Chapter 13

Outside Valemonde, Lynese

William was in the command tent, looking over the map which his aides had just updated with the latest reports. Two more ships had arrived from Rendalia to help secure Dawnstar Lake, bringing his total to six. Not a fleet, but a large enough body to hopefully stop the small but continuous stream of smugglers bringing supplies into the city from the southern shores of the lake, which were still under Lynesian control.

They were small shipments, usually in rowboats or small one-man vessels that could slip between his patrol ships unseen in the night. They were not enough to break the siege or even keep those in the city from starving, but every scrap of additional supplies extended how long the Lynesians could hold out, and he needed to end this siege.

From all accounts, fighting had not started yet, but Sidor had fallen into civil war. The last letter Pembroke had received indicated that two dozen baronies had declared for Sinclair and were marshaling forces. The crown still had the edge, of course, with all but three of Iceland’s twenty baronies publicly supporting the crown, along with thirty of Kingsheart’s baronies so far. That edge did not mean the crown would be able to win this rebellion. Putting aside the fact that they almost lost to a mass of peasants, there were still more than sixty baronies that had remained silent on the subject, including the entirety of River Mark and Shadowhold.

No one knew what would happen, and uncertainty brought fear and rash actions, although they were already well supplied with the latter. He could not believe how stupid his father and cousin had been. Executing a baron, dissolving the one thing that had been negotiated to end the last revolt, executing several of its members. They were stoking the flames, and the longer this went on, the more it seemed they were already over the cliff with no chance to escape.

Aldric had said he was going to try to get his brother to negotiate, but William was much less optimistic than his uncle. He knew his stepfather and cousin. The more they were dictated to, even by reality, the more they would dig in their heels. They were going to let their stubbornness pull the entire kingdom down around them.

He had not heard from Isolde since receiving her message, which meant the only way he was going to get back home was to end this siege, and the only way to do that without devastating costs was to starve them out. It would happen eventually, but anything he could do to speed that up he was going to do.

“Your Highness,” Pembroke said, pushing his way into the tent through the flap behind him. “Another messenger has come from the city. This one under a flag of truce directly from Valemonde itself, and not skulking into the lines.”

“A reply to our offer?”

“Possibly. Probably.”

“Good. Bring him in. Let us hear what he has to say.”

Pembroke stepped half out of the tent, saying something, and then stepped back in holding open the flap, through which came a man in very official-looking Lynesian livery. Not a military man. He had the stiff bearing and turned-up nose of someone who spent a lot of time at court.

One of the king’s official messengers, then. Two Sidorian soldiers came behind him, taking places on either side of the tent entrance. This time, William let them stay.

“I bring word from His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Baudric Montbore the Eighth,” the messenger announced, stopping in front of William.

“Speak then.”

“His Imperial Majesty proposes a peace conference to discuss the terms of surrender sent by way of his daughter. He requests a face-to-face meeting to allow terms to be fully negotiated.”

“And what of the terms I have already proposed? Does your master agree to them?” William asked.

“The emperor would prefer to discuss specifics in person. However, he instructed me to convey to you that he largely agrees to your terms. He has counterproposals for you for those that he has issues with, but he will only provide those during the peace conference, as he believes that will be most beneficial to both parties. The emperor offers to graciously hold the talks at his palace.”

William exchanged a glance with Pembroke. The older man’s expression remained neutral. William gave the baron a ‘follow me’ gesture and walked out of the tent.

“This feels like a trap,” William said, turning to face Pembroke when they were out of the tent. “What is to stop Baudric from using this meeting as an opportunity for ambush?”

Pembroke did not reply right away. He looked back to the tent, considering.

Finally, he said, “It is a risk, certainly, but not an unnecessary risk. This is a necessary step, one way or another, for a treaty to work. We can take precautions to lessen the risk. For one, there is no way we go into the city. Instead, we arrange for the conference to be held under the protection of the Acolytes, on neutral ground between our lines. Both sides would be able to observe who attends the meeting.”

“That is assuming Baudric is really ready to negotiate in good faith and this is not just a massive waste of time.”

“I think he will, now that we have him in a vice. He knows his time is limited and when the city falls, he loses all chance for negotiations. He has always been more of a wheeler and dealer than a warrior. I think he will see this as his way out. That is not to say he will not have a twist or two to throw at us. If he is willing to negotiate, then he has something up his sleeve that he thinks will give him a better deal. Worst comes to worst, we tell him no and stay where we are. One way or another, this war is ending.”

“That is true,” William said. “Fine, let us hear what Baudric has to say.”

William led the way back into the tent.

“Tell your master we accept his proposal for a peace conference, but we will not meet in the city. We will have the Acolytes manage the talks on neutral ground between our lines and they will assure that no one comes in armed and guards stay outside. The Acolytes will mediate the talks and each of us will only bring two advisors with us into the talks themselves.”

The messenger bowed his head slightly. “I will convey your acceptance and conditions to His Imperial Majesty.”

“Good,” William said, and then looked to the guards. “Escort him back to his lines.”

The messenger bowed again, more deeply this time, and left.

As the tent flap fell shut behind him, William turned to Pembroke. “What do you think the odds are that they will actually follow through?”

“Good. He did not expect us to actually agree to go into the city. That was to give us something to counter, so that we would not counter anything else. They know how dire their situation is. He will be there.”

“If this works, I want to be on the move back to Rendalia as soon as the deal is signed and we see proof that they are abiding by the terms. Send word to Sir Drummond and Alistair to be prepared to withdraw as well. Also, start getting what ships you can assemble back to Rendalia so that we are prepared to get the army back to Sidor.”

“The entire army?” Pembroke asked, and William knew what he was saying.

Over the past year, he had gotten the support of most of the army, but there were units from baronies that had declared their support for the crown that, if things came to a head, might cause problems internally.

“We need to leave some forces in Rendalia, to keep the peace and as a ... counter to Baudric deciding to go back on his agreements. The less reliable segments will stay here and protect our new holdings. The more reliable units, yours, Drummond’s, Alistair’s, will go back with us.”

“I will arrange it,” Pembroke said.

“Good. Only prepare. No one is to move until we give the word.”

“I understand.”

Starhaven, Sidor

Edmund was slowly walking back from the council chambers, although it was difficult to even call it that anymore. The Council of Commoners was gone, with half of its members already in the ground and the rest set for executions over the next month.

That alone would not have been a major setback by itself, since the council had only been in existence for a few months. It was the carry-on effects that were the problem. Serwyn’s actions had sent the largest waves of defections to Garris’s faction since the initial wave. The Nobles’ Council was a fraction of itself, with only fifty barons or representatives present out of the hundred and thirty-seven that would normally be in session at this time of year.

The council chambers were all but empty, and the men who still showed up looked almost despondent. Worse, they were far outside of every contingency plan he’d had. And he’d had a lot.

Edmund was almost to his office, trying to think through all the moving pieces, when footsteps came up fast behind him. Edmund turned to find a messenger from the wyvernery running toward him.

“A message from Kenna, Your Grace.”

Edmund took it from the young man and waved him off as he opened the message. It wasn’t long, but he still read it carefully, going through it in full twice.

“Depths take him,” he muttered, crumpling the letter in his fist.

Edmund changed direction, heading away from the offices and residences and out the rear of the palace, to the outer courtyard, with its intricately kept gardens, riding grounds, and training rings.

It was the training ring he was heading for. As with every time he trained, the rings had all been cleared for Serwyn, surrounded by guards. Edmund stopped outside of the ring as Serwyn fought the weapons master, backing the man down with a series of thrusts and parries.

Edmund wasn’t an expert in swordsmanship by any means, but even he could see the weapons master was giving up ground to the king on purpose. The same was true for the disarming attempt that followed, as he all but threw his weapon down when Serwyn made his move.

Still, the spectators clapped and cheered at their king’s prowess. Edmund could only frown. It might do the boy’s ego good, but it made him look weak. Edmund didn’t blame the weapons master. He’d gotten his position only a handful of months before when Serwyn sent the man who’d trained him since he was younger to the dungeons for ‘insolence.’ Which, in this case, just meant telling the truth.

The more Serwyn flexed his power and found that people would bend to his will simply because he was the king, the more emboldened he had become, until the only thing he heard from most of the people left in his radius was what he wanted to hear instead of what he needed to hear.

It was a dangerous combination.

“Uncle, I’m surprised to see you down in the training fields,” Serwyn said, coming to him as he wiped sweat and sand off his face. “It’s usually much too dirty for you.”

“True,” Edmund said, looking over at the training grounds. “However, this couldn’t wait. Could we speak for a moment in private?”

Serwyn handed the towel and training sword to a squire and gestured for Edmund to proceed him. Edmund led the king to a side alcove, away from people, making a gesture to the guards to ensure they had space and privacy. The armored men spread out from them, forming a semi-circle around the alcove.

Not that it was needed. The nobles left in the palace were the careful sort and weren’t likely to get too close to the king having a serious conversation, since lately it had become fairly deadly for those who did.

“I received a wyvern from Duke Aldric a few moments ago. He is offering to host a meeting on neutral ground between ourselves and Baron Sinclair to negotiate peace.”

Serwyn’s face darkened. “Peace? There’s nothing to negotiate. The traitors will bend the knee, and Sinclair’s neck will be on the block, or they will face the consequences. That is all there is.”

“I agree that is how this will end, but ... since the liquidation of the Council of Commoners, we have lost more barons to the Whites, including several from Kingsheart itself.”

Serwyn’s face went almost red at the mention of the term that had become the common shorthand for Garris’s faction, which had adopted a variation on the Sidorian flag, using a silver lion instead of the traditional golden one.

“I told you I do not want to hear that name. They are traitors, and don’t deserve the legitimacy of a name, let alone one that puts them on equal footing with the crown.”

“You’re right, of course. But the point still stands. We continue to lose barons to the rebels, growing their forces while shrinking our own.”

“So what? We still have the numbers.”

“For now, but River Mark and Shadowhold remain neutral. If Aldric stays loyal to the crown, those baronies will follow suit. We’d have overwhelming force on our side. Should he go to the rebels’ side...” Edmund said, gesturing with his hands as if to say ‘that is another matter.’

“What choice does he have? He is not only a duke of the realm but is also of our line. He has to back us.”

Edmund just barely caught himself from calling the child naive.

“That might not be so. He has always had close relations with Sinclair, and he has been against several of our policies, including the execution of Thurston. It is dangerous to think he would never go to the other side.”

“So he blackmails us into negotiating?”

“I don’t believe he thinks of it like that. Aldric has always been too worried about the feelings of the barons and took up their causes, even with your father. This is just how he behaves.”

“And if we refuse to meet?”

“The longer we allow Garris to gather support, the higher the chance that the southern barons will tire of waiting for Aldric and throw their lot in with Sinclair.”

“You sound as if you just want to surrender. We should instead call up our banners and march on Iron Keep, burning out every traitor on the way to taking Sinclair’s neck. Show everyone what the consequences are for betraying their oaths.”