"Dellie, I think you need to dress and leave."
"What? "
"You attempted to kill my wife, and you're wanted in Ativerna. As a law-abiding citizen, I must give you up to the guards. I won't do that, but please go. Leave the country."
Adelaide fluttered her eyelashes and did the only thing she could—shed a tear.
"You...you... "
"Dellie, I'm telling you this for the last time: dress and leave."
It sounded serious enough for her not to object. Adelaide realized that she had lost.
But to whom? To the cow whom Jerisson had never said a kind word about? Or...was there someone else?
There must be. There couldn't not be.
"Jess...I beg you!"
"Dellie..."
"In the name of our love, please, give me a few more minutes!"
Jess didn't say that it had never been about love but nodded. Maybe she would go away after pouring her heart out. The bed beckoned him more than the prettiest of women could.
"I have to stay in the capital. My husband wouldn't understand..."
For a few minutes, Jess was silent.
He didn't want that meeting, but Lily had never seen Lady Wells in person, meaning only one thing.
"Dellie, my wife must not know about you. Got it?"
Adelaide nodded.
"Yes, Jess. You...you're so wonderful..."
She was blatantly slow as she dressed. Her goodbye kiss was very much not familial, either. But Jerisson stayed cold and calm as she touched his lips with hers.
Something might have moved, true, but that was it.
He had no inclination of laying her on the nearest surface and having his way with her. He did have other, different, thoughts, however—like how had she gotten there?
Who let her in?
Who gave her a place to stay in Wellster?
Maybe he should ask Altres Lort about it in the morning.
And with that, Jerisson fell asleep, not before barring the door and putting a chair in front of it. That's how one learned to appreciate dogs and ferrets: with them in your bed, no stranger would dare to intrude in the room—at least without getting bitten all over.
Virma, the lands of Clan Hardar.
"We've come in peace!"
Bran smiled with the corner of his mouth as he gave the sentry a sly look.
"Really? "
"Do you doubt my word, warrior?"
The Virman man shook his head. Nobody on the island ever doubted Gardren's words. If he said he would skin you, he would, hopefully, after you were dead. It wasn't a given he'd wait until then, though.
"No, Lord of Gardren."
Bran was still smiling.
"Who's in command?"
"Krast Hardar, Lord of Gardren."
Bran attempted to remember Krast. His memory stubbornly refused to help. So they hadn't met, then.
"Tell him about my arrival."
"Yes, Lord of Gardren. Please wait."
"I've already said we've come in peace," Bran snapped and started waiting.
He was alone, for the time being, protected only by a chain shirt under his clothes. Angelina had wanted to come with him to the meeting, but Bran refused her. It would be possible later, but before negotiations had even begun, one could easily get a random arrow in the chest. He didn't want that for her.
Fighting, killing...Bran didn't really have anything against blood; Holosh liked it, and Bran was always prepared to offer it to his god, but it seemed enough already.
Hardring had written that six clans had lost their leaders, and four would lose even their names, plus ten more would be punished in another way. Oh, those perennial number twos, wishing to reach the top...
They had no idea they would never be able to hold on to power. There was no chance of it. A fight would break out, a slaughter, a massacre...and Virma couldn't afford that, especially in winter.
One side would defeat the other, and cold and hunger would finish off the remaining people, leaving the pirates to use the situation to their advantage, or maybe someone else. Fighting was good, but only in moderation. Not bloody madness.
While reflecting, Bran almost missed the return of the guard.
"My lord, Krast Hardar, invites you, Lord of Gardren, to visit our hearth."
"Only me?"
"And your companions."
"My companions will wait. Lead on," Bran said, dismounting and adjusting the reins.
Like most Virmans, he held no particular love for horses, even if he tolerated them.
Krast was waiting for the guest behind the gate, a young man of medium height, blond and stocky. He was wearing the colors of his clan. Bran easily recognized him, thanks to his resemblance to his father and elder brother.
"Lord of Gardren."
"Hardar."
The men exchanged polite bows, looking warily at each other.
"I came in peace," Bran repeated.
"Is this the word of the Lord of Gardren or a member of the Circle?" Krast finally asked.
"This is the word of the leader of the Circle. Olav Hardring," Bran explained.
For a second, Krast closed his eyes, making his face look defenseless as if all pressure disappeared. He could finally relax: neither his home nor his people would be harmed.
"Welcome, Lord of Gardren. Be my guest."
"My people are waiting for me outside," Bran said with a scrutinizing glare.
"I will be happy to invite them, as well, as guests of Clan Hardar."
Bran considered his words. Then he removed a small, but heavy horn from his belt and played a few notes, repeating the signal toward the gate, then once more.
"Your people won't shoot?"
Krast shook his head.
"I was preparing for the worst. But I...didn't share my father's views."
He was lying, of course, but Bran could understand him.
When the game was over, all you could do was to save what was left: the clan, the people who trusted you, the women and the children. Bran could respect Hardar the junior for that although he was already the eldest in line.
"These are your people. While there's no bad blood between us..."
"We took part in attacking your boats," Krast said bluntly. "Not me, but Hardar."
"I killed your people. We're even, to a point."
"And my father? His actions?"
"We'll discuss the wergild now."
Krast relaxed even more.
"Will Hardar stay?"
"Maybe not in the Circle, but you will survive."
Olav had mentioned that as well, but Bran had his own opinion. The current Clan Hardar was easy-to-control, but there would have to be a punishment...
"Her Highness?"
Angelina became one of the first to ride through the gate. Bran hurried to meet her, giving his hand and helping her down. Angelina's hand briefly lingered on his arm, and it didn't escape Krast's notice. Still, he said nothing.
Bran noticed that and approved.
Krast Hardar, the future clan chief, bowed.
"Your Highness. One day, I'll tell my children about your visit to my humble abode."
Angelina answered with a gentle smile.
"On behalf of Ativerna, I thank you for your hospitality."
Krast bowed again.
Angelina implied that she had no beef with Clan Hardar, either, and it gave him hope.
Two hours later, his sunny disposition was gone. With all possible courtesy, Bran explained to Krast that some things deserved punishment with no regard to repentance. The dead couldn't be resurrected, and spilled blood couldn't be returned. He would have to give up the clan's place in the Circle as well as a part of their lands.
I can understand that it's a sensitive matter for Clan Hardar, but what were you thinking?
That's how it always is with coups; it's a gamble, and then you lose. Be grateful that you're still a clan. The others didn't get to save theirs, unlike you and the Torsvegs.
&nbs
p; Krast realized that and agreed to almost everything. He did try to bargain, but both Gardren and Krast himself knew that it was nothing more than a convention, so as to avoid any other demands. The Hardars weren't poor, and they still had something set aside. Sooner or later, they'd get their status back, even if it took them five decades.
Angelina didn't say anything during the negotiations, instead looking at Bran and enjoying the process. It was a marvelous sight: the lord of Gardren was dogged and meticulous, shrewd and calculating. It didn't seem possible to pin him to his word. If only Richard could get an advisor like him in Ativerna...
Alas, that was beyond her wildest dreams.
***
"Maybe I could stay here—in Virma."
Leif threw his brother-in-law a pensive look. Torn was focused and resolute. The naval battle had left a mark on him; he was nursing an injured arm. He had also grown up a lot.
"Stay as whom?" Leif asked.
"Elg's no more. Nothing's threatening me."
"You think so?" Leif was calm; he had already considered the issue. In truth, it was easier for him to leave Torn in Virma: he wouldn't have to fuss over him or worry about him. But Ingrid would have never forgiven him if her brother were killed.
No, not quite that.
She would forgive him, but she would never forget it, and their happiness would be stained with someone's death. He didn't want that for her.
"Don't you?"
Leif shook his head.
"Six clans, and that's it? You think it was only them?"
"But nobody else was involved!"
"That we know of," Leif replied simply. "Someone must have stayed on the sidelines, and some will slip away and want revenge."
"Against me?"
"They'd attack Olav, Bran, maybe me. You'll just be on the list. They might simply kill you to lure me to Virma, for instance."
"That's nonsense."
"Ingrid," Leif explained. "She loves you."
"Among the clan..."
"You won't be safe, and you know it. Not yet. Build yourself up, gather your own crew, get a ship...you can do it in Ativerna. And in a few years, Torn Torsveg, the Lord of Torsveg, will come to the clan. Not a pimpled boy."
Torn flushed. True, he had a couple of pimples, but no more than that!
Leif threw his arms up to placate him.
"You know what I mean. You don't have anything other than your name yet. Prove that you're worthy of it. Prove it with deeds rather than words!"
"Why can't I do it in Virma?"
"Because nobody will listen to you. You'll just die."
"Maybe if you supported me..."
"Again, me. Why would I?"
"Well, you..."
Torn stumbled, realizing that the point had already been made. True, his name wasn't enough. He needed to back it up with deeds. Leif had them, and he didn't. Leif couldn't support him forever or protect him.
"I'd rather stay."
"I get it, but some things are stronger than us."
Torn sighed and looked downcast.
"How soon do we set sail?"
"Five or ten days, I think. Richard doesn't want to stay longer than he has to."
Torn shivered.
"I wouldn't want to be in his place."
Leif nodded silently. What could he say? That was worse than having your heart ripped from your chest—scarier, at least.
"He'll..."
"Get home. Marry. He'll still remember someone else and love someone else."
It was Torn's turn to be silent.
At his age, any loss seemed irreparable. You couldn't forget it or put it on the backburner. Leif knew that any pain faded with time as if buried in sand, but he felt sorry for Richard's wife. She would have to spend her whole life competing with a ghost.
A dead woman was the worst rival. She was perfect; she would never throw a fit; she wouldn't argue; she had all possible virtues... If Tira stayed alive, they might have drifted apart.
She wanted to follow the path of a warrior, while he had his duty. They couldn't have stayed together. Sooner or later, love would have faded under the pressure of circumstances.
That was not the case. Tira was gone, and Richard spent day and night staring at the sea.
True, he had signed the treaty with Olav, but Leif looked him in the eyes and saw what he didn't want to see. He saw a strong man who had lost a part of his soul, the best and the happiest part. Richard's halcyon years were behind him, and his youth had fled, forget-me-nots in its white hair.
What was left?
The road of kings.
Leif knew that Richard would be a good ruler, but he would never be happy, and the keepsake with Tira's hair would always stay with him.
What would it result in? Could someone thaw his soul?
Leif wistfully thought about Lilian Earton. A woman like her could, definitely. But there was only one Lilian in the world, and she had already made her choice. She had her family, her husband, her favorite occupation...there was no time for a king, other than maybe as a friend. Not even a lover, Lilian was too well adjusted for that. She wouldn't share her man with someone else, never, and neither would she cheat on him. Leif respected her for that. He detested the idea of bed-hopping.
Lilian's idea of honor was similar to a Virman; that's why the sailors revered her so much.
"Will we leave when the princess returns?"
"Yes. Richard has no reason to stay here anymore," Leif replied with a nod and surprised himself by adding, "We'll go home."
"Home?"
Those words sounded strange for Torn, but Leif suddenly realized that it was true.
Virma wasn't his home anymore.
It was still his birthplace. Leif loved that harsh and inhospitable island and would have been happy to die for it, but he preferred to live in a big and colorful world. In Ativerna, with his wife, his children, the people he cared for, and the work he wanted to do. To live: not survive, but live.
"Yes. Home."
Torn didn't ask again. For him, Torsveg was his home, but what about Leif? Wasn't it Erquig? It seemed strange.
Well then. Life was strange, in general. He would have to wait and see, but Leif was right about one thing: he needed to be worthy of his lineage, and he wasn't a Torsveg yet. Maybe only a hatchling.
He would grow up and become the chief, just give him time!
Leif smiled as he looked at the boy. Torn's thoughts were written on his face, expressive and serious. What would he say in five years, Leif wondered.
Time would tell.
Wellster, Cardin.
Count Dishan didn't expect anything good from his life, but he got dragged out of his cell, bandaged, and generally patched up.
What was going on?
He was prepared for the next dose of Alcine's torture, or maybe even worse, but the servants were silent. What could they say to the count, really? He got his answers soon enough, directly from Altres Lort's hands.
When the Royal Butcher entered the room, the count's hands started shaking.
"Lort! It's you!"
"Of course, it's me. How are you, Eron?"
"Terrible. And...Alcine?"
"Still alive," Altres Lort said, smiling. "For now."
Eron breathed out. They had won. It was over. Everything would be all right. And he hadn't done anything for the victory, so the winners didn't really need him.
"It's my fault. You should kill me." Eron Dishan didn't doubt his words. "I let the king be assassinated."
Altres shook his head.
"Not you, Eron. Not you."
"I failed."
"And I? Eron, do you seriously think the conspiracy sprung up overnight? In those two months that I was absent?"
Eron Dishan hadn't thought about that.
"How long?"
"I questioned Alcine. That bastard likes talking."
"And?"
Eron was genuinely curious. Alcine had never opened up to him; that would have been t
oo much.
"Alcine loved Camilla."
"Camilla?"
"The king's second wife. It was mutual, too. She cheated on Gardwig with Robert rather than Robert's brother. She lied so as to spare her beloved."
Eron needed at least ten minutes to make sense of the information.
"Really? "
"Yes. Alcine's been nursing a grudge since then."
"And he was plotting for all this time?"
"Since Gardwig sent Albitta away. Alcine picked her up, got her pregnant, and tried installing his bastard as the king."
Eron cursed, using a quite flowery expression.
Altres shrugged.
"His game is over."
"And Albitta?"
"She sings like a bird, although listening to her is nauseating. She had never borne a son from Gardwig. That's Alcine's doing. Part of his plan."
"And where's this...child?"
Altres shook his head.
"I don't know."
"How?"
"I don't even want to know," Lort explained. "Alcine raised him...them...in ignorance. There were several boys, in case one died. They live in good families, and he supported them. There won’t be any more money, of course."
"What if... "
"He did bring one here. His and Albitta's real son, I gather. The boy turned out to be smart, having escaped after he saw everything."
"Escaped?"
"Exactly. With a nanny whom he considered his mother."
Dishan tossed his head with gusto. It hurt but nonetheless produced a sobering effect.
"What a tangled web!"
"I decided not to look for them. Let them live...I don't want to burden my conscience. They aren't dangerous."
Eron Dishan understood it.
"What’s going to happen now? "
"We'll crown Edwin. And...get well, Eron. I've no idea how we'll carry this load."
"We?"
"As a regent, I will have a lot of responsibilities. I'll leave the burden of security to you."
The count cast a doubtful look at his legs.
"Altres, I'd love to, but I suspect that I'm crippled for good."
"I talked to the torturers. They were pretty careful. They needed to keep you alive, and that means avoiding gangrene. The wounds are clean. As for bones..."
"Will I be able to walk?"
"I'll ask Countess Earton to take a look."
"Countess Earton?"
"Yes, Eron."
The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8) Page 22