“You hanged a Sentinel priest?” Halrec almost shouted at Emrael. They sat in the Lord Holder Tarelle’s private dining room with Jaina, Toravin, and the Lord Holder himself, almost a week after the capture of the city.
Halrec turned to the rest of the table. “And you sat there and watched? Are you all mad?”
“I … I had no choice,” said Tarelle. “You stormed my walls and started a war right in my streets. What did you expect me to do?”
“But you didn’t fight us, either, did you? You left the Watchers to their slaughter,” Toravin murmured, feeling at a tooth with his tongue.
Tarelle fell quiet.
“And the priest?” Halrec asked again. “What the Fallen hell were you thinking, Em?”
Emrael bared his teeth in a smile he didn’t feel. “Tell me, Halrec, why should he have been spared? If anything, I should round them up and hang every one. Every Watcher injustice can be laid directly at their feet as well. They write the orders, pass the judgements, and reap the benefits of the Watchers’ thefts.”
“That old man had nothing to do with the Watchers, Em! They have answered only to the High Sentinel and Corrande himself since the War of Unification, and you know it. He was no more than a clerk taking orders. You killed him to make a point.”
Emrael stepped up to plant a finger in Halrec’s chest. “Precisely! To make the point that they are complicit. Corrande, his priests, and his Watchers are a plague that we will eradicate, or we will all die just like our grandfathers did. Have you forgotten the soulbound and Corrande’s pet Malithii already? That’s what this war is about, that’s what they’ve brought to our continent. They are all a part of it.”
Halrec slapped Emrael’s hand away. “Even still, we can fight and win this war without resorting to thoughtless executions. You think the people who saw that will follow you? Many Iraeans now believe in the Faceless Gods—some of the Lords Holder probably do too! The old ways of ancestor worship are just that—old. You’ve likely just offended as many as you’ve encouraged.”
Emrael’s anger surged and he pulled infusori from his life source until his eyes glowed faintly. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Any who balk at the demise of their oppressors would not have joined us anyway, and now word will spread among those that are willing to fight the Provinces and everything they stand for. That dead priest is a symbol, a declaration that this is more than a war between Lords. It is a war for the people, to restore Iraean freedom and their way of life.”
“Are you going to bring back mage worship too, then? Seems convenient.”
“If you think I’m only after my own glory, why are you here, Halrec?”
Halrec opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Timan throwing the door open.
The Imperator looked appraisingly at Emrael and Halrec, who stood toe-to-toe, clearly arguing while the others around the table watched with varying degrees of discomfort.
“Norta sent word that the Lords Holder have agreed to a Council of Lords. The tenth day of the third week of summer—three weeks from tomorrow. In Whitehall.”
Emrael breathed deeply, finally looking away from Halrec. “Good. We’ll march the day after tomorrow.”
Timan nodded, took another look at everyone in the room, then stepped back out into the hall.
Emrael called to him. “Timan. Come in, take a seat. You should hear this too.”
The Imperator shrugged and walked back in to take a seat next to Jaina.
Halrec stalked over to a chair on the other side of the table from Emrael, where he glared but stayed quiet.
Emrael met his glare, but when he spoke, it was with a hint of pleading. “Hal, we found a good portion of the Watchers’ reparation takings in his mansion. The bastard was living like a king on the backs of Iraeans who are nearly starving.”
After a moment, Halrec nodded grudgingly. “Just think about what you’re doing, how it looks, Em. You can’t let your anger lead you around by the nose anymore.”
A sardonic smile twisted Emrael’s lips. “Not only did the old man deserve it, but his death served an additional purpose. Now that Lord Holder Tarelle here was party to hanging a Sentinel, one step removed from the High Sentinel himself? His fate is tied to ours for good, whether he likes it or not. Isn’t that right, Tarelle?”
Tarelle’s face went pale. He knew the only greeting he’d receive from Corrande now was his own noose, or maybe a knife to the gut.
Toravin and Jaina had stayed quiet through the entire argument. They had known his plan from the beginning—hanging the priest had been Toravin’s idea, in fact. “Now. We need to get those walls fixed as soon as possible. Toravin will leave a full company of his best scouts to patrol every known route the Watchers might take, and he’s hired a few men to spy on the surrounding Holdings. Tor, how quickly will your men be able to get word to Halrec if they learn something?”
Toravin chewed on his lower lip as he considered. “You’ll know at least a day before any army can reach you, even if they come out of the Tarelle Gap. Worst case, my men will have to send word with merchants or travel through the woods themselves if the Watchers set up blockades. Word should get to you before the Watchers are at your doorstep in any event. Unless they do what we did, and strike quickly.” He chuckled. “They have some Iraean boys in their ranks that know the back roads almost as well as my men do. Nothing is certain in war.”
Emrael nodded his thanks. “You’ll want to set a good watch regardless, Hal. I’ll leave some Imperators with you as well, in case any of those Malithii and their soulbound turn up. You can build your army by offering land to those who join you, same as I’ll be doing in the west.”
Halrec sighed, but nodded again. “I can hold Larreburgh with three thousand for now, as long as they can’t bring down the walls like you did. You had better get those Lords Holder on your side quick, though, or we’re dead as dirt.”
“I’ll charm them right out of their boots. One way or another,” Emrael laughed, which finally put a small smile on Halrec’s face.
He stared his oldest friend in the eyes. “I know you don’t always agree with my tactics. But I need you. You’re the only one I trust to defend this Holding, Hal. Everything I’m about to do depends on you keeping Corrande at bay.”
Halrec nodded. “I’ll do my best, Em.”
“So will I, Hal. I swear it.”
Ten days later, Emrael sat next to Toravin on the steps outside Whitehall Keep, watching their Captains Third and Second drill nearly five thousand new recruits down in the main square. These recruits were the latest to answer Emrael’s proclamation promising land and gold. They were untrained, poorly outfitted folk, barely able to keep up. For now.
“Sorry lot, aren’t they?” Toravin commented idly.
Emrael grunted. “When we’re staring at a horde of Watchers, Corrande Legionmen, and soulbound, you’ll be glad for them. We’ll turn them into soldiers yet.”
Toravin turned to look Emrael in the eye. “Lot of the poor bastards are going to die.”
“I know,” Emrael said quietly. “We’re about to get a lot of people killed, Tor. I don’t like it, but I don’t have a better option. The real question is this: Is it worth the cost?”
Toravin was quiet for a time, then spat. “Aye, I reckon it is. Better dead than forced to live half a life under those Watcher bastards. You and I are risking our lives for freedom, it’s not so hard to understand why they would as well. Just be sure they’re cut in on the winnings, eh?”
Emrael nodded. “Everyone that joins us will have a place here, Tor. Every one. I mean to see us all free and prosperous, not just the nobility.”
Toravin looked him in the eye, a solemn expression on his face. “Give us a reason to believe that, and we’ll fight to the death for you, Ire.”
The city rang with the sound of smiths hammering out spear blades. Carpenters were already turning out various sizes of wooden shields, finished spears, and crossbow bolts by the thousands. Nearly every loom in the city wove green wool for Ire Legion uniforms. Their Legion engineers, equipped with designs Ban had provided, had organized workshops that turned out hundreds of infusori-Crafted crossbows daily.
These farmers-turned-soldiers wouldn’t be an even match for seasoned Legionmen anytime soon, but with a few months of drilling they’d hold a shield wall passably well. A crossbow turned a farmer into a deadly soldier in remarkably little time.
Some of the newcomers had even asked to learn magecraft, including many of the former Citadel students Emrael had freed in Whitehall earlier that year. Those that had passed an initial test now trained with Timan and four other Imperators day and night. Most of the Imperators wouldn’t deign to teach A Me’trae, “the Art,” to heathens, but Timan and a few others apparently didn’t adhere as carefully to whatever exclusionary religious beliefs the others held. Or perhaps they believed in Emrael’s cause enough to risk it. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. If he could train a group of mages loyal to him … well, that might just win him a war. Maybe more.
However, he had a long way to go before his Legion would be able to truly challenge Corrande, Barros, and the Malithii. Between the Watchers and the two Provincial Legions, his enemies could likely field a hundred and fifty thousand trained soldiers. If the Malithii had more soulbound under their control, Emrael and his followers faced long odds indeed.
He only had fifty thousand or so in his Ire Legion, and most of those were tied up holding the Sagmyn Province, Gadford across the river in Barros territory, and now Larreburgh. He had left many of his seasoned veterans with Halrec in Larreburgh, which would likely be square in Corrande’s sights. Emrael was left with five thousand Legionmen of varying levels of experience, plus five thousand raw recruits here in Whitehall.
Dorae had another ten or fifteen thousand at his disposal, but many of them were just as green and poorly equipped as Emrael’s. Probably worse, as the man didn’t have the same advantage of having appropriated much of the Sagmyn Legion and their equipment.
He looked across the city, past the small lake shimmering at the head of the Stem River, at the far bank in the distance. Barros land. Thank the Absent Gods Barros hadn’t attacked Gadford yet. He’d have to do something about Barros, and soon; he needed to be able to move supplies and men between Sagmyn and Iraea freely.
But first, he needed the Lords of Iraea. None of them had shown their faces yet, even though the scheduled Council of Lords was only a few days away. He worried that they would ignore Dorae’s summons despite centuries of tradition, and despite his demonstrated willingness to conquer them one by one. Worse, they could be outside Whitehall somewhere, plotting against him. If the Lords of Iraea attacked Whitehall instead of joining him, his war with Corrande would be over before it began. And they might, after he had taken Larreburgh by force—he might have done so, in their place.
“Do you think they’ll come?” Emrael asked Toravin finally.
Toravin grunted, shifting a bit as if he could find a softer spot on the stone steps of the keep. “Who?”
“The Lords Holder.”
Toravin chuckled. “Aye, one or two at least. Raebren fought with Ire, back in the war. Syrtsan too, though not the current Lord Holder. Bayr—nobody knows what those stodgy bastards are up to, ever. Marol and Paellar … I wouldn’t hold your breath. Though Glory knows Iraeans love their tradition. Even the assholes who’ve sold their dignity to the Watchers. Whoever comes, you’ll not convince them easily. Our path is not the prudent one.”
“Fallen take the bastards if they accept comfortable bondage over bloody peace. I’ll give that to them too, if I must.”
For all his bravado, the declaration did little to make him feel less anxious. Anything other than winning over some of the Lords Holder was likely a death sentence for him and his followers. He needed them, and was afraid he wouldn’t be up to the task of convincing them that the benefits of joining him would be worth the risk.
A rider in the green-and-black coat of a Norta guardsman trotted into the square, heading toward him and Toravin. When he reached them, he vaulted from the saddle and saluted.
“Sirs … a party is at the harbor. One of them claims to be Lord Ire’s brother, sirs.”
Emrael jumped up immediately. “Where are they? You let them in, right?”
“Yes, Lord Ire. They’re headed up the main avenue just now.”
Emrael smiled what felt like his first true smile in weeks as he caught sight of the small mounted party. A big wagon trailed them, accompanied by more than a dozen studious-looking men and women—the Crafters from the Citadel he had asked Elle to send, he hoped—and three squads of his Legionmen as an escort, most of them in old Sagmyn Legion uniforms.
He shouted to his brother and ran down the stairs to meet him in the square. “Welcome to Iraea, Ban! Did the Ordenans manage to get you here without any trouble?”
Ban jumped down from his horse and they met with a fierce hug.
“Barros’s ships didn’t even come within firing range of the Ordenans. Mother convinced them to send us here on a cruiser.”
Emrael patted his brother’s back and squeezed his shoulders as he held him at arm’s length. “Gods, you’ve put on some muscle!”
Ducking his head sheepishly, Ban smiled at the compliment. “I’ve been training with the Imperators you left at the Citadel.”
Emrael’s smile faltered before he was able to smooth his face. “I wish you didn’t have to learn to fight, Ban, but it’s a good idea. You’ll keep training with me and the Imperators here. Have they taught you any of their A Me’trae?”
“Some.” His brother fished a small wood block out of his pocket and held it in his hand, palm up. This close, Emrael could feel a small pulse of infusori emanate from his brother as the block exploded in a shower of wood chips and dust.
Emrael smiled, mildly impressed, but his jaw dropped when he saw what was inside the pile of wood dust—a toy soldier. He snatched it from Ban’s hand, marveling at the detail of the wooden figurine. It even had a little sword in its hand.
He stared at his brother in shock for a moment. “Ban … that’s incredible! That level of precision…”
Ban’s face reddened despite his smile. “Once I learned to use the infusori directly, I just started using it however I could. I don’t have nearly the capacity you do, but detail comes naturally, I suppose. I hardly need to use any tools when Crafting anymore.”
“I can imagine,” Emrael marveled. “When we get settled, I want you to show me more. I’ll have a workshop set up for you. But first, you should give everyone a report on things in Sagmyn. I’ll call Dorae and the others together.”
When they had entered Whitehall Keep and messengers had been tasked with gathering the others in a private room, Emrael showed Ban to lodging quarters across from his own. The rooms weren’t anything extravagant—he had turned such accommodations down when Dorae had offered—but they were certainly better than what he and his brother had shared at the Citadel.
“Hey Em, do you think we could just move a bed into your room and share, like we used to? I think I’d like that, at least for a while. Unless you have other … plans?”
“No, I don’t have other ‘plans’.” His brother must have learned that Elle had ended things with him, then. “The castle steward might shout at me a bit for moving this bed, but I’m ‘Lord Ire’ now. They’ll get over it.”
They each grabbed one end of the bed and lugged it out of the room. As they were carrying it through the hallway, Toravin popped around a nearby corner. “What in Glory’s name are you two doing? We have servants for that kind of thing, you know.”
Emrael bared his teeth at Toravin as he rested the wooden bed frame on his shoulder to try to kick the door to his room open. “Maybe I’m just used to being the servant, Tor. I’m not waiting around for some poor bloke to do my work for me.” He cursed at the door as he tried again and failed to catch the door latch with the toe of his boot.
Toravin folded his arms and lounged against the wall. “Okay then.”
“Tor?”
“Hmm?”
“Get your ass over here and open this door.”
Toravin chuckled and took his time sauntering over to hold the door. He grunted a laugh again as he watched them situate the second bed in Emrael’s room, shifting the nightstand and a worktable out of the way to make it fit. “You know you could get a bigger room? Adjoining rooms, even, if you like?”
Emrael and Ban sat down next to each other on the bed, sweating. The damn thing was heavier than it looked. “We used to share a room half this size at the Citadel. We’re fine here.”
Toravin pursed his lips and raised his hands in exaggerated acceptance. “Fine by me. I’ll take the fancy rooms if you don’t want them. Speaking of fancy, the first Lord Holder has just arrived. Lord Syrtsan and his entourage are being settled as we speak. He says Bayr and Raebren are on their way as well. Looks like you’ll have your Council after all.”
Ban looked back and forth between Toravin and Emrael. “What’s all this?”
“I’ve called a Council of Lords of Iraea, Ban. Well, Dorae did. I’m not a Lord Holder—not yet.”
Toravin sucked at his teeth. “Speaking of. Dorae sent me to take you to a tailor—says we can’t let the other Lords Holder see you looking like a peasant.”
Emrael looked down at his clothes—they were plain but in fine condition. Maybe a bit worn and sweat-stained from wearing armor over them. He gestured at Toravin, who wore fine clothes that looked like they cost a great deal, when they weren’t on the road. “I don’t see why it matters, Tor. You can wear frippery if you like, but this suits me fine. Clothes don’t make a man.”
Toravin smirked at him. “Clothes matter to nobility, Ire. Real nobility, that is.”
Emrael glared. “What would you know about nobility?”
Toravin just shrugged. “I’m only trying to help. Take my word or don’t, but how you look will matter.”
“Fine, but nothing too extravagant. I won’t be dressed up like a show horse at a fair.” He reached into his pocket to draw out an envelope sealed with wax and handed it to the man. “Can you make sure this gets to Lord Bayr when he arrives?”
Toravin’s eyes narrowed as he turned the letter over in his hands. “Why Bayr? What are you up to, Ire?”
He looked Toravin in the eyes, serious now. “I’m setting the stage. Make sure Bayr gets that letter. Nobody else sees it. Bring me his answer discreetly, please.”
Five days later, all of the Lords of Iraea had arrived at Whitehall—even the Provinces-appointed steward of the Ire Holding had come, which Emrael hadn’t expected.
The night before the Council of Lords, Emrael chose to dine in a small, private room. Everything that could be done to prepare had been, and he needed some time to think.
The table had six chairs, but only three were occupied. Ban sat to his right, Jaina to his left. The empty seats reminded him of how few people he truly trusted, how thin he was stretched. Loneliness was inherent in the life of the ambitious, he supposed.
He did have a few capable friends to help him manage the territories they had captured, but most were otherwise occupied. Halrec commanded the Ire Legion in Larreburgh. Elle and his mother governed Sagmyn in his stead. Dorae and Toravin were busy hosting the newly arrived Lords Holder, who had no doubt only answered Dorae’s invitation to voice their complaints. Or maybe to get a firsthand look at Emrael’s Legion. The Council tomorrow would set the stage for everything he hoped to accomplish in the coming months and years, would determine whether they stood a chance against Corrande and his Malithii allies.
The table had been set with roast ducks, platters of seared vegetables, summer-ripe stone fruits from the orchards outside Whitehall, and soft brown bread with a large wedge of cheese. Only ravaged duck carcasses and scattered bits of food remained. Emrael hadn’t thought he would be able to eat much due to his nerves, but he had been very mistaken.
Now they sat quietly, drinks in hand. Jaina had her customary glass of red Sagmynan wine, which she swirled and stared at in mute contemplation. Ban clutched a steel mug of amber ale in one hand while scribbling occasionally in a leather-bound notebook.
Emrael had asked for a bottle of whatever spirit the steward of the keep liked best and had been rewarded with a bottle of oak-barrel-aged peach brandy, apparently a favorite in these parts. Having drunk nearly half the bottle by himself, he had to agree with them. Particularly when paired with the rich duck, the clean, fruity brandy seemed to just slide down his throat. And he had found that if he held a bit of infusori, he could drink what should have been an incapacitating amount of liquor and still function. Mostly.
Earlier in the evening, he had told Ban about the Prophet’s visit and the vision of the Fallen that came after. He had been fretting incessantly since about the ease with which Savian had infiltrated the keep, and something occurred to him in his half-drunken trance. He turned to Jaina. “You can feel mindbinders, right?”
Jaina’s eyes were full of disapproval. She didn’t like it when he drank, and the night before the Council of Lords at that. Still, she said nothing of it, only nodded in answer to his question.
“Hmm,” he said, squinting as he thought. He pointed at his brother. “Can you show him how it works? The mechanics of how you feel it, or whatever?”
Ban’s eyes lit up as he looked up from his notebook. “Yes, yes show me. I’ve been practicing with your mages … Imperators, rather. You can show me.”
Jaina flashed her characteristic sardonic smirk. “I’m babysitting two of you now, am I?” She put her hands on the table, now staring hard at each of them in turn. “Some of the things I’m teaching you would get me expelled from my Order, if they knew. I’ll show you, but I want your word—both of you—that you’ll keep it between us.”
Ban nodded. Emrael smiled and said simply, “Our secrets are safe with each other, don’t you think?”
She gave him a mock glare but soon smiled. She pushed away from the table to stalk over to Ban, clasping his outstretched hand. Both closed their eyes, faces suddenly slack. After a moment, Jaina opened her eyes, which now glowed with a muted blue fire.
“Good. A mentai, it feels like this. I will only place it on you briefly.” She reached into her pocket with her free hand to procure a small bracelet that she then placed on Ban’s wrist. Ban froze, eyes wide, for the fraction of a moment it took Jaina to undo the clasp. He drew in a sharp breath immediately, pulling away in a panic, breathing heavily.
Ban jumped when Emrael put a hand on his shoulder. Fear and anger lit his brother’s eyes, but after a moment, he relaxed. “Sorry, I … I just didn’t expect that. It felt just like…” He trailed off, and looked away, embarrassed. “I’m fine. I … I know what they feel like.” He drew in a deep breath and looked at Jaina. “I’ll feel the same through anyone else who is wearing one?”
She nodded. “More or less. There are some that affect the victim less, like the one Yerdon wore. Those are much harder to feel but exude the same energy. You won’t miss it, I think. It is not the sort of thing one forgets.”
Ban drew another deep breath. “I think you’re right. I’ll get to work right now.” He stood and exited the room with a squeeze on the arm for Emrael. He’d be locked up in their room working on a design for hours now that he had a new project.
When the door had closed behind his brother, Emrael paced back to his chair, where his bottle of peach brandy waited. Jaina gave him another disapproving glare as he filled his glass again but took her chair next to his without comment.
After a long but comfortable silence, Emrael said, “I need someone to take a message to the southern Barros Lords Holder.”
Jaina sipped her wine and stayed silent, content to stare at him until he said more.
He frowned at her. “I need an Imperator or two that you trust. I’ll send a few of Toravin’s best men that know the Barros Province with them. I think we can turn them against Governor Barros. They’ll at least keep him off our backs and might even deliver the province to us if we play it correctly.”
Setting down her glass, she looked at him. “What do you know, and how? You seem confident that these Lords Holder will listen. Why?”
Emrael’s pulse quickened. “Savian, when he was here … he said something about them,” he said finally. “I didn’t think much of it until just now. He was out of his mind, Jaina, but I don’t think he was lying about this.”
Jaina threw her head back and laughed. “You have let liquor rot your brain. You really think to trust a servant of the Fallen? Silent Sisters, Emrael, I thought you were nearly cured of your idiocy.”
“I don’t trust him, Jaina. But he wasn’t lying about that. I could feel it.”
“Oh? You don’t think there are mages good enough to trick the likes of you? You are like an ignorant child still, and there is no such ability to detect truths. Your strength in A Me’trae does not make you skilled.” She snapped her fingers and sat up slightly, eyes locked on his intently now. “But suppose he was not lying, what then? Might there be some other motive, some other scheme, even if his words were true?”
“Well…” Emrael drew out the word, thinking. “He could have an ulterior motive, I suppose, but it’s not like I’m doing anything we wouldn’t have done anyway. I’m not committing resources, I’m merely proposing an alliance. We need Barros off our backs. You know it as well as I do.”
She raised one eyebrow at him, frowning speculatively. “Yes, perhaps your plan is not so bad. But you cannot trust that Malithii priest, Emrael. If he wants you to ally with the southern Barros Holders, I am suspicious as to why.”
Emrael sloshed brandy on his wrist as he set his glass on the table a little too hard. “What am I supposed to do, Jaina? I’d have done the same without what he said. I’m out of options. I want your Imperators to accompany our messengers to make sure we aren’t walking into some Malithii scheme, but tell me clearly: What danger do you see that I don’t?”
Silence filled the air, not at all comfortable now. Jaina didn’t seem to be bothered by Emrael’s stare, however. “Fine. I will send Imarra and Daoro with your men. They will get your message to the Lords Holder safely. But be wary, Emrael Ire.”
Early the next morning, Emrael flexed his shoulders as he entered Whitehall’s main hall, testing the stretch of his new shirt and coat. Ban and Jaina walked on either side of him, with Toravin just behind. He had to admit he looked good, especially after a shave and cutting his hair short again. Who knew that wool could feel so soft and light?
He sat in the middle of a large table that had been placed on the dais of Whitehall’s main hall, facing the room. Ban and Dorae sat to either side, and the ever-sweating Lord Holder Tarelle sat next to Dorae. Dorae and Ban wore fine wool as he did, but Tarelle wore a shimmering cloth Emrael did not know the name of. Jaina and Toravin sat behind Emrael and to one side.
On the other side of the table, five men were just settling into their seats. Lord Delin Paellar, a skinny fellow with a pointed black and white goatee, ruled the lands north of Tarelle and was closely tied to Corrande. Emrael was honestly surprised that the man had answered Dorae’s call for a Council of Lords, though Paellar had shown up with over three thousand armed men to ensure his safety. Some of the three thousand were almost certainly Watcher spies.
Baric Raebren, a stocky old man with only wisps of snow-white hair left on his sun-spotted scalp, was lord of the river lands to the west of the Norta Holding. He was the only Lord Holder on the other side of the table who had fought against the United Provinces with Emrael’s grandfather in the War of Unification.
Lord Callan Syrtsan looked quite like his nephew, Halrec, except for his perpetual frown and deep wrinkles in his long face. Callan had ruled the Syrtsan Holding under heavy Watcher scrutiny since his father had been killed in the War of Unification, fighting to keep Iraea a free kingdom.
Tall, muscular Davis Bayr was Lord of a Holding so small between Syrtsan and Ire lands that some minor lords in other Holdings actually held more land. Emrael was willing to bet that nobody brought that up to his face, though. Bayr commanded more than twenty thousand soldiers famous for their prowess in battle, or had before the Provinces put an end to Iraean Lords Holder keeping standing armies. The Lords Holder of Iraea were supposed to limit their armed guards to five thousand, but Toravin was certain that Bayr had trained and outfitted many times that amount among the populace of his small but prosperous Holding.
And finally, fidgeting with his sleeves near the end of the table farthest from Emrael, sat a bulky, hard-looking man with iron-grey hair. Emrael knew little about Lord Marol except that he was the son of a lord in the Ire Holding whom the Watchers promoted to Lord Holder when he turned against Emrael’s grandfather in the War of Unification. The man was a rat, Corrande’s lackey. He stood directly in the way of Emrael regaining his ancestral Holding.
Various lesser nobles and other people Emrael didn’t care about today sat some distance away in chairs scattered about the hall to witness the meeting, all people that the Lords of Iraea had brought with them or functionaries from Dorae’s staff. Each Lord Holder had brought soldiers too, thousands of them altogether, but left them camped far enough from the city that he and Dorae didn’t feel threatened—though they had sent scouting parties to keep watch. All inconsequential, compared to Emrael’s plans. He only had eyes for the four Lords across from him.
He looked to each in turn, then gestured to Marol. “I called for the Lords of Iraea, and you bring him? Wearing my family’s ring?”
Marol shifted in his seat, face angry, but Lord Syrtsan spoke first in a calm, measured voice. “He is a Lord Holder by the grace of the Provinces. Which is more than can be said of you. Your family lost the War of Unification, and have paid the just price for it. Lord Marol has also paid for your family’s failures, paid for the Ire Holding while you and your family hid in the Barros Province with my brother and nephew. Who, I hear, is holding the Tarelle lands for you?”
Emrael leaned forward in his chair, hands in fists on top of the table. “Not everyone had the choice to stay and live, Callan,” he said quietly. “And we are here, now, fighting for our freedom. And yours. Which of you can say the same?”
Lord Raebren laughed then, a raspy chortling sound. “Boy, you’ve got failed rebels and a coward who was too stupid to see you coming for allies. You have an army that wouldn’t hold up against a single Provincial Legion, much less the Watchers. You aren’t fighting for freedom. You’re hanging yourselves and don’t know it yet.”
Emrael’s anger was tempered by respect for the old man as he responded. “Lord Raebren, we started with a ragtag army of Iraeans, but now control the Sagmyn Province and two Holdings in Iraea. I can call upon as many men as any governor. Thousands more join me every week, and I have the support of the Ordenans through my mother.” He gestured to Jaina to illustrate his point. “I’m offering you a chance at victory, and freedom. With the Lords of Iraea behind me, we can have all the Provinces. Maybe more.”
Raebren grunted and grumbled, sipping his cup of wine as he considered. For some reason, the old man frowned at Toravin repeatedly before he turned to look at a striking young dark-haired woman who had Raebren’s same high cheekbones and pointed nose. There was clearly a connection there.
Paellar smirked and waved his hand. “Corrande and his Watchers will kill you by the end of the summer, boy. And if he doesn’t, the winter will starve you and your rabble.”
Emrael smiled viciously. “I hear the warehouses in your port cities are fat with salt fish and grain, Paellar. We won’t go hungry.”
He motioned silently in Tarelle’s direction to drive his point home.
Lord Bayr fixed Emrael with a hard stare. “So what is it you want, Ire? Why would we join you when we stand to profit from your demise? Lord Corrande has offered us much if we help him defeat your little … movement. I don’t imagine you called us here just to threaten us?”
Emrael straightened, looked over at Ban and Dorae, then addressed the four Lords Holder sitting across from him. “No, Lord Bayr, I didn’t. I called you here because it’s time that Iraea becomes its own kingdom again. Not a conquered territory at Corrande’s beck and call.”
Whether these men were willing cooperators with Corrande and the Watchers or had accepted a lesser place in the world under duress, they all paid the Unification tax. They were all subject to the whims of a Provincial governor not their own, and they knew it.
“My fight is not with you, but with Corrande,” he continued before the silence invited any of them to respond. “I want fighting men, I want my ancestral lands returned to me, and I want your allegiance. In return, I will give you a share in the whole of the Provinces. Lands, copper, kingdoms. Even you, Lord Marol. I will take my lands, but you will have others. Any who join me willingly will rule Iraea again, and more.”
He swept his gaze across the room. Raebren’s watery eyes gleamed with fiery ambition, as did Bayr’s eyes. Dorae smiled. Syrtsan sat quiet as a stone, as did Lord Marol. Paellar looked as if he had eaten bad fish.
“I want you to see what Corrande will bring to your lands if you side with him,” Emrael announced after a tense moment of quiet. At his signal, one of his men waiting at the main door slipped out. Moments later, a squad of his men entered, carrying two large canvas-wrapped bundles gingerly between them. The men dropped the bundles on the floor between the table and those sitting in the rest of the hall, then cut away the cloth on one end, revealing the rotting heads of a Malithii priest and one of the slain soulbound. The lesser nobility seated near the bodies covered their noses against the smell; several of them closest to the rotting corpses began to retch. The Lords of Iraea, however, inspected the bodies calmly.
Circling the table, Emrael nudged the dead Malithii. The flesh had decayed, but the tattoos that covered nearly its entire head were clearly evident. “The world is changing, whether you like it or not. You can no longer pay your taxes, kneel to the Watchers, and expect to live in peace. Corrande has allied with Malithii priests, dark mages against whom the Ordenans wage their holy war in the Westlands. They have brought their evils with them, have made Provincial citizens into these soulbound monsters. They’ll do the same to your people, if they haven’t already. Corrande will let these Malithii into Iraea, and will turn our people into these monsters to fight for them. Pawns, slaves in his war against the Ordenans. Unite with us, or die as their slaves. Only I can free you from their grasp.”
Lord Raebren nodded openly. Bayr frowned at the corpses, but his expression was otherwise unreadable. Paellar, however, looked sick. Rumor said that Paellar was cooperating fully with Corrande, which meant that he had likely met the Malithii and their soulbound monsters.
Syrtsan sat stone-faced and unreadable, as did Marol. Emrael walked back around the table to take his seat, motioning for his men to remove the corpses as he did. Just as he sat, Lord Raebren started coughing and did not stop. When Emrael saw the man slump onto the table, spittle beginning to gather at the corners of his mouth, he stood and shouted, “A Healer, Jaina, quickly!”
He couldn’t risk losing a lord who had seemed on the brink of supporting him. He dashed around the table to help Lord Syrtsan ease Raebren to the floor.
The beautiful young woman sitting in the front row of observers rushed forward, unstoppered a small vial, and shouldered Emrael aside with a glare.
He stepped back, surprised, but she had already forgotten him as she kneeled to pin Lord Raebren down forcibly. She gripped his jaw to force his mouth open and poured a few drops carefully into the old man’s mouth as he shook and coughed feebly. Within moments, he had calmed and the coughing subsided.
An Imperator Mage-Healer rushed into the room on Jaina’s heels, but the Raebren woman—presumably the Lord Holder’s relative—waved them away as well. Emrael stepped forward again to touch the woman on the shoulder. “My lady, that man is a Healer, a mage from Ordena. He can help.”
She drew herself up to her full height to stand nearly nose to nose with Emrael. He was only of average height, and she was tall for a woman. “I’ll not have any of those devils touch my father. We have a healer of our own here with us.”
Emrael raised his hands in surrender and took a step backward. “Father?”
The young woman glared at him, but Toravin was the one to answer. “Aye, she’s his daughter, from a late second marriage. You’ll have to forgive her, Saravellin doesn’t much like the Ordenans. Doesn’t like many people, far as I can tell.” He breathed deep and said quietly, “She’s a relative. Was a relative.”
As far as Emrael had known, Toravin was just a soldier turned smuggler after Dorae’s rebellion had failed. “I didn’t take you for nobility, Toravin.”
Toravin’s expression turned wry as he continued staring at Saravellin. “Is there still a bounty on my head in Raebren Holding, Sar?”
Saravellin looked up from tending to her father, who now seemed to be recovering and was being loaded on a litter to be helped to his rooms to rest. “Aye. I doubled it recently when you resurfaced. Five hundred copper rounds, Iraean. Though most of my men would kill you for free. The Watchers blamed my father when you deserted them for Dorae’s rebellion, you know, and we have been paying for it while you hid away. Thousands of copper rounds paid to keep them and their Sentinel priests from exacting their vengeance on our people.”
Toravin nodded sadly, very unlike him. “Right, then. I’m not nobility, not anymore, Emrael. I’m just a soldier, now.”
Emrael’s gaze lingered on Saravellin for a long moment before he turned to the rest of the Lords Holder. “I think it’s best if we adjourn for now, given Lord Raebren’s condition. I’ll host you for a dinner tonight, Raebren’s health permitting.”
The Lords of Iraea reconvened that night in Dorae’s private dining room. This time, only the Lords Holder were in the room, save Saravellin, who accompanied her father.
Emrael drummed his fingers as he stared at the Lords Holder. The meeting had not gone well thus far—Paellar and Syrtsan had even suggested that Emrael didn’t deserve to be a part of the Council of Lords, but Dorae and Lord Raebren had put a stop to that nearly as soon as it was voiced. They were firmly behind him, it seemed, though Emrael was not stupid enough to think that Raebren’s support could be considered loyalty. He was Lord over the small Holding right next to Whitehall, an easy target. Whatever his reasons, Emrael would use any such leverage he could.
Tarelle was well in hand, of course. He remained quiet the whole time, sweating.
Emrael pointed at the map laid on the table again, spreading his hands in mock defeat. “Lords, send your own scouts if you do not believe me. The Watchers and Corrande Legion have mobilized, with their Malithii priests and soulbound monsters in tow.”
Syrtsan grumbled, not for the first time. “If we join them, they will not harm us. They are coming for you.”
“Do you really believe that they’ll treat you well while they’re here, Callan? The Watchers will treat Iraeans like dogs, as they always have. War is here, whether you like it or not.”
“A war you brought us,” Syrtsan retorted.
Emrael slammed his fist on the table, making the weights holding the map to the table jump. “This war is not my doing, but I’ll not back down from it now. This is your chance to join me peacefully and earn your place in the new Iraean Kingdom. I am asking for your rings.”
The seven Lords of Iraea still wore signet rings representing their ancestral Holdings. The ritual of giving the rings had named every Iraean king since the kingdom had formed from the ashes of the Ravan Empire millennia before. Lords Holder withholding rings had also set the stage for several civil wars. Monarchy was not a certain thing in Iraea, and had passed from house to house throughout the kingdom’s thousand-year history.
Dorae did not hesitate to pull his ring from his finger and toss it to the table. It rolled and came to rest atop the map of the Provinces that Emrael had used to illustrate the coming war. A glance from Emrael goaded Tarelle into setting his ring on the table as well, though he placed it just in front of himself.
Raebren grunted as he fumbled with his ring, trying to remove it with shaking hands and failing. The episode that morning had rendered him feeble, though his mind still seemed sharp. His daughter took his hands in hers and leaned down to murmur in his ear, staring at Emrael all the while. He wondered if he might have an enemy in the heir to the Raebren Holding. The old man soon grumbled his displeasure at whatever she said and finally tore the ring from his finger and awkwardly tossed it onto the table.
“We fight,” he said haltingly, still waving his daughter off. “Raebren will ride with Ire.”
“Baric! You cannot,” Syrtsan protested. “It will mean death and destruction for your people, just like the last time! Corrande will raze your Holding to the ground!”
Raebren met the stare of the younger Lord Holder, fire in his eyes. “We ride with Ire.”
Putting a hand on her father’s arm, Saravellin joined him in glaring at Syrtsan, though she chewed her lip in unconscious worry. “Trade ships—even our own vessels—are not reaching our river ports, Lord Syrtsan. Would you know anything about that? You and your people have been silent for weeks.”
Syrtsan shifted in his chair and looked away from the Raebrens. “Yes, well, times are hard for all of us. The damned Ordenans have crowded our seas like wolves. They sank a ship right off the coast of Duurn! I don’t know what you want me to do about that.”
“Exactly my father’s point, Callan. You can’t—or won’t—do anything about it. If the Ordenans are the true cause of trade stoppage, Corrande can’t stop them either. The traders traveling from Duurn seem well supplied, however.”
“Maybe you should be trading with Barros as we are, then! I can’t run your Holding for you, now can I?”
They glared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Emrael studied the room while the neighboring Lords Holder feuded. He now had the Norta, Tarelle, and Raebren rings on the table in front of him. Which left Bayr, Syrtsan, Paellar, and Lord Marol, the Corrande-appointed steward of the vast Ire Holding. Raebren’s men and supplies would be a very welcome addition to their campaign, but Emrael knew that without the others, Syrtsan in particular, their chances at victory would be slim. They could not fight on so many fronts at once and hope to survive.
Sensing that this was likely his last opportunity to convince the remaining Lords Holder, Emrael broke the tense silence. “Welcome, Lord Raebren. Your willing aid will not be forgotten. Will the rest of you join us or hide like cowards while we fight?”
Paellar smirked, and in response Emrael locked eyes with him, drawing infusori from the high-grade coil he always kept in a special pouch that hung on his belt. Eyes and scars glowing, Emrael stared until Paellar looked away, an angry set to his jaw.
Emrael scanned the rest of the room, settling his gaze on Bayr, who licked his teeth and twisted his ring as he considered. After a moment, the big man nodded to Emrael, but kept his ring.
Emrael let the silence drag on until Syrtsan spoke up. “You know, boy,” he said, face now scrunched with anger, “if it were anyone but you, I might send my swords to join you. I want to be rid of those Watcher bastards as much as anyone, but I can’t support a boy who doesn’t even belong at this table. Let alone make him my king.”
Throwing his arms wide, Emrael laughed. “What makes any of you fit to sit at this table, Lord Syrtsan? Is it your blood? I have the blood of the Mage Kings in my veins. Is it power? I have more soldiers at my command than any province has had since the Unification. The Ordenans will strike deals with me that you couldn’t even begin to negotiate, under Corrande’s thumb as you are.”
Lord Syrtsan still shook his head. “Loyalty, boy. History. That’s what you don’t have. I don’t trust Corrande, but I don’t trust you either.”
Emrael grunted a mirthless laugh. “I can’t change how or where I was born, but I am who I am. And know this. If you are not with me, after you leave this keep, you will be against me. My fight is with Corrande, but I will show no mercy to those here who oppose me.”
Syrtsan shrugged. “I will not make you my king.”
Paellar sneered. “Nor will I. Your rabble army does not scare us. Nor do your petty displays of mage trickery.”
“So be it,” Emrael said, trying not to show his disappointment. Dorae had warned him that Syrtsan would not join him. He had built close ties with both Barros and Corrande, positioned as he was on the Iraean side of the Stem River Bay. Lord Syrtsan was practically Barrosian by this point, and apparently held no fondness for Emrael or the Ire family.
Emrael turned to Lord Marol. Once again, he knew the answer before he asked, but he had to try. Any territory and men he could win without spilling blood would be a major victory. “And you, Lord Marol? Corrande and these men let you wear my ring, but I’ll give you this one chance to give me what is mine. Will you pledge loyalty to me as the rightful Lord of Ire? I will compensate you well.”
Lord Marol seemed taken aback, but soon guffawed. “Hand the Holding over to a rebel fool?”
“To the rightful heir of the Ire Holding, Marol.”
Marol leaned forward to place his fists on the table, his round face scrunched in a sneer. “Never. I am the rightful lord of the Ire Holding. Even if I were foolish enough to turn my back on Corrande, the lesser Lords of Ire would not follow you. You are nothing, boy! And you call us here and ask for our lands, and to be king! These idiots who have given you their rings will be sorry.”
Emrael smiled. “I’ll ask the Lords of the Ire Holding myself, when the time comes.”
Marol’s face turned white, then red again. “We’ll be ready for you.”
“I know.”
He slowly gathered up the rings of the men who had pledged themselves to him.
“Those who gave me your ring, please stay a moment. The rest of you, get out. You and your men are safe here until nightfall tomorrow. After that, you are my enemies—until and unless you become my allies. Stand against me at your own peril.”
When Bayr, Paellar, Syrtsan, and Marol had left, Saravellin addressed Emrael directly for the first time. “You just made very powerful enemies, Ire. Are you certain you know what you’re doing?”
Emrael smiled his best smile at her. “No, I’m not certain, Saravellin. But they’ve just made themselves a powerful enemy as well. I mean to show them the error of their ways sooner rather than later.”
Before they adjourned, Emrael gave his orders to each of his new vassals. They were to stop paying taxes to the Watchers, and arm more fighting men and women with the money instead. He gave each of them instructions for the Crafters he planned to send with them, two each to train locals in how to make infusori-Crafted crossbows and other basic contraptions.
“I’ll send you each further details by tomorrow evening. I’ll thank you to keep them to yourselves,” Emrael said. “Make no mistake, this will be a bloody war. But I mean to win it, and win quickly.”
That drew solemn nods, and even a clap on the back from Raebren as they left the dining chamber. Even Saravellin nodded to him as she left, though grudgingly.
Once they were alone, Dorae let out an explosive breath of relief. “Glory and Absent Gods, but I didn’t think we’d even get one! We might have a chance, now, with Raebren. I hoped we’d get Bayr to give his ring, though.”
Emrael smiled. “I offered him a deal, and asked him to keep his ring if Syrtsan withheld his. He’ll be more valuable if the others don’t see him coming. We’ll see soon enough whether he follows through.”
Dorae laughed and shrugged, then wordlessly skipped out of the room humming a folk song about farmers’ daughters. Mad bastard.
Emrael left soon after and found Toravin lounging in the main hall, where the large table was still set with food for a larger meal that had been provided hours ago for the lesser lords who had come with the Lords Holder. His friend picked at a platter of bread, olives, and cheeses and drank from a tankard of ale at his elbow. Several other minor lords and ladies still lingered at the table as well, most of them quite drunk.
Leaning in close, Emrael spoke quietly, ensuring that nobody could hear. “Send five hundred of our good men with our best Iraean officer, one who knows the territory. Worren, probably. Tomorrow before sunrise. Find some Paellar colors for the men and set them to attacking Watcher garrisons and patrols on the border of Paellar, nearest the Ire Holding. Steal weapons and copper but move quickly. Make it look like Paellar has joined us. Maybe we can get the Watchers to do some of our work for us in Paellar, eh? At least keep them off our back for a while?”
Toravin nodded as if Emrael had commented on something as tame as the weather. “Aye, I reckon we can. Worth a shot. And we get richer no matter the outcome,” he said with a laugh.
“We’ll need everything they can steal,” Emrael agreed. “Have them hit one or two of their nearest outposts, then I want them to meet us in the ruins of Trylla as quickly as possible. Can they attack a few garrisons and then cover that distance in four weeks?”
Toravin nodded and frowned thoughtfully. “Trylla? Does that mean what I think it means?”
Emrael shrugged. “It just might.”
His friend grinned. “We should be able to fortify Trylla before the Watchers even know we’re there. Most of their garrisons are well north or south, and they have no reason to patrol the area regularly, especially if they are focused on retaking Larreburgh. Worren’s raids should ensure that.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
Toravin guffawed and drained the rest of his tankard, which was nearly full. “I could drink five more and still have a better memory than you.”
Emrael rolled his eyes but clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Remember, be quick about it, and tell Worren not to take unnecessary risks. Just rattle the Watchers a bit, put Paellar on his heels, and join us quickly with whatever they can get their hands on. I’ll have more work for them in Trylla.”
As Emrael turned to leave the hall, Toravin caught his sleeve and stood, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Whatever your plan, we’d better be about it quickly. If Lord Raebren dies, Saravellin inherits his seat. She’s not likely to support you like he does. Like I do, though the Fallen only knows why.”
“I’ll move quickly,” Emrael promised. “And I’ll deal with Raebren. Just get those Watchers good and mad while we head for the ruins. We need to keep their attention on Larreburgh.”