Chapter 8

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

Additional restrictions may be announced as deemed necessary for preserving order and stability within the kingdom. All non-landed citizens shall comply fully and without delay.

“Uncle,” Serwyn said, letting the parchment fall onto the desk as he looked up. “I’ve read this over several times now. While I understand the intent, limiting the movement of peasants seems ... pointless?”

“On the contrary, Your Majesty, there is sound reasoning behind these restrictions. While, of course, the public reason is safety and security of the kingdom, in response to Baron Sinclair’s request for action on the part of the Crown, there are real reasons for enacting this. For one, we have started seeing some ... disquiet among your non-landed subjects that, if not accounted for, could lead to wider unrest or even revolt. Since unfettered movement allows for the spread of dissent and sedition, limiting it will limit the danger of a wider problem, should tensions boil over. It also prevents certain ... elements, in the kingdom from gaining more power and becoming a potential problem. This early in your reign, there are those who will try and use the transition as an opportunity to gain power for themselves.”

“Elements? You mean Baron Sinclair, I assume,” Serwyn said, holding up the decree.

“I do,” Edmund nodded. “Garris has always been too sympathetic to the complaints of the masses. And it is no secret his barony has become a hotbed of peasant agitation and whispered schemes against the Crown.”

“You keep telling me how dangerous Baron Sinclair is, and yet, every time I suggest the surest way to protect ourselves from him, you tell me executing the man for treason isn’t an option.”

“I understand it’s frustrating, but it is the reality of ruling. As I’ve said, while Sinclair has undoubtedly overstepped, he remains well-respected by many of the barons. Openly moving against him risks dividing the kingdom, perhaps even sparking civil war.”

Serwyn still seemed unsure, mostly because he found sorting through the politics of rule frustrating. He knew his uncle meant well and was doing the best he could to guide Serwyn, but ... being faced with all the things he didn’t know, that he should have, caused him to have unpleasant thoughts. In spite of himself, Serwyn frowned and began tapping out a rhythm against the arm of his chair, a habit he had when he was feeling frustrated or angry.

“It goes beyond just boxing Sinclair in, though, Serwyn. Limiting the ability for new peasants to come into his lands, or his dissatisfied peasants to leave is one strategy, and will cause unrest that he will have to deal with, but it isn’t the only one. Sinclair’s barony is one of the more prosperous ones in Iron Keep. Not so well off as the baronies of Delaney Heights or Everwood, but still, it’s prosperous, which is why he’s been able to amass the power that he has. The new taxes will limit trade between the baronies, except for those who get permits from the Crown, which will weaken our enemies and strengthen our allies, since we decide who has to pay the new travel tax.”

“Seeding distrust between them, pulling the barons apart.”

“Correct, and giving incentives to those barons to curry favor with the Crown, in order to get their own permits. The barons are not fools, either. They will understand who our target is. They will not want to have any of Sinclair’s disfavor rub off onto them, further driving them apart.”

“And it puts more money into our coffers,” Serwyn said, picking up the paper again, reading it over once more.

“Exactly. I believe you’ll find that, sometimes, there is more to be gained by careful maneuvering and subtlety, than by brute force, Your Majesty.”

Setting the paper on the desk in front of him, Serwyn picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and signed his flowing signature at the bottom with a flourish.

“There. It is done,” Serwyn said, and then frowned again, the tapping returning.

Edmund took the letter and, sprinkling fine sand across it to help the ink dry, busied himself with affixing Serwyn’s seal to it while Serwyn thought.

Just as his uncle turned to leave, Serwyn said, “I know you wish me to handle matters more delicately, Uncle. I understand your point, that direct action is not always the best way to do things, and I am trying to learn. It’s just ... thinking three steps ahead here, two steps left there, it feels unnatural. I ... I just wanted you to know that I am trying.”

Edmund placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze, “I know you are. I can see it, as can any who’ve seen the effort and time you’ve put into your new role. Ruling is ... it’s not like being a warrior, which I know is disappointing. But when you succeed, when you leave your opponent guessing, when you cause them to play into your hand ... well, it’s a unique feeling you won’t soon forget. You’re doing well, Serwyn. I knew you were a bright young man and ready for leadership, but even I didn’t predict how quickly you would grow into your role. Have patience with yourself. This all takes time to master, but you are already well ahead of where I was when I was your age. In time, I have no doubt you will outshine us all.”

Serwyn smiled, one of his rare, genuine smiles.

“Thank you, Uncle. In time, perhaps it will be I instructing you, instead of the reverse.”

Edmund laughed, “I’ve no doubt of that, Your Majesty. You’ve your father’s strength and your mother’s intellect. Fate has granted you the makings of a great king.”

Edmund collected the documents and was halfway to the threshold when Serwyn spoke again.

“You know I cannot let the matter of Sinclair lie forever. Once we’ve cut him off from his allies, I will demand his head. There is a time for discretion, and a time for action. When the moment comes, I will not hesitate to strike.”

“As is right and wise, Your Majesty,” Edmund said, looking back with an approving look. “Patience now, action later, once the ground is properly prepared. You see, you understand statecraft better than you know.”

Serwyn smiled to himself again. He was learning. In time, he wouldn’t need to heed anyone’s advice or counsel but his own. When he was ready, he’d show everyone what it really meant to be King.

Dead Man’s Hills, Rendalia Province, Lynese

William felt powerful, important at the head of his small column of mounted men-at-arms. While Baron Pembroke hadn’t seen fit to send any knighted men with William, maybe because it would be beneath a knight to take orders from a young man, even one from the Whitton family, William didn’t mind. Ten strong, seasoned soldiers under his command was more than he could have hoped for when he stepped aboard the Lion’s Pride with his uncle several months ago.

He’d always hoped for a command, but he never imagined getting one this early. It was all he could do to keep the smile off his face as he attempted to emulate the stern, stoic expression Eskild always wore. The Thane Sergeant seemed to William to be the pinnacle of what a soldier should be. Strong, disciplined, and obviously respected by his comrades.

As they approached the camp, sentries called out a challenge, then waved them through once recognizing William’s armor and insignia. Riding between the handful of tents that made up this small command post, William made for the pavilion flying the standard of the Barony of Cloud Harbor; a simple keep, clouds on either side.

Dismounting, William stepped beneath the faded canopy of the pavilion, his helmet under one arm. Sir Drummond stood in the center, conferring with a grizzled captain but looked up at William’s approach.

“Sir Drummond, I bring orders from Baron Pembroke.” William extended the letter, the wax seal imprinted with the sigil of a wyvern in front of two small hills.

The knight took the letter, broke the seal with a gnarled thumb, and quickly read the contents, his brow creasing as he did. Wordlessly, he handed the letter to the man beside him.

“It seems you’re in charge of this little situation we have, My Prince,” he said.

William thought he could detect the hint of a smirk in the way the man said ‘my prince,’ but let it pass.

“Show us to the wagons,” he said, in as official a tone as he could muster.

Sir Drummond exchanged a silent look with the other man, gave a near imperceptible nod, and then gestured for William to lead the way. This was a border encampment, mostly in place as a central point for patrols riding up and down this section of the Sidorian line. The small wagon train lay a few dozen yards beyond, watchful soldiers standing guard over it.

There were nine wagons in total, each painted with the sign of the Order of Healing: twin hand palms holding an open flame. William had seen their robed brethren before on the streets of Starhaven, administering to the sick and needy in the city, but standing next to the Disciples were men wearing the gold and red wyvern of the House of Montbore. Maybe it shouldn’t be surprising; after all, the Acolytes served everyone, no matter their nationality. But, William had always felt the Ancients were with them, aiding them in battle, hearing their offerings, so to see the same symbols with those they were fighting against was ... jarring.