Chapter 7

It was the first time since childhood that Celimus had set foot in his father’s beloved war chamber.

Magnus had always loved the room, even in times of peace. Its windows faced east, toward the traditional enemy, and when Celimus had paid one of his few visits here, he had believed its views went on forever. He recalled now how his father had laughed a little indulgently when Celimus had voiced that notion. It had been a rare moment of shared enjoyment for father and son, and had passed all too quickly, Celimus forgotten the moment a messenger had arrived with a missive for General Thirsk, who always seemed to be at his king’s side. Celimus was briskly told to find his tutor—although no one appeared to care where he went, as long as he left. He had understood with a sour realization that he had no place among these men. He had been nine years old, ready to watch and learn about kingship, but Magnus had not cared enough to teach him. That much had been obvious; Celimus had not returned to the chamber until this day.

It was here that men had smoked and argued with one another, plotted and schemed against Briavel. In this place many a war had been invented, but peace had also been designed. It was a room of ancient waxed timbers and leather smoothed from years of use, where, if you concentrated, you could still smell a hint of the sweet tobacco King Magnus had favored. A once magnificent, now faded tapestry depicting a famous battle scene from centuries previous hung across one wall, and a hand-twisted rug, threadbare in places, lay across the wooden floor, whose dusty boards had recently enjoyed a polish.

King Celimus held no sentiment for this chamber so loved by his father. He hated it, in fact, equating it with the reason he and his mother had never felt Magnus’s love. But this war room of his father’s was where detailed maps of Morgravia, Briavel, and other realms were stored. And Celimus needed those maps now. He also needed to give the impression that he was preparing to declare war on his neighbor, and this was the place from which to do that.

In not appointing a general after Wyl Thirsk’s death, Celimus had effectively claimed full leadership of the Morgravian Legion. This had shocked many of the noble families, who had assumed that Jeryb Donal, with his brood of sons, was the most likely successor. But Donal had refused when such ideas had been suggested. His focus, he had assured all, was firmly on the border between Morgravia and the Razors.

There was no better defense than Felrawthy and he had no intention of moving to Pearlis. Celimus had made it equally clear he did not require a general as such. He preferred to work through the captains, leading the Legion himself To most Morgravians’ despair, Celimus had recently given the directive to mobilize the first few divisions of the Legion. People had prayed that war between Morgravia and Briavel was for the history books now. The coming marriage had promised so much for the two realms’

prosperous future together. Still, no one could argue with this King. He was a law unto himself It was Celimus’s intention that his men start departing for the Briavellian border today.

“That should give our queen something to think about,” he said to Jessom, who was standing nearby, pouring his sovereign a cup of wine.

The war room had been freshly cleaned, waxed, and aired for Celimus. Someone had even placed a bowl of fruit and vase of exquisite tannika buds in one corner. Celimus did not particularly care for either, but he liked the splash of color in this dull and dreary place. His mother, he recalled, had adored the famed buds, which only flowered for a few short weeks in spring. It afforded him an ironic amusement that his mother’s influence now held sway in Magnus’s once firmly private, men-only chamber.

If he had any of her perfume, he would dab it over every surface so that Adana’s scent permeated every corner and overwhelmed any lingering essence of Magnus. He smiled grimly at the thought.

“What are their orders, sire?” the Chancellor replied, handing the goblet to the King.

“Merely a show of strength at this stage. They await further orders,” Celimus said distractedly, looking toward the flushed, dusty messenger being led into the war room by one of his aides. “Yes?” The aide bowed, as did the messenger. “Sire,” the aide said, “a courier from the north.” Celimus did not mask his irritation at being disturbed. “I take it this is urgent?”

“I’m assured it is, your highness, and to be given to you directly,” the aide qualified. He would never dare interrupt the King and his chancellor unless it was important, although of course he did not mention this fact. “Say as little as possible” seemed to be the new creed among the palace servants when faced with their king.

The courier bowed again, overwhelmed to be in the presence of the King. It was clear that since arriving at the gates of Stoneheart, he had not even paused for a cup of water to quench his thirst.

Celimus leaned against the huge table where he remembered his father poring over maps and looked at the newcomer expectantly. With his arms folded and legs crossed at the ankle, the King suggested this was all most inconvenient and he offered no words to allay the messenger’s obvious nervousness.

The man licked his dry lips. “Your highness, I was dispatched from the midlands checkpoint, having taken a message from another messenger, who had been sent by your captain at our northern base between Deakyn and Felrawthy.” He paused to take a breath, not noticing the flicker of irritation across the King’s face at the preamble.

The Chancellor did. “Get to the point, man, if it’s urgent,” Jessom warned, hoping to prevent Celimus from erupting. He had sensed his king’s brittle mood that morning and experience suggested it would not do to test his flexibility right now.

“I apologize, sire,” the man stammered. “The message I am asked to deliver direct to you is that King Cailech of the Razors seeks a parley.”

A stunned silence filled the war room, then evaporated as exclamations ensued from both King and Chancellor.

“A parley with Cailech!” Celimus blustered. “Preposterous! Whatever for?” The courier reddened. “My king, I am not privy to any background to this missive, other than to report that it was originally delivered to the Legion by a man called Aremys Farrow.” He bowed, his task concluded. Celimus ignored him, glancing angrily toward the Chancellor. Before anything further could be said, Jessom dismissed both courier and aide. He stilled the King’s coming explosion with a guarded look and both waited impatiently for the two men to leave.

As soon as the door shut, Celimus erupted. “Farrow!” he raged. “Working with Cailech?” Jessom deliberately kept his expression clear of all emotion, although he too was startled by the news.

“We don’t have all the details yet, your highness. We cannot know what has occurred here.”

“What secrets has he passed on?” Celimus demanded.

Jessom shook his head. “He knows nothing, sire. Besides, he will not share details of his paid missions with Cailech. Mercenaries of his caliber never let one hand know what the other is doing.”

“Precisely my point, you fool,” Celimus said. “How do we know that he hasn’t been working for Cailech all along?”

Experience had taught Jessom to ignore such offense. “To what end, sire? What benefit has he gained?

What secrets could he have learned during a few hours at Stoneheart? Both he and Leyen were watched on my instructions. Farrow did not leave his chamber, even washing up there. He did not emerge until supper with you, and during your meeting the only matter of note discussed was Ylena Thirsk—and presumably she means nothing to the Mountain King. Farrow returned to his room and was gone within two hours. With respect, my king, I think we are jumping to conclusions.”

“Then what is Farrow up to?” Celimus roared, only mildly placated. “What is Cailech up to?”

“Well, let’s think it through,” Jessom said in a soft voice meant to calm his sovereign’s rage. “An ambush, possibly?”

“Hardly,” Celimus countered. “By all accounts, Cailech is not stupid. He’s not going to risk himself on the vague chance he could hurt me. No, there is another reason.”

“I have to wonder what he thinks the Razor Kingdom and Morgravia have in common, sire,” Jessom said airily, about to expound further when the King cut him off.

“A mutual distrust of Briavel perhaps,” Cailech replied, his mind now working its agile way around various scenarios. “Let’s presume Aremys has no loyalty to either party—that he is working purely for personal gain. Perhaps he was captured by Cailech while he was on business for us, although that is unlikely; as you suggest, however, there could be other reasons he found himself in the company of Cailech. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt for now, shall we?”

“All right, your majesty,” Jessom agreed, as if the more rational approach were all Celimus’s idea. “So?”

“So, I agree to meet with Aremys Farrow on Morgravian soil. I am intrigued as to what Cailech has in mind with this parley.”

“What do you propose, sire?”

“I shall see him somewhere that can be properly guarded. It will take too long for him to be brought to Stoneheart.” The King began to think aloud. “Perhaps halfway—Rittylworth?”

“Felrawthy, my king,” Jessom said in a tone of rich satisfaction. “What better spot?”

“Indeed,” Celimus agreed, warming instantly to the notion of personally taking over the rich estate. “Who cares if Crys Donal is alive in Briavel? He is a traitor now, and Felrawthy belongs to the Crown. Make immediate arrangements. Send a message for Aremys Farrow to be brought to Tenterdyn. We shall meet him there.”

“At once, your highness. And Briavel?”

“Can wait for now. Let Valentyna stew. Perhaps the sight of our men will soften her resolve. She would be a fool to go into battle.”

“You would still marry her, sire?”

Celimus looked at his chancellor as though he were conversing with a dullard. “I don’t want war, Jessom.

I want her to capitulate. I don’t want her as my equal—which is, tragically, how she sees herself—but I do want her as my queen. I want an heir from her. I want Briavel, man. And then I shall have the Mountain Kingdom too. I want it all!” he bellowed, storming from his war room, his energies charged.

Aremys found the company of the Legionnaires easy and comfortable. With the Razors behind him, he was relieved to be back in Morgravia—and suddenly the chance of finding Wyl again felt possible. He still felt touched by Myrt’s sorrow, Gueryn’s imprisonment, and the shock of realizing what had become of Lothryn, but there was nothing he could do about any of that right now. He had a job to carry out for the Mountain King and his freedom to win.

He liked Cailech, in spite of it all. The man had a deep intelligence and quick mind, and Aremys was impressed that the King—who he sensed was capable of arrogance and too much pride—had not been too proud or arrogant to appreciate the benefit of a parley with the southern King. That Cailech despised Celimus was obvious, but he also had the capacity for pragmatism. He had admitted to Aremys that if he could stomach a meeting with Celimus and form some sort of loose bond, the long-term benefits were immense.

They had talked over a sumptuous supper before Aremys and his escort left. Myrt had been quiet, but then Myrt was always quiet. Only Aremys seemed overly sensitive to his silence; the King was focused on the coming meeting with his southern counterpart.

“Can he be trusted?” Cailech had asked bluntly.

“I doubt it. Can you?” Aremys had inquired, which had made the King bellow with amusement.

“You’ll do well, Aremys. Go and set up this parley for me.”

“And in return, Cailech,” Aremys had risked, “what is my reward?”

“I allow you to live,” the King had answered. The gregarious mood did not fool Aremys. He knew only too well that the King still held deep suspicions about him, but no mention had been made of Rashlyn other than to assure the two men that the barshi was well.

Aremys had not replied to the King’s flippant comment. Instead he had held his ground, refusing to flinch under the King’s scrutiny.

“All right, mercenary. I understand your need for an exchange of some kind,” Cailech said, relenting. He smiled. “What would please you that I could provide?”

Aremys had decided to risk it. “I would have Galapek.”

The King’s reaction was dramatic despite his efforts to shield it. The eyes narrowed and Aremys saw the man’s jaw tighten. His barb had hit home.

“What is your interest in my horse?” Cailech had asked, his tone bordering on anger.

“Only that I wish he were mine, sire,” Aremys had lied. “He is the most beautiful stallion I have ever encountered—and that’s saying something, coming from a Grenadyne.”

“He is still new for me. I am fond of him.”

“I see,” Aremys had observed, keeping his voice light so no offense could be taken. It was time to pull back. “King Cailech, I will attempt to set up this parley for you in good faith. I need nothing from you in payment—not even your fine stallion. All I ask is that you grant my freedom once you have had the opportunity to work out a peace agreement with Celimus.”

Cailech had instantly offered his hand, palm up. Aremys knew this was a rare show of friendship from a man who no doubt believed he had no equal, and once again he was struck by how quickly the King’s mood could change.

“I will gladly seal hands on that, Aremys,” the King had said. “I like your confidence that Celimus and I will find common ground.”

Aremys had placed his own hand on top of the King’s. “You alone will make it happen, my lord. I have complete faith in you.”

Cailech had smiled and this time there was no guile in his face, just open warmth. “I hope you will choose to stay among us, Grenadyne. But I will grant you your independence as soon as this deal is done.” Aremys had opted for a lighthearted response. “I must be free, your highness. My memory tells me I have a woman to find,” and he had winked, much to the King’s delighted amusement.

And so Aremys Farrow of Grenadyn had been provided with an escort, a fine horse, and a message to deliver to Celimus, which he had duly done, emerging out of the Razors with his hands held high, insisting that Myrt and his other two companions do the same.

Aremys had deliberately asked Myrt to lead him as close to Felrawthy as they could get, having learned from Wyl that these Legionnaires were the least likely to shoot arrows first and ask questions later. They had entered Morgravia via a pass known as Haldor’s Tooth, which had led them into the duchy of Felrawthy, to a village mainly inhabited by soldiers about ten miles from Brynt proper. Captain Bukanan’s men were well drilled to take prisoners for interview. Aremys believed he could thank Jeryb Donal for this mercy.

He had nodded gently at Myrt to allow the Mountain Men’s hands to be bound.

His too had been tied, and while the men of the Razors were led into a small dwelling, Aremys had been taken before Bukanan, who had listened to his story with an intense interest.

“A parley, you say?” the ruddy-faced Captain had repeated.

“Yes, sir. That’s the message I bring,” Aremys had confirmed.

“You understand how odd this is?”

“I do, sir. It’s why I was chosen to deliver the message. I am known to the King and he will trust me.” Bukanan had studied him closely and finally replied: “You will remain in our care until we hear back from Pearlis.”

“I understand,” Aremys had said, smiling at the nicely couched words that really meant they were prisoners of Morgravia. “You must understand, however, that these men of the mountains are not to be harmed in any way and are to be released the moment you receive word from King Celimus.”

“Who makes these conditions?” the captain had inquired politely, although Aremys had heard the edge in the tone.

“Cailech of the Mountain People. He insists his men are not to be compromised by King Celimus.”

“And he’s in a position to make such demands?” the Captain had asked, somewhat surprised at the audaciousness of the Mountain King.

“Captain Bukanan, I am merely the go-between for two powerful men. If my attempt to bring them together succeeds, you and I can continue our lives in peace. I think Morgravia wants peace, and what I want is to return to my life as a free man. Let us make this happen, you and I. If Cailech’s men are harmed or kept longer than he considers fair, he will call off the parley and you may well be fighting a war on two fronts—with the King of the Mountains and the Queen of Briavel—which would be a shame, don’t you agree?”

When it was put like that, Bukanan most certainly had agreed. His wife had just given birth to a son and the Captain had every intention of remaining alive to raise the child he loved with such ferocity. “We’ll accept these terms, Farrow. Although you will have little to bargain with once Cailech is on Morgravian soil—for you may be sure Celimus will not agree to go into the Razors.”

“Leave that to me,” Aremys had said cryptically.

The Captain had shrugged. “As you wish. We will dispatch our rider this instant. Make yourself comfortable among us. It will take a few days.”