Petir sneered as he continued bandaging his severed arm. “Kill the lot of them, I say.”
“We all know how you feel, son-”
“No, you don’t,” Petir snapped. “You don’t have any idea how I might be feeling right now. They crippled the prince of Ashen and conspired to have my wife flee our marriage. Every second those whoresons remain breathing is an insult to me and insult to our name.”
Ser Yelin stepped in. “Need I remind you that you did agree to duel with Prince Wesley? It is preposterous to even suggest exacting revenge on the Seynards!”
“The duel was over! I had already claimed my victory when that cunt struck me!”
Emery raised his voice once again. “Enough with the cursing. I don’t care if the boy had castrated you- while you are in your mother’s company, you will speak with respect.”
Petir lowered his gaze. He struggled to wrap his bandages tight enough with only the one hand. Sirillia appeared distressed from all the bickering.
“Now,” Emery said, more calmly this time, “if you have nothing of value to contribute, then I think it is best you go get some rest, Petir.”
“Father, are you serious?”
Sirillia stood up straight-faced and helped Petir finish wrapping his bandages without uttering a word. She pulled the end of the bandage tightly before pushing it into the wrap to stabilise.
“There, all done,” she said. “Now you need to go rest.”
“Ser Yelin, have one of your men escort Petir to his tent, if you would,” Emery said.
Yelin snapped his fingers at a guard who promptly marched up to Petir’s side. Petir scowled as he stood up and stormed out of the pavilion with his escort.
Emery sat back against his chair, clenching his hands together upon the table. He made sure his crown was sitting perfectly atop his head before his guests arrived.
One of the servants, an Anai slave with his tattooed forearm, brought over a silver tray with drinks.
As the rain outside began to pick up, the other barons of Ashen riding with the Blacktrees’ convoy arrived at the pavilion. Their servants, dripping wet, held out umbrellas over their lords as they entered.
Each time the pavilion flap was opened, gusts of wind caused the candles within to flare up and some to even blow out.
Baron Artima Lowe of Veridia was arguably the second most powerful man in Ashen. Known by many as ‘The Old Bear’, he had gruff facial hair and a square jaw like that of a boulder.
Artima’s bald head had raindrops dripping from it. A servant handed him a small towel to wipe himself down. He wore a grey and white doublet with a high collar, and black trousers.
The ageing man sat to Emery’s side; his lips drawn in a thin line. Artima had been a long-time friend to Emery’s father, the late King Aron Blacktree, before his death many years past. As such, Emery had inherited a faithful ally to his west.
“My king,” Artima said with a bow of his head upon being seated. His voice had power behind it.
Baroness Emilia Erma, the newly appointed ruler of Fentis, sat with Queen Sirillia on the opposite side of the table after bowing to the king.
She had her ginger hair tied in two long, straight plaits with red ribbon and was still wearing her riding outfit from the day’s travel.
The young baroness was fresh to her role after her husband, Tylor Erma, suddenly died the previous year from pneumonia. Their son, Aron Erma, was born only a month later, named after Emery’s father.
“My lady,” Emery said, bowing back to the baroness politely. “It is good to have you both with us at this time.”
“We are at your service, my king. Anything to keep me distracted from this bitter weather is a blessing,” Artima said.
Ser Yelin returned to the pavilion, his armour dripping with raindrops and spattered with spots of mud.
“My liege,” Emilia said with a concerned expression on her freckled face, “before we begin, I think you need to see this.”
Emilia pulled out two letters and handed it to Ser Yelin for Emery to read.
“My guards received two separate messages in the last hour. One from Dawnhill, the other only minutes ago from Tobius Seynard.”
Emery kept his mouth sealed as he was handed the letters, careful not to reveal any of his raging inner emotions.
Was it an apology from the Seynards? If so, it seemed odd to send it by messenger hawk.
He grinded his teeth as he unfolded the parchment of the first document, reading it in his head before considering reading it aloud to the others.
“What news?” Sirillia asked.
Emery shook his head in despair as he finished the first letter, rubbing his brow. He spoke straight to the point.
“A message from Ser Jyra Leona in Dawnhill. There was an incident… a Caldaean trading ship crashed into the docks at Crown Bay. Thirty dead, at least.”
Sirillia gasped with her hand to her chest. Baron Artima sat silently, listening intently yet emotionlessly.
Emery threw the letter aside. “Crown Bay has been closed off to Caldaean ships for the foreseeable future.”
“What?” Sirillia said. “We can’t do that, Emery, that is far too harsh a reaction. It will shatter the city’s economy.”
“Do we know if this attack was deliberate?” Artima said.
Emery shook his head. The letter contained no such information, and it would be difficult to ascertain whether the incident was intentionally committed by Caldaea or the Seynards.
“Caldaea relies on commerce with us more than we do with them,” Emilia said. “Ser Jyra made a good call to close
