“It’s the national passion of Moorclaire,” she said. “Pellin is more suited to it than I.”
Ellias chuckled. “The other kingdoms often jest that our pursuit of the arcane beauty of the mathematicum has addled our minds. It’s just possible they might be right.” At Toria’s start, he stroked his chin. “Are you surprised, Toria Deel, to find that I own a sense of humor?”
Before she could help herself, she nodded, but Ellias only chuckled again.
“Well, you’re not alone.”
“Yes, yes,” Rymark cut in. “Monarchs have souls. Any number of my subjects would be surprised as well, but to the point, Ellias?”
“Ah.” He nodded. “We cannot hold the cordon around the forest.”
His pronouncement hit her all the harder for the offhand way in which he said it. Rymark grunted at her reaction. “Disturbing, isn’t it, Lady Deel?” he asked. “The way he talks about the end of the northern continent as if he were wondering whether or not to have mutton for supper.”
“Explain, please,” Toria said.
Rymark gestured at the map of the forest and its surroundings, one thick finger tracing the edge. “The cordon we’ve set up surrounds the Darkwater on three sides, beginning at the northern end in Frayel and running south through the western edge of Moorclaire, where it turns to run west through the northern tips of Aille and Caisel. From there it turns north through Owmead and Collum before it stops again at the mountains of the northern waste.” He straightened, working to bring his gaze level with hers. “We cannot surround the forest completely, understand. There simply aren’t enough soldiers. Instead we’ve established five central camps.” He glanced around the tent. “You’re in one of them. The others are located in Collum, Owmead, Moorclaire, and Frayel. In between the central camps are operational camps, each a third of the size of this one, where we stage men and supplies. There’s an operational camp every twelve to fifteen miles. Between the operational camps are outposts. Their number and placement vary, but they house enough men to ride patrol on the forest during the day.”
His description allowed her to ask the question at the forefront of her mind. “Why are you and King Ellias here in the central command in northern Aille?”
Rymark nodded and the hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “When His Majesty, King Ellias, asked to meet with me, it seemed the logical choice. This command center is centrally located between those of Owmead and Moorclaire.” He might have shrugged. “It has the additional advantage of separating me from my own troops, a fact that seems to bring the other kings and queens a degree of comfort.” He turned to Maenelic. “The prince was kind enough to welcome us to Aille’s command post.”
Maenelic bowed from the waist. “We are honored to welcome you and your men here,” he said, but he offered nothing further.
“That you willingly left your troops is impressive for a man of your reputation, King Rymark,” she said.
Rymark’s expression soured. “Meaning it’s a surprise that I haven’t been more opportunistic? Ha, it would be more impressive if we were winning.” He threw up his hands. “Or even if I could tell you how long we could hold. This isn’t warfare I’ve ever seen or even read of, Lady Deel. You have my congratulations. Tell Pellin that the fight against the Darkwater has managed to do what he and his brothers failed to accomplish for decades. I am now a religious man.”
“We’ve seen little sign of battle or casualties, Your Majesty,” Fess said. “Why can’t you win?”
Rymark and Ellias turned to regard her apprentice. “So young . . . Is he one of You?” Rymark asked. “I assumed he was your guard.”
She nodded. “This is Fess. He received Bronwyn’s gift. With the death of my guard, he is temporarily acting in that guise as well. It affords us a measure of security and access we might not otherwise have,” she said, skirting the subject of physical gifts.
The king of Owmead nodded in approval. “He’s more plainspoken than the last dandy the Vigil took for an apprentice.”
She forced a tight smile, but the memory of Peret Volsk stung, a wound Rymark had just poured salt on. “We’ve noticed that as well.”
Rymark looked to where King Ellias stood regarding the parchments. “I’m going to defer your question to my brother king. I barely understand his answers myself.”
“The Darkwater Forest covers too much territory to quarantine effectively, Lord Fess,” King Ellias said.
Her apprentice jerked and his mouth twitched. “Lord Fess?”
The king of Moorclaire rolled his shoulders. “If that title is insufficient, I will use another.”
“Title?”
Confused, Ellias turned toward her.
“Fess is, as yet, unaccustomed to certain political facets of being in our company,” she said.
“What Lady Deel means to say,” Fess cut in, “is that I was an urchin.”
Ellias mouthed the word, testing it.
“King Ellias . . .” Fess bowed. “Before I joined Toria Deel, I was a beggar and thief living on the streets of Bunard. I spent my days running bluffs to trick merchants and priests out of their coin. I am unused to polite society.”
Rymark snorted. “That he thinks nobles are polite shows just how little he knows. You’ve been lax in his education, Lady Deel.”
She nodded in acknowledgment. “No doubt. We’ve been rather busy.”
“Well,” King Ellias said, “to his question, then. King Rymark’s assertion that this is no ordinary war is the fulcrum of our problem. Given our current positions and tactics, it is mathematically impossible to keep those who desire to enter the Darkwater in check. The traditional mathematicum calculations of warfare don’t apply.”
Rymark had already turned his attention back to the arcane writing on the parchments. “It took Ellias some time to convince me, but our losses are like a plague.”
