LITMIR.BIZ

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line to inherit Beorbrook Hold and the vital duties that went with it. Though goodhearted and stalwart, Olvan was acknowledged to be too slow of wit to assume the important office held by his father. The earl marshal had been resigned to having the honor pass out of his family upon his death, when the shocking reappearance of Maudrayne Northkeep, along with her son Dyfrig, changed everything.

      To the surprise of many, Conrig declared that he would be magnanimous to his divorced Tarnian wife, even though she had accused him of possessing windtalent. The king refused to acknowledge Dyfrig as his son (there was no proof his mother had cohabited with another, but neither was there proof that she had not); but in a great compromise intended to placate the Tarnians while preserving the dynastic status quo, Conrig decreed that whatever Dyfrig’s heritage, he would be accepted into the ranks of Cathran royalty, placed third in the line of succession, and styled prince. The boy was to be adopted by Parlian Beorbrook and would inherit the office of Earl Marshal of the Realm if he proved competent.

      It was an ingenious bargain that had defused several potentially ugly situations – including the ambitions of Duke Feribor Blackhorse, who was thereby demoted to fourth in the succession. But the bargain was also one that Conrig subsequently came to regret with all his heart and soul.

      Prince Dyfrig Beorbrook was now an adult in Cathran law and the apple of his adoptive father’s eye, while Conrig’s feelings toward the young man were clouded with dark misgivings. He knew well enough that Dyfrig was his own first-born son, conceived while Conrig was still wed to Maudrayne, and the legitimate heir to the throne in spite of the royal divorce. But the king had only found out about the boy’s birth four years after marrying Risalla Mallburn of Didion. The twin sons born to her were already named first and second in the royal succession when Dyfrig’s existence became known. To have placed Risalla’s sons behind the son of Maudrayne, when Dyfrig’s parentage could not be officially verified, would have affronted hotheaded King Somarus beyond all endurance. (He was Risalla’s full brother, while his more rational predecessor Honigalus had only been her half-brother.) The compromise placing Dyfrig third in the succession had been intended to strengthen the allegiance of Didion, while still appeasing Maude’s uncle, Sernin Donorvale, the powerful High Sealord of Tarn.

      In recent years, as Dyfrig matured into a young man of conspicuous intelligence and courage, Conrig became all too aware that certain influential persons in both Cathra and Tarn considered Beorbrook’s adopted son to be a much better candidate for the Iron Crown of Sovereignty than either Orrion or Corodon: the Prince Heritor was thought to be worthy but colorless, while his younger twin was a hare-brained roisterer. The earl marshal’s loyalty to the Sovereign was absolute and he swore that he had inculcated Dyfrig with the selfsame virtue. However, Beorbrook was an old man, with no aspirations other than service to his liege. The king brooded about what would happen when his faithful friend died and young Dyfrig became the principal military leader of Cathra, second only to the Sovereign himself.

      Conrig Wincantor was only six-and-forty years old, in robust health despite the spiritual corrosion occasioned by fending off his many enemies. Once the Salka were soundly thrashed and sequestered in the unimportant corner of the island they’d earlier overrun, he intended to turn his eyes to the Continent. The nation of Andradh, lacking a strong central government, was in his opinion ripe for the taking.

      But only if the Sovereignty of Blenholme remained firm under his leadership.

      Only if all of Conrig’s domestic enemies, real and potential, were neutralized.

      The opportunity to solve the irksome problem of Dyfrig had come unexpectedly to the king a sennight earlier, following a particularly acrimonious meeting of the Council of War. The Cathran and Tarnian battle-leaders, whose idle forces were chafing for action, wanted to launch immediate attacks against the entrenched Salka horde from both land and sea; while the Didionites, who better understood the perils of fighting pitched battles in the awful Green Morass, insisted on holding back so long as the inhuman foe advanced no farther this year.

      Conrig was being pressed for a final decision but knew he lacked important facts about the monsters’ situation. Why had they stalled? Were they waiting for some new magical weaponry before advancing? Had numbers of them fallen ill? Were they expecting reinforcements from Moss? There were too many unanswered questions.

      At this point Prince Dyfrig had approached the Sovereign in private and proposed leading a hazardous but well-thought-out scouting expedition into Salka-held territory. Since ships of the Sovereignty’s Joint Fleet, sailing along the north coast of the island, were too far from the concentration of monsters to obtain useful intelligence through scrying, Conrig’s strategists had been forced to rely on vague reports from overly cautious Didionite scouts and the weak-talented oversight of that country’s wizards. Earlier attempts by sizable Cathran reconnaissance teams to penetrate the morass had been total disasters. The men had fallen victim to wild animals and hostile terrain, and the few survivors had no useful findings to report.

      But now Dyfrig volunteered to try something different. He wanted to lead a small, elite group that would travel very quickly and secretly to a vantage point in the Gulo Highlands overlooking the Beacon Valley, a rugged region that the clumsy, water-loving amphibians were unlikely to have occupied. Once the little band gained the heights, its powerful windsearcher would be able to oversee the enemy position in relative safety; intelligence could then be windspoken directly to Lord Stergos without relaying it through the biased Didionites.

      Instead of scoffing at the bold idea, Conrig seized on it. If the mission succeeded, the Army of the Sovereignty would obtain invaluable firsthand news about the enemy. If it failed, Dyfrig would either be viewed as an overreaching young fool – or a dead hero.

      Conrig had authorized Dyfrig’s scheme without consulting the earl marshal. Only the king and his trusted brother Stergos, the Royal Alchymist, knew the true goal of the mission was direct windtalent oversight of the Salka invaders. Everyone else, including Dyfrig’s adoptive father, believed the prince was traveling only to Timberton Fortress, near Black Hare Lake, where he would personally question local informants about the movements of the enemy.

      ‘Sire, there are riders coming from Boarsden Castle to meet us. Two of them, at a rather brisk clip.’ Parlian Beorbrook still had the eyesight of an eagle, and a moment later he added, ‘One of them is a local knight and the other is your royal brother.’

      ‘I hope nothing’s happened to delay those boys of mine.’ Conrig’s tone was sour. ‘If we have to postpone this damned betrothal ceremony and magnify Somarus’s resentment further, I’ll wring their necks!’

      The king put the spur to his mount and Beorbrook galloped after. But when the four riders met in a cloud of dust, Conrig was relieved to see the Royal Alchymist’s beardless face alight with happiness.

      ‘My liege,’ Stergos cried, ‘I’ve received important tidings on the wind! From Prince Dyfrig!’

      ‘Then let’s you and I and the earl marshal speak of it privily,’ the king said in a pointed manner. The disappointed Didionite warrior backed his horse away.

      ‘Is my dear son well?’ the earl marshal inquired.

      ‘Oh, yes!’ Stergos was fairly hopping out of the saddle with excitement. ‘He and his men have learned that the Salka are withdrawing – streaming northward in vast numbers.’

      ‘God’s Blood!’ the Sovereign cried. He managed to supress his inappropriate consternation just in time. Not only had the young wretch survived his feckless adventure, but it seemed as though he had improbably covered himself with glory as well.

      Stergos rushed on. ‘Vra-Erol Wintersett, the army’s Chief Windsearcher, was able to scry the huge host of monsters at Beacon Lake. His oversight was not crystal clear, but the direction of the Salka troop movement was unmistakable. They’re retreating toward the sea.’

      ‘The Brother scried this from Timberton Fortress?’ The earl marshal was incredulous.

      ‘Nay, my lord.’ The Royal Alchymist’s exuberance faltered. ‘Prince Dyfrig led his party into the morass as far as the Raging River, deep in the wilderness. They

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