Whirter frowned. Voerell started to speak, but stopped, shaking her head. Carlich raised his eyebrows at them. “I stormed off, and the negotiations were concluded without me. Once back in Loempno I hired a Hampsian sorcerer to teach me gestural magic. And I started reading a copy of the treaty with Wonora. I wanted to know what other restrictions on my freedom I could expect when Marolan married Dolia. I found much to trouble me.”
He flipped through the pages. “For instance, right here, in the section on trade. Father talks a lot about how Wonora will drop all tariffs on our goods, while we’ll still receive payments for theirs, and be free to set our own policy in regards to trade with other kingdoms. But did you know that only holds true for twenty years? After that, over a period of five years we’ve contracted to drop all tariffs on goods from Wonora, and bring the rest of our tariffs in line with Wonora’s. Including, though it’s not spelled out in so many words, the ridiculously high charge on Hampsian linen.”
Voerell frowned. “But half of Milecha wears Hampsian linen, at least when we’re at peace. Nothing we grow compares to it.”
“That’s just my point. Wonora wants to force us to buy their linen, though it’s far inferior quality. It will take a few years for their plan to come to fruition, but the king of Wonora is patient, unlike Father.”
All this talk of tariffs and trade policy confused Maryn. But it certainly didn’t sound good for Milecha. And she’d spun both Hampsian and Wonoran linen, as well as that grown in Milecha, and she agreed with Voerell’s assessment of their relative qualities. It would be a shame indeed to have no more access to the smooth, strong strands of the flax that grew in the colder lands to the northeast, and have to make do with the weaker, rougher southwestern variety.
Voerell looked troubled. “I don’t like it. Still, that’s only one provision. Milecha gains so much in return, surely it’s worth it.”
Carlich dug further through the pages of the treaty, passing several to his sister. “I might agree, if it were just the one. But there are many others. Look at this, for instance. We grant Wonora freedom to move their troops across our lands. Invaluable for us if it comes to war with Hampsia again. But there’s no limit on how many, or how long they can stay. I’m not implying they intend an actual invasion, but how strongly will we dare to disagree with them on any matter if their forces are all over our kingdom? And we’ve agreed to eventually raise the tax rates to match theirs, without regard to whether or not our people can support such high payments.”
Maryn’s attention began to wander. She couldn’t follow all the technical details Carlich was explaining, though Voerell listened intently and frequently interrupted him with questions or objections. Barilan was still happy with Whirter. He played with his father’s fingers as Whirter quietly listened, only occasionally making a comment.
Maryn was wondering if she might persuade Semprell to allow her to take Barilan for a walk in the garden tomorrow if the weather was fair, when Barilan’s name called her attention back to Carlich’s words.
“—puts Barilan at risk, and me as well.”
Maryn stiffened. What in the treaty could put Barilan at risk? She strained to catch every word.
“I must have read it a dozen times without realizing what it meant.” Carlich held up a sheet of paper. “But once I thought about it, I understood the danger. And I realized I must stop the treaty from going into effect.”
Voerell accepted the paper from Carlich and studied it, her brow furrowed. Whirter shifted Barilan to his shoulder and bent close. Maryn held herself very still, lest any of them notice she was listening.
“Everyone knows that Marolan and Dolia will each keep their separate inheritance, with him becoming king of Milecha upon Father’s death, and she reigning as queen of Wonora when her father passes. And that their first son will become heir to Milecha, while their second”—Carlich quirked a wry smile at the word—“will inherit the crown of Wonora.”
“Of course.” Voerell shifted impatiently.
“But do you know what will happen if Marolan and Dolia do not produce two male heirs?”
Whirter cocked his head. “Doesn’t it say that if they have no issue after ten years, the marriage will be dissolved, and both will be free to wed again?”
“Yes, and that was a point Father had to fight hard for, because the Wonoran laws on divorce are so strict. I have no problem with that provision; in fact it might be the best possible outcome. But say they have one son, and a whole palace full of daughters.”
“Well, then, I suppose the eldest girl would inherit Wonora. Since the law there allows for women to take the crown if there are no male heirs.” Voerell’s voice was bitter.
“That’s just what the treaty specifies. But here’s the trick. What if they have no boys, only girls?”
Whirter leaned in. “I think I see your point. That would be fine for Wonora, for their daughter could become queen. But Milechan law never allows a woman to wear the crown in her own right.”
Carlich nodded. “If Marolan should die without a son, the Kingship would pass first to me, then to any sons I might have, then to Barilan and any brothers you give him. But what if we were out of the picture, and there was no Sompirla heir available?”
Voerell frowned. “I suppose it would be the same as when the plague killed off all the last dynasty. The magic of the Kingship would be loosed, and it would fall to the people to acclaim a new king. The way they chose Great;-;Grandfather Fridollan, because of his father’s sacrifice.”
Carlich stabbed his finger at the paper. “That’s the way it should be. But do you know what the treaty says would happen? Not just in this generation, but if ever again in the future Milecha is without a male heir?”
Voerell creased her brow. “No, I don’t think I ever heard what it specifies in that case.”
“It’s hidden far down in an obscure paragraph, couched in confusing language, but if you read it you’ll see there’s only one possible interpretation. If either country ever finds itself without a suitable heir, rule will revert to the sovereign of the other kingdom. Forever. And I ask you, with Milecha’s more restrictive laws, which land is more likely to be heirless?”
Voerell sat back, eyes wide. “Milecha would be no more.”
Maryn’s heart raced. Her homeland, destroyed? But she swallowed and shook off her reflexive horror. It couldn’t be as bad as Carlich said. If Milecha no longer had its own royalty and was ruled by the king of Wonora, would it even matter to most people? Serfs didn’t care which king their lord owed fealty to, as long as he didn’t go to war too often. And townsfolk didn’t care which treasury their taxes filled, as long as the laws that governed their lives weren’t unduly restrictive.
Whirter pulled his hand away from Barilan’s grasp and took the page of the treaty. He scanned it. “Even if you’re right, how likely is that to happen? As you pointed out, you and Barilan are Marolan’s heirs.”
“What would our lives be worth?” Carlich’s voice was low and urgent. “With Wonora’s history of conspiracy and assassination? They’ve hungered to swallow Milecha for generations. It wouldn’t be hard to make it look accidental. If Marolan and I go off to war, we might very well not come back. And children’s lives are fragile; no one would question if Barilan were to conveniently sicken and die.”
Fear twisted Maryn’s gut and rushed in her ears. She had to clench her hands together to keep from reaching to snatch Barilan from his father’s arms. Suddenly he seemed so vulnerable. She’d never considered before that his position as heir might make him a target for Milecha’s enemies. But of course Carlich was right. Maryn ached to gather Barilan to her breast and shelter him from danger. But what good could she do, powerless as she was?
Carlich turned to Voerell, who met his gaze squarely, only a slight quickening of her breath betraying that his words had affected her. “I’m willing to wager that if this treaty goes forward as written, Milecha’s Kingship will be lost within three generations, and we wi
ll become one small province of Wonora.”
Whirter’s arms tightened around Barilan. “Have you told the king about this?”
Carlich slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his temple. “Of course I have. I went to him as soon as I realized. But he refused to take me seriously. Father is so ridiculously proud of that treaty; he sees it as the greatest accomplishment of his reign. He won’t hear a word against it.”
Whirter sank back in his seat. Barilan squirmed; Maryn stepped forward, but Whirter shook his head. He stood the baby in his lap and supported him under the arms while he bounced.
Voerell chewed her lower lip. “What can we do, if Father refuses to listen?”
“Maybe if we went to him together…but you know Father. Once he sets his mind on a course, nothing can sway him.”
“You’re right.” Voerell glanced at her husband and son. “But if Barilan is in danger…” Her face grew hard.
“I fear he is.” Carlich spread his hands.
Voerell nodded, fixing Carlich with steady eyes. “You have to figure out some way to stop it.”
Carlich shook his head, looking down at the papers. “I don’t know. I have spies in Wonora; they tell me some factions oppose the treaty. There are those who reject the idea of any but one of pure Wonoran blood on the throne.” He hesitated, and licked his lips. His gaze flicked up to meet Voerell’s. “There are even rumors that the princess herself shares those sentiments.”
“Dolia?” Voerell’s brow wrinkled. “That hardly seems likely.”
Carlich shrugged. “Nevertheless, that’s what my spies report. Perhaps she can be persuaded to appeal to her father to end the betrothal. Supposedly he gives her whatever she asks; if he thought she didn’t want this marriage, he might be willing to cancel the treaty.”
Voerell looked troubled. “That would break Marolan’s heart.”
“He’d get over it.” Carlich did not seem worried by the prospect. “Or, if that approach bears no fruit, there are those in Hampsia who might be willing to aid us—”
Whirter jerked his head up. “You would conspire with our enemies?”
“No, of course not. And they’re not our enemies at the moment. We’d just ask for help in pressuring Father to renegotiate the treaty. Or Marolan, in due course. Even after the wedding it might be done.”
Whirter still looked doubtful, but he did not renew his objection. Voerell twisted her hands in her lap. “I suppose Marolan sides with Father?”
“In this, as in all things.”
“If he ever finds out we’ve been talking about this, he’ll be furious.”
“That’s because he cares more about himself and his position than the welfare of Milecha.” Carlich grimaced. “If only our laws weren’t so idiotic. Either you or I would make a far better ruler than Marolan, yet because of some ancient decree, neither of us will get the opportunity. Did you know the king of Hampsia chooses among his sons which one will succeed him, without regard to their order of birth?”
“That wouldn’t help you. Father would never choose you over Marolan.” Voerell shrugged. “And it would still leave me out. I agree you’d make a better king than Marolan, but unless something happens to him, Holy One forbid, you’re out of luck. Our way is written into the magic of the Kingship.”
“Holy One forbid anything should happen to Marolan,” Carlich echoed, irony in his tone. He shot Voerell a sideways glance. “Sorcery created the Kingship, and a good enough sorcerer could modify it. Perhaps someday one of us will get the chance.”
She laughed. “You know I’m not a tenth the sorcerer you are.”
“You could be, if you cared enough to study.” Carlich waved his hand in a grandiose gesture. “I promise, if the Kingship ever comes to me, I’ll change it so that only the best possible candidate can inherit, be that younger son or daughter, general or merchant or beggar in the street.”
“Hah! If the Kingship ever came to you I’d wager you’d never let it slip from your fingers, even to your own son. You’re so stubborn you’d contrive a way never to die. Or else work some spell to let you continue to rule from your grave.”
Carlich raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. “I’ll have to look into that.” He sobered. “In all seriousness, though, if I discover some way to keep the treaty from going into effect, can I count on your support?” He leaned forward, searching Voerell’s face.
Voerell glanced at Barilan in Whirter’s lap. She met Carlich’s eyes. “I’ll want to study the treaty for myself. But if I find you are correct, and there is danger to Barilan in its provisions, I will support you.”
Maryn breathed a little easier. Surely Barilan’s mother and uncle together would be able to keep him safe.
“Thank you.” Carlich settled back in his seat, his tense shoulders relaxing.
Whirter looked back and forth between his wife and her brother, frowning. Maryn could tell Barilan was growing impatient with his father’s distraction. He bounced insistently; when that was ignored he grabbed at Whirter’s beard, his pudgy fingers catching in the strands and yanking them. Whirter turned back to his son and forced his features into a silly grimace. Barilan crowed in laughter.
Carlich rose, went over and reached for Barilan. “Here, let me hold my nephew for a bit.”
For a moment Barilan looked apprehensive, but Carlich grinned at him and swung him up over his head. Mixed emotions played across the baby’s face, but pleasure won, and he laughed. Carlich swung him down, then up again, eliciting more excited squeals.
“Be careful!” Voerell half;-;frowned, half;-;laughed at Carlich’s antics. Maryn bit her lip to keep from echoing her sentiments.
“He’s fine. Look, he loves it.” Barilan’s eyes were bright and his mouth open in excitement.
At length Carlich tired of the game and collapsed with an exaggerated sigh into his chair. Barilan wiggled and squirmed in his lap. After a few moments, when no more entertainment was forthcoming, he burst into wails.
“Look what you’ve done. Give him to me.” Voerell snatched Barilan from Carlich and tried unsuccessfully to quiet him. She glanced over her shoulder at Maryn. “Nurse—”
Maryn stepped forward, reaching for the baby, but Carlich waved her away.
“He’s not hungry, just disappointed I stopped playing with him. Here, Barilan, watch this.” Carlich pulled a jewel;-;encrusted ceremonial knife from his belt and nicked his finger. With a quick gesture, blue fire erupted in his hand, fountaining up in a shower of sparks. Maryn jumped; she’d never seen magic summoned so fast. Barilan left off crying and stared, fascinated. Carlich waved his hand under Barilan’s nose, and the baby grabbed at the swarming blue fireflies.
“Carlich!” Voerell pulled Barilan away. His face clouded, until Carlich leaned closer and again passed his hand near his nephew’s face. “Be careful! Not to invoke the Holy One at all, not even a quick word…”
“There’s nothing to worry about.” Twitches of Carlich’s fingers turned the sparks red and green and purple in turn.
“Rogelan says it’s foolhardy to not at least begin with an incantation. I don’t want you flaunting uncontrolled sorcery around my son!” But the fire showed no sign of escaping Carlich’s control, and Barilan was so obviously entranced by it that Voerell hesitated.
Maryn edged closer, ready to snatch Barilan if the sparks threatened to harm him. She agreed with Voerell. Blood sorcery was dangerous. The priests constantly stressed how vital it was to always invoke the protection of the Holy One with the full ritual, even for the simple everyday task of cleansing a few accidentally spilled drops.
“Rogelan is a decent enough sorcerer, but he’s excessively conservative. Gestures can be just as effective for controlling magic as incantations, if you know what you’re doing, and far swifter and stronger. You’d think our family would remember that, considering we only hold the throne because Great;-;great Grandfather Hoenech was a master of gestural magic.” Carlich swirled the flashing sparks, and Barilan watched in fascinat
ion.
“I still don’t like it,” Voerell said, drawing in her breath as a stray spark leaped too close to Barilan’s face. “Lord Hoenech’s spell escaped his control and killed him. Carlich, stop that.”
“If you insist.” Carlich made a waving motion with his hand, and the last of the blood’s power evaporated in a burst of sparks. Barilan blinked and his face scrunched, until one flailing fist found his mouth and he began to suck industriously. For a few minutes all was quiet.
Voerell shifted her grip on her son. “Should I speak with Marolan?”
Carlich’s face darkened, but he kept his tone light. “You might as well not bother. He won’t listen.”
“Give him a chance, Carlich,” Voerell said. “Treaty or not, he will be king someday. You’ll be much better off if you get over whatever petty childhood quarrels still bother you, and put some effort into building a better relationship with him.”
“Flattering him, you mean. Currying his favor. Come, Voerell, you know me better than that.” Carlich gave a mocking little laugh. “I decided long ago I’ll never bow to Marolan. The day he becomes king is the day I leave Milecha forever.”
“Then I pray the Holy One will grant Father a very long life indeed, and you greater wisdom with the passage of years. For I would grieve to lose my favorite brother to exile.”
Voerell tried to catch Carlich’s eye, but he turned away from her to gaze into the fire. Maryn was struck by the way the leaping orange light cast deep shadowed lines of pain and anger across his features. They lingered there for only a moment, however, before he composed his expression into its usual lively good humor and turned back to his sister. “Never fear. None of us knows what the future will bring. The Holy One may yet send some unexpected twist of fate to disrupt all our neatly laid plans.”
Voerell gave a little shudder mixed with laughter. “I will accept whatever he may ordain, as long as my family is safe.” She ran a finger through Barilan’s hair.
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