, and remove the traitors from our streets.”

Captain Bramwell paused, considering his next words carefully. “I appreciate Your Grace’s confidence in me, but I fear the situation may be escalating beyond containment through arrests alone. No matter how many we detain, the seditious attitudes only seem to spread. There are concerns...”

“You idiot,” the king said, interrupting his second attempt to get the warning across. “If arrests aren’t working, then start executing the traitors. That’s the only thing to do with their like. After a few heads end up on pikes, the rest will fall in line.”

Captain Bramwell clenched his jaw, holding back a response that would be sure to, at the least, get him removed from his post and, more likely, have his head put in the same place the king wanted to put the traitors’. Thankfully, he was saved from having to say anything by the duke.

“What His Majesty means, Captain, is that more forceful measures may be required. We know the people love their king, and these malcontents and traitors are surely a small, vocal minority.”

Bramwell bit his tongue again. Whoever told them the king was loved was either lying or a fool. The riots proved that. The people, at best, feared their king. Lately, that fear had begun to turn to resentment and anger, which is why they were in this very situation.

“They have friends, though, Your Grace. Supporters. Executing people able to convince so many of their neighbors to take treasonous actions would surely make them martyrs if put on the block.”

The king opened his mouth, most likely for another tirade about executions and heads on pikes, but stopped as the duke gave his shoulder a squeeze. The words cut off, the king chose to glower at Bramwell instead.

“A point,” Edmund said instead. “Perhaps, instead of making an example of the leaders, we could remove them from the board. Maybe we could arrest the ringleaders and ship them off to join the army in Lynese. I’m sure my brother could find use for them in the war effort, and communication is very limited between the soldiers there and the people here.”

That was the duke, always thinking in layers. Where Bramwell would have arrested the men and left them in chains, and the king would have executed them, both solutions that were sure to cause a backlash, the duke’s solution would remove the troublemakers in a way that caused the least, or at least less, resentment.

“A clever solution, Your Grace,” Bramwell said after considering the idea for a moment. “Perhaps it would be best to make the notifications public. It’s possible that if we pull men off the streets, or from the dungeons, and send them off to Lynese in the middle of the night, it would be no different than if we had them killed. Men disappearing suddenly has a tendency to cause ... unnervings among the populace.”

In truth, he doubted simply disappearing some of the more vocal troublemakers would solve the problem. This rot had spread deep already, and there were more than enough left to pick up what those men had started, as the policies they were protesting remained the law of the land. It also wasn’t a captain’s duty to tell dukes and kings how to run their kingdom. All he could do was carry out the orders given to him and hope the results were successful since undoubtedly failure would still fall on him, regardless of whose idea it was.

The king, clearly, also had his doubts.

“No!” he said, slamming his fists down on his desk. “They should be afraid of us, not us of them. They should be executed. Dead traitors cause no more trouble.”

“Your Majesty,” the duke said, almost gently. “I understand the desire for decisiveness, but we must consider the wider implications. These men have families who would take poorly to such harsh action. We risk turning disaffection into outright revolt.”

“They should accept their king’s judgment without question. Anything less is treason.”

“Perhaps, Your Majesty,” Edmund replied carefully. “But we must be pragmatic as well as decisive. Removed from the city, yet kept alive, these men cease to be a threat here while their fate serves as a warning. Allow the captain to arrange transport of the ringleaders to Lynese as conscripts. Untrained, as they are, they will end up dead at the Lynesians’ hands, solving our problem without the complexities of doing it ourselves.”

For a moment, the king looked up at his uncle, and Bramwell wasn’t sure which way the young monarch would land. Finally, though, he gave a small nod, picking up his discarded papers and going back to his previous task.

“By your leave,” the captain said, assuming that the decision was made. “I will begin organizing the transfer immediately. The next troop ship departs in a week, and I believe you would prefer if they were on it.”

Although the king didn’t look up from his work, the duke said, “Good. If you have any trouble, let Colm know. He’s been assigned as the king’s personal guard during these trying times, but he’s available should you need additional assistance.”

Bramwell looked back at the man, whose lips turned up in his version of a smile. He’d swim across the Maw before he ever asked Colm for assistance, but it didn’t do to publicly insult the duke’s right-hand man.

Instead, bowing, he said, “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Grace.”

The duke had already turned his attention back to the king, effectively dismissing Bramwell. The captain turned on his heel and made a retreat, ignoring the following eyes of Thornton as he left the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

“Assemble the watch commanders. I want them in the barracks in twenty minutes,” he said to his lieutenants as they fell in step with him.

“Yes, sir, right away!” the men said, the pair veering off down a side passage.

Bramwell gave a glance back at the closed door, frowning. This was going to end badly. He could feel it.

Sidorian Army Camp, Chansol River, Lynese

William picked his way through the rows of ordered campaign tents, dodging soldiers and laborers as he made his way toward the center of the camp where his and the other commanders’ tents were located.

He wasn’t heading to his own tent, which he wasn’t sure should be with the leaders of the army anyway. Instead, he was heading to one closer to the central command tent. Not the largest, which would have been Baron Pembroke’s, or the flashiest, which would have been Sir Alistair’s. Although larger than the common soldier’s tent, it wasn’t ostentatiously so. If it weren’t for the golden lion on white above blue lines of water on the banner outside, he might not have even known it was his Uncle Aldric’s tent the first time he came here.

No guards were stationed outside, although there were enough armed men around that it would be foolish to try to attack their leader, so one wasn’t needed.

Stopping by the entrance flap, William called out, “Uncle, it’s William.”

At the muffled invitation from within, William swept aside the heavy canvas and ducked inside. He found Aldric seated on a folding camp stool at a small portable desk of rough-hewn planks balanced precariously across two supply crates. Not exactly the ornate writing desk Baron Pembroke carted around with him on the campaign.

He was holding a small, curled piece of paper, the tell-tale sign of a wyvern’s message, which he rolled up and slid into a battered leather satchel hanging from the corner of the desk as William entered.

“Have a seat,” Aldric said, pointing to another camp stool next to the makeshift desk. “Is everything alright? You look troubled.”

“I’m not sure,” William said after a long pause.

“Eskild mentioned you were troubled after your fight on the line, and I know you’ve been spending a lot of time in the healers’ tents.”

It made sense that Eskild would talk to his uncle. The sergeant seemed like a good man, but he was also his uncle’s man. William trusted his uncle implicitly, but it was something to keep in mind in the future.

“My first command ... it was a disaster. If Sir Drummond hadn’t been able to push through, we’d have been slaughtered. As it was, only two-thirds of my men were slaughtered. I know Eskild said it was a victory, but ... with victories like that, the Lynesians don’t need to win to chase us home.”

“You feel responsible for the lives lost under your command.” It was not a question.

William nodded miserably. “I just came from seeing Sir Drummond. The healers say his recovery is going well, thank the Ancients, but he took that wound saving me. How can I call myself a leader when my men pay the price for my mistakes?”