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A week after Hildred left, her brother arrived in Leornian with a thousand cavalry and Andras Byrne. Elwyn was obliged to hang on Andras’s arm, and they spent three days going to parties everywhere in the city. In Edwin’s opinion, his sister was getting better at pretending to be giddy and in love. Which was sadly ironic, as she was more miserable than ever.
Since Elwyn was being monopolized by Andras, it fell to Edwin to entertain Rodger Cuthing. This was awfully hard at first, because whenever Rodger showed up, Edwin thought of Hildred. And thinking of Hildred made him angry. Sometimes he even regretted letting her live. But that was only ever for a minute or two. Most of the time, he hoped she had a miserable marriage to someone who made her deeply unhappy, and that she spent the rest of her life regretting the fact that she’d thrown away Elwyn’s love.
Rodger seemed to understand what the problem was, and he did his ham-fisted best to heal the breach. “Your majesty must realize that my sister is very young,” he said, one evening on Baron Finchdale’s back terrace.
“She’s 20,” said Edwin, in a dull tone, looking out over the river, and back west toward the lamps of town. Hildred was six years older than him, and two years older than Vittoria, the Immani spy, who was vastly more loyal and honorable, in spite of being a foreigner and a commoner with no particular connection to the Sigor Dynasty.
“You’re right,” said Rodger. “She is foolish for her age. I hope she will learn better in the future.”
Edwin wondered how it could be that a girl got to the age of 20 without knowing that you shouldn’t betray the best woman in the world when she condescended to love you.
Rodger bowed. “I hope your majesty understands that my father and I will endeavor to guide her better. Your safety, and your cause, are our highest priority.”
“My safety?” It took Edwin a second before he even remembered that Hildred had been plotting to kill him. That wasn’t why he was angry. “I’m very well protected, thank you.”
He started to walk away, but then he felt bad for Rodger. Nothing that Hildred had done was his fault. Edwin came back and held out his hand. “I wanted to thank you for your service. I’m very glad you and your father are on my side.”
Rodger shook his hand, looking immensely relieved. “Thank you, your majesty. I promise we won’t let you down.”
The very next day, however, this resolution was tested when terrible news arrived in the city. The usurper had taken the field—the Black Eagle himself. He had marched his army into western Trahernshire. He hadn’t attacked any cities, or fought any battles, or spilled any blood at all. But he had deftly split the coalition between Keelweard and Keneburg.
Rodger sprinted into the old throne room of the Bocburg, where Edwin, Caedmon, and the Duke of Leornian were studying maps. “Your majesty,” he said, panting, “obviously I would never wish to abandon you,” he nodded at Duke Robert, “or any of our friends. But the enemy is only a day or two from our front gates. Do I have your leave to take my men west to protect our homes?”
“Of course,” said Edwin. There was really nothing else he could say. But as Rodger left the throne room, Edwin realized a chance had been lost. And it had mostly been lost by him. If he had been successful in getting the dukes of Newshire and Wislicshire to enter the war, then Broderick the Black would never have dared marching his whole army out of the safety of the Crown Lands.
But he had failed. There wasn’t going to be a grand coalition of the northern shires. This was going to be a fight between Keneshire and the Gramiren army, with a little help from Leornian and Keelweard and Pinburg. The great houses who genuinely believed in Edwin’s cause were barely a part of this war because they had never recovered from the previous years of fighting, while he was left dependent on Duchess Flora. And she was only on his side because she had been jilted by Broderick Gramiren.
The Duke of Leornian turned, white faced, to Edwin. “Your majesty, you must withdraw to Keneburg. I shall...deploy my levies to protect my own lands.”
That was no more than mere prudence. If Keelweard fell, then Leornian was next. “I’m very sorry,” Edwin said, shaking the duke’s hand. “You’ve been a good friend. I won’t forget it.”
A few minutes later, out in the courtyard of the Bocburg, Edwin said to Caedmon, “I feel as if I’ve made some terrible mistake. But I don’t see what else I could have done.”
Caedmon nodded. “If you had erred badly, your majesty, I would have spoken up. But you seemed to have grasped the strategic situation, and you seem to realize where we now stand.”
“Alone with Keneburg,” said Edwin sadly.
“Precisely.” Caedmon gestured toward the gate. “Come now. We must get ready to leave.”
Edwin walked a few steps with him, but then stopped. “I want to fight, Caedmon, but I’m worried it’s a waste. The chivalrous thing to do is to fight, even if you’re going to lose. But this isn’t a joust or an archery match, is it? People are going to die if I decide to keep fighting. People who didn’t do anything wrong.” Edwin’s head hurt, and he rubbed at his temples. “I’m sorry. I’m being pathetic, aren’t I?”
“No, you are not,” said Caedmon. “The fact that you understand the terrible cost of your actions is one of the things that sets you apart from your cousin, the usurper. He sees people the same way a blacksmith sees iron—as raw material to be burned and beaten until it conforms to his wishes. You want to protect your people, not rule and exploit them. That, and not your birthright, is what makes you a true king.”
“But...I’m not the king, Caedmon.” Edwin choked up. “Everyone here says that I am, but it’s Broderick who has Wealdan Castle. And it’s Broderick who has the council and the church. And he’s the one who has the army, too.”
“You are the king,” said Caedmon firmly. “Just now, you are king in theory. Someday, you will be king in fact, and when that day comes, do not forget what you have learned.” Caedmon nodded toward the stables. “Now, let us go find your sister and Lord Andras. They will need to know we are retreating.”
They left Leornian the next morning, with Edwin, Elwyn, and Andras riding together at the head of the paltry few regiments the duke had felt able to spare.
Behind them, there was a small wagon, covered against the late spring sun, with Lady Rada and Sir Walter. Rada was still suffering from the effects of Kishori’s spells. One morning, when Rada staggered away from the campfire to be sick by herself, Edwin turned to his sister and said, “I think she’s getting worse.”
Elwyn pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side in a quizzical expression. “I think we ought to have Caedmon examine her,” she said thoughtfully.
Caedmon was eager to oblige, and at the noon halt, he went up into the wagon, while Edwin and Elwyn and Andras stood at the end, peering in to watch. The hillichmagnar ran a hand over Rada’s head, and then, after apologizing for the liberty, low over her stomach. Sir Walter sat near, holding Rada’s hand and looking even more worried than Rada did.
Suddenly, Caedmon stood up, walked to the end of the cart, and scowled down at Edwin, Elwyn, and Andras. “If you will pardon me,” he said severely, “I have private news for Lady Rada and Sir Walter.” Then he yanked the curtains closed.
Edwin looked at Andras, who shrugged. They both looked at Elwyn, who had an annoyingly smug little grin.
“What is it?” asked Edwin.
His sister crossed her arms. “Oh, if you haven’t guessed, I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
A minute later, Caedmon opened the curtains again to reveal Rada curled up in Walter’s arms. She was crying, but also smiling. “Apparently we’re going to have a baby,” she said.
For the rest of the journey to Keneburg, Walter and Rada were almost nauseatingly sweet. Walter did everything for Rada. And Rada watched him from her cart with a glow of absolute, perfect love. Edwin was happy for both of them, but at the same time, he was reminded of the fact that he and Elwyn—and their little sister, Alice—were never going to have the luxury of that kind of happiness.
He confessed this to Vittoria on the last evening before they reached Keneburg. “I want to be happy. I think that’s all I really want in life.”
The Immani girl said, “Would you rather be happy, or be king?”
“I’d rather be happy, but apparently I have to be king, whether I like it or not.”
“And Elwyn has to be a princess, whether she likes it or not.” Vittoria smiled. “No one is ever permanently happy, your majesty. Happiness comes now and again, in small doses. It’s precious because it is rare.”
The next day, they got to Keneburg, and Edwin found the town festooned with Sigor blue and silver. To his immense embarrassment, someone had started a rumor about his trip to Newshire and Wislicshire. Only in this version of the story, he was wily and clever and intrepid, always outwitting the usurper’s men. People had written songs about it, for Earstien’s sake. He was very much relieved to hear that Penny wasn’t mentioned in any version of the story. He didn’t know how he even felt about her anymore, but as a gentleman and a king, he had a duty to keep any stain from her reputation.
Then things got stupider, and Duchess Flora declared that Edwin’s trip to the north was “a feat of arms worthy of a true knight.” And suddenly Andras was knighting Edwin in front of the altar at Ovida Cathedral, even though Edwin had never been anyone’s squire.
There was a long list of things that Edwin swore to do, or not to do, and in all honesty, he wasn’t sure he could have remembered which was which by the end of it all. Especially since he hadn’t had breakfast, and he had been obliged to stand vigil in the cathedral the night before, praying and never falling asleep. But then the oaths were done, and Andras raised a gauntleted hand.
“Sorry,” he whispered. Then he struck Edwin across the face, hard enough to make Edwin’s eyes sting and his feet stagger.
That was the accolade—the last time Edwin could ever receive a blow without having to answer it. From now on, until the day he died, he was bound to live by the code of chivalry.
It bothered him quite a bit that he hadn’t really earned the knighthood. But Elwyn told him that he was already twice the gentleman of most of the young knights she knew. Rada said what really mattered was whether he trusted in Earstien. Vittoria said that he was intrinsically noble, whatever ceremony he might, or might not, have endured.
Sir Walter thought Edwin was, “Good enough to be a knight by anyone’s reckoning.”
Caedmon’s opinion was that, “If you do not deserve it now, you certainly will deserve it later.”
None of them sounded quite right, and he wasn’t sure what to think. All he knew was that he had to be a good king, and a good knight. But even if he was, he wasn’t sure that would ever be enough. The usurper was a great general, even if he was a terrible person, and that was why he had the throne and Wealdan Castle now.
Edwin spent some time thinking about Penny Ostensen and Hildred Cuthing. Not that they were the same, of course. Hildred was vile, and Penny—he hoped—was a good and decent person. But both he and Elwyn had lost sight of their goal because they had been too focused on momentary pleasure. Happiness, as Vittoria had said, would come now and again. There was no point in chasing it.
“I must remember that,” he thought. A true knight put duty before everything else. And no king could be a true king if he wasn’t, first, a true knight.
He and Elwyn would have to forget about chasing happiness. And Alice, too, would have to forget about it when she was old enough. It wasn’t their job to be happy. It was their job to rule and to put an end to this stupid, brutal civil war.
That afternoon, he went into Duchess Flora’s solar, where a long conference table and a huge map of the shire had been laid out. The Earl of Hyrne was already on his feet, pointing at the map and shouting about flanking maneuvers and frontal attacks.
Duchess Flora sighed. “That’s all very well, Lawrence, dear, but you’ve forgotten our supply lines entirely. That’s what you always do.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” snapped the earl.
A baron from Pinshire interrupted with a ridiculous and barbaric proposal to hire Alokkoan mercenaries at half price and let them loot Gramiren lands to make up the balance of their pay.
The bishop of Keelshire jumped in, saying that the church ought to hold a council to condemn the usurper on theological grounds. And that, really, there was no point in fighting any more battles until the philosophical and theological underpinnings of the movement were secure.
Another baron from southern Keneshire said that they ought to go south to Severnshire and Haydonshire—the heart of Gramiren support—and lay waste to every town and village in their path.
Edwin listened for a moment—no one but Caedmon had even noticed his entrance. Then he took off his sword and slammed it down on the table.
“Shut up, all of you,” he said. “I’ll listen to your ideas one by one, and then I will decide what to do.”
“Edwin, darling,” said Duchess Flora, “obviously it’s important that you have a say in all this, but—”
Edwin picked up the sword again and smacked it on the table—harder this time. “I will decide,” he repeated. “If you all don’t trust me to do that, then why are you here?”
He looked around the table, and not one of them could meet his eyes.
Except Caedmon. And Elwyn, back by the fire, grinning at him.
“Now then,” said Edwin. “Let’s hear your proposals. One at a time, please.”
The End