The one Alyssa hid underneath her skirt.
T he king was waiting for him when Gerand arrived.
“What plans for today, Crold?” Edwin Vaelor asked as he made his fifth attempt at tying his elaborate sash correctly. Gerand frowned at his fumbling attempts, and when it was clear the king would do no better on his sixth, the advisor reached out and set it correctly.
“A few squabbles among farmers and some petty lords from the northern plains,” said Gerand. “The troubles from Angelport will be a bit more difficult.”
“Angelport? What’s bothering Lord Murband now? He has no rivals in the entire Ramere, not a single bloody count or noble to bicker over his territory.”
“But he has the elves,” Gerand said. “And you know how much he likes to talk up their threat.”
The king sighed as he slipped a gaudy necklace of gold and rubies over his neck. The Ramere was isolated in the far southeast of Dezrel, tucked in between the Erze Forest, the Quellan Forest, and the Crestwall Mountains. Lord Ingram Murband there owned everything from the Thulon Ocean to the Kingstrip, yet he complained more than any of the other Lords. And it was always about the blasted elves.
“Don’t they insist they’re our allies? Granted, I have no trust in their claims. No one lies like an elf, right?”
“Too true,” Gerand said dryly. “However, Ingram claims that the Quellan elves have begun shooting arrows at his loggers.”
“He go too far into the forest again?” the king asked with a chuckle. Gerand was not amused.
“He’s asking for permission to declare war.”
King Vaelor scoffed.
“You’re telling me he’s to be the rough part of my day? Bring in the old goat. I’ll laugh in his face and tell him if he wants to cut down the whole Quellan Forest he’s more than welcome to, but he’ll use his own soldiers as arrow bait, not mine.”
“Any provocation in the south may cause the Dezren elves to retaliate in kind,” Gerand warned. “We have many farming villages stretching north from the Erze Forest. Thousands of acres of crops might burn.”
Edwin pulled on his thick crimson robe hemmed with white dove feathers.
“It won’t happen,” he said. “If Ingram sends in any troops, they’ll be dead in hours, and then all his precious farmland will be vulnerable. He won’t dare risk conflict if he knows I won’t protect his idiotic ass.”
“Your wisdom is unquestionable,” Gerand said. He clucked his tongue, immediately angry at himself afterward for doing something that announced his nervousness. So far the conversation had gone as expected. This next part, however, was what mattered. Murband and his elves could go dive into the Bone Ditch for all he cared.
“One last matter,” Gerand said. “I’ve received word that Thren Felhorn is expected to kill the Trifect at their Kensgold.”
“Which member, exactly?” Edwin asked as he stared at himself in a mirror, turning this way and that to see if anything seemed out of place.
“All of them, your majesty,” the advisor said. “The heads of all three families, to die within minutes of one another.”
The king whistled appreciatively.
“Good to know the old boy hasn’t lost his balls. How’s he expect to do that?”
Gerand explained the plan. The king’s eyes never left the mirror.
“Interesting,” said the king. “Clearly we can’t let him go through with it. Send word to one of them, Connington maybe, about their plan. Let them find some devious way to scheme it to their benefit.”
“I’m not sure that is the best course of action,” Gerand said, broaching the subject carefully. He was well aware of the king’s paranoia, and he planned to use that to his full advantage. “But you remember what their last Kensgold was like, don’t you?”
“You’re assuming I even know what a bloody Kensgold is.”
Gerand mentally swore. The last time the Trifect had held a Kensgold was two years ago. The king had only been fourteen at the time.
“A Kensgold is a meeting of all three houses of the Trifect,” the advisor explained. “They meet at one of their estates. They brag about their riches, compare trade agreements, discuss the downfall of any competitors, and overall spend a frightening amount of gold. It’s a show of wealth, power, and solidarity.”
“I care about this why?” Edwin asked. He grabbed his gold sword from a chair beside him. Gerand turned and coughed, using the excuse to roll his eyes. The king had commissioned the sword as one of his first orders of rule when he ascended the throne at age twelve. The longsword wasn’t tinted gold or covered with gold at the hilt. The whole bloody thing was made of solid gold: heavy, cumbersome, and thoroughly impractical. It shone beautifully in the light, though, and that was all Edwin cared about.
“Mercenaries from all over Dezrel will come pouring in for a taste of the coin the Trifect will be spending during the Kensgold. Hundreds upon hundreds, some from as far west as Ker and Mordan. At their last Kensgold, our best estimates put them at having over five thousand men on their retainer, not counting their house soldiers.”
King Vaelor looked at Gerand as if he were insane.
“That’s nearly seven thousand men sworn to one banner inside my walls.”
“Within a short walk from your castle doors, yes,” Gerand added, unable to resist.
“Fuck. How long does this blasted Kensgold last?”
“Just a single night,” said Gerand.
He could already see the fear spreading in Edwin’s eyes. One night was enough to assassinate a king. One night was enough to supplant the hierarchy with the rule of coin and trade.
“We must stop them,” Edwin said. He clutched his gold sword tight, as if he were to draw it and strike some unseen enemy.
“There’s no way we can,” Gerand said, feigning defeat.
“There is. Ban the mercenaries from our city. Get rid of them. They can’t pass through our walls if we don’t let them.”
Gerand nearly choked. He had been hoping Edwin would call for a sharp curtailing of the Trifect’s power. A massive increase in taxes, plus a crackdown on some of their more illegal activities, would have done wonders to subdue the Trifect’s smug flaunting of power. Banning all mercenaries, however, was about as far from what he wanted as the Abyss was to the Golden Eternity.
“Your majesty, you can’t,” Gerand said. At the king’s frown, the advisor corrected himself. “You shouldn’t, I mean, not unless you want the thief guilds to thoroughly destroy the Trifect. Without their mercenaries they are vulnerable. Their house guards do well to protect their estates, but everything else, from their warehouses to their trade caravans, is protected by men bought by their coin.”
“Why should I give a rat’s ass about their coin?” Edwin shouted. He turned and struck the mirror with his sword, pleased at how it shattered. “I could tax every shred of wealth from their hide if I wanted to. If they’re so frightened of our city’s vermin, then let them flee to one of their hundred different holds strewn throughout Dezrel.”
There was only one card left to play, a trump card with a dangerous cost attached to it.
“If you do that, my king, then you will be signing your own death warrant,” Gerand said.
The king grew shockingly quiet. He sheathed his sword and stared at his advisor with crossed arms.
“How so?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.
“Because Thren Felhorn thinks you attempted to kill his son. He will neither forgive, nor forget. Once the Trifect is dealt with, he will turn his focus on you.”
“He won’t dare strike at a king,” Edwin said.
“He will,” Gerand said. “He has before.”
The king’s eyes widened with understanding.
“My father…”
“There is a reason you became king so young, your majesty. Thren needed instability in the castle to set up his war against the Trifect. You were close enough in age to retain rule, yet young enough to not wield full power for several years. Your mother died from poison, your father a slit throat.”
