Chapter 5

Twelve years earlier...

Ansel sat at the heavy mahogany desk in his study, trying to figure out what to do with his sons. Among members of Larso’s nobility, it was considered somewhat dangerous to have three boys, especially when one of them was not by one’s wife. Some allowance was made for the semi-legitimate children of concubines, but by kingdom law, if his legitimate sons were to die without issue, then Corec would become his heir. A ten-year-old child wasn’t likely to be making plans to take advantage of that fact, but it had happened any number of times in the history of the kingdom. The other barons in the Black Crow region were superstitious about things like that, and nervous that Ansel hadn’t found a place for his youngest son yet—a place somewhere far away from the barony.

On top of all that, the boys’ arguments were getting to be a problem. The three of them had always had a turbulent relationship, but it had gotten worse as they grew older. Toman was fourteen, and had become moody as he’d hit his growth spurt. Branth still idolized his older brother, but there were cracks showing now that Toman no longer wished to spend time with him. Even during the times the older boys were getting along, Corec was often still excluded from their activities simply by virtue of being younger—and perhaps because he had a different mother.

That led to a third reason, which Ansel admitted only to himself. He missed Moira deeply. Isabel was a wonderful wife and mother, but the two of them had been much happier when Moira was still with them. Since she’d been gone, there was a sense of something missing between Ansel and his wife, though they tried to pretend otherwise. Every time he saw Corec, Ansel was reminded of the boy’s mother. Not that Corec took after Moira—with his dark hair, he looked more like his father—but it brought to mind the memory of Moira’s happiness once she’d finally been able to bring a child into the world. It was difficult for Ansel to be a good father when the sight of his youngest son only served to remind him of the love he’d lost.

With a sigh, he opened the seal on a note he’d just received, a response to a letter he’d sent to his cousin Jesson. The reply he’d gotten would provide him with a possible answer to his dilemma, but Isabel wouldn’t like it.

Corec washed his hands and face before heading to the dining hall. Branth had told him that a messenger had arrived, wearing fancy armor, and that for some reason the man would be taking his meal with them that evening.

That was unusual. They had guests at their table occasionally, but typically those were the more well-off members of the village, or Lord and Lady Tammerly and their daughter. Messengers usually ate with the servants, even the occasional messenger from the duke.

Corec joined his family in the dining room. Everyone was still standing, so he stood as well—near his brothers but not with them. Branth gave him a small nod but Toman ignored them both, biting his lip nervously. The visitor was speaking quietly with Father on the other side of the room. The man, who appeared to be just a little older than Father, no longer had on the armor Branth had mentioned. Instead, he wore clothes nearly as fine as the ones Father wore when they had guests.

So, he wasn’t a messenger, then. Corec’s tutors were prone to testing him about anything unusual that happened, so he tried to think of who the visitor might be. A rich merchant might dress in clothing like that, but was unlikely to ride alone through the mountains. Any baron besides Lord Tammerly would have brought a retinue with him. Perhaps it was the son of a baron?

Mr. Melvin came into the room then, dressed as smartly as always, and rang a small bell. “Supper is ready.”

The family and their visitor gathered around the table and took their seats while Mr. Melvin and one of the kitchen maids brought in the soup course. Father and Isa were at the head and foot of the table as usual, while the visitor had the place of honor to Father’s right.

After the soup had been served, the man stood up. “If you don’t mind, cousin?”

“By all means,” Father said.

The man clasped his hands together and bowed over the table. “I would like to dedicate this meal to the glory of Pallisur.” He sat back down as everyone else bowed their heads forward briefly, completing the prayer.

That was even more unusual. Father followed the war god, of course—everyone in the valley did—but they rarely bothered with prayers unless the village priest joined them for a meal. Was the visitor a priest? And he’d called Father cousin, though that word had many meanings among the peerage.

As they ate, Father said, “Boys, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Jesson, a knight out of Fort Hightower.”

They all looked up with interest, even Toman. Branth said excitedly, “A knight? Really?”

Jesson chuckled. “Yes, really. Our grandfather—your great grandfather—sent me to Hightower when I was your age, to learn the knightly arts.”

“Have you ever been in battle?” Branth asked.

“I fought in the North Border War, and I’ve hunted down some bandits in the mountains and the free lands.”

“But Hightower’s to the south,” Toman pointed out, unnecessarily. “Northtower guards the north.”

“In times of war, all of Pallisur’s servants are called on,” Jesson reminded him.

Corec didn’t say anything, not wanting to be embarrassed like his brother had been.

“Let’s have no talk about war at the table, please,” Isa said.

“My apologies, Lady Isabel,” Jesson said.

Father spoke then. “Corec, Cousin Jesson has joined us today because it’s time for you to make some decisions about your future. Toman is my heir, and will take over the barony when I pass on, and Branth will be named steward when Mr. Jaks is ready for retirement. What would you like to do? I could purchase an apprenticeship for you among the tradesmen in Telfort, or Jesson has brought with him an invitation from the priests at Fort Hightower to join their order.”

Corec had never considered working in the trades before, but to become a priest? His stomach turned as he thought of the fat village priest who spent his time poking his nose in other people’s business—and who hadn’t been able to save Mother when she got sick.

“What sort of trade?” he asked.

“You could choose one of the crafts,” Father said. “Or some of the merchant houses will take on apprentices from outside the family.”

“There is another option,” Jesson said, perhaps sensing Corec’s reluctance. “You can join the Knights of Pallisur. You’ll learn to fight—to defend the kingdom. It’s an honorable profession for a baron’s son.”

Isa stood up from her chair and left the room without speaking, her mouth set in a thin line.

Becoming a knight sounded exciting. House Tarwen’s armsmaster had begun teaching Toman and Branth swordplay. Corec hadn’t been included yet since he was too young, but he liked to watch. For his brothers, it was only a small part of their week, but a knight trainee would spend much of his time learning to fight.

“I want to be a knight!” Branth said. “I don’t want to be a steward.”

“Branth, your future has already been decided,” Father said firmly. “Today, we’re talking about your brother.”

Corec had always felt bad for Branth, having to learn accounting so he’d be able to make sure the tenants were paying their rents and taxes. It sounded tedious. And Toman didn’t have it much better—Lord Tammerly was constantly trying to foist his spinster daughter off on the future Baron of Tarwen. While Toman wasn’t old enough to marry, and the girl was ten years his senior, Father was cautiously in favor of the idea. Vena was Tammerly’s only child, which meant that if she and Toman had a son, that boy would inherit both baronies.