by MJ Blehart
She took a deep breath, let it out. “Very well, then. Go and help the Baron’s men find a place to set up camp. I...trust our new ally, but all the same, have a few of our people keep an eye on his.”
Salman bowed, and exited the tent.
Lyrra-Sharron took a tankard, picked up the kettle and poured herself a cup of tea. She preferred coffee, but this would suffice, for now.
“I must admit, Fornon Val-Cara, that I am surprised you have still come.”
The Baron smirked. “I am a man of my word.”
Lyrra-Sharron snorted. “Hardly. I recall well the promise of tenfold output from your farmers six years ago. I understand they did so, but we only saw the original doubled. You made quite the profit on foreign trade.”
Tilroan shrugged. “What can I say? Bordering on Cordianlott and Medaelia as my lands do, sometimes it is easier to make agreements with neighboring provinces than to go through the tedium of Kingdom.”
Lyrra-Sharron smiled sweetly. “Even when that is not entirely legal?”
“Just so.”
She walked around the table, took the seat opposite the Baron. “So that we understand one another, Tilroan, let me make our arrangement perfectly clear. You will speak in my favor to the Common. When they see me supported by three Barons, they will make me Queen. I will make you and the others counselors to myself. If positions become available, I will place you on the Council.”
The Baron frowned. “I should think you would sweep the Council clean, as they are so ardently supportive of Varlock-Sharron.”
Lyrra-Sharron took a drink. She looked at the Baron. “As I can, of course. Lady Ara will likely remain treasurer, and I may well keep on one of the Generals. I do not know who sits as Foreign Minister now. But as opportunities present themselves, we shall do what can be done.”
Tilroan bowed his head, raising his tankard. “Fair enough.”
“Our families have had naught but animosity between us a long time, now,” Lyrra-Sharron commented. “What had brought this on?”
The Baron shrugged. “Perhaps I have come to realize that the time is right for a reconciliation. For the good of Sharron.”
“For the good of Sharron?” she questioned. “You have hardly done a thing in your life that was not simply for the good of you and yours. Why this change of heart?”
“A man can change, your Highness,” Tilroan replied. “I have heard you are more reasonable than your father. I believe that you will make us all more prosperous, and more stable, than any of the eleven generations that have preceded you. Sharron needs a change…and I have come to believe that you are the right person to make that happen.”
“You say all the right words, Fornon Val-Cara,” Lyrra-Sharron conceded. “But I have known you all my life, and you have always been saying one thing and doing another. I remember not long after my mother died, you offered to personally take a mission to Cordianlott in my father’s name, to improve relations. And while you went to Cordann, all you did was arrange better free trade between your farmers and those across the border. My father nearly stripped you of your rank for that, I recall.”
“I came to you as I promised, Lyrra-Sharron Anduin,” the Baron stated pointedly. “That was more than a decade ago, and at the time, the trade tariffs between our nations were killing my farmers. You may also recollect that your father did change that situation once I made it apparent how bad it was for Sharron.”
“That is true,” she agreed. “But I do not believe you are surprised at my skepticism. I am forced by our history to question you motivation in this.”
Baron Tilroan hung his head a moment, before looking poignantly into Lyrra-Sharron’s eyes. “Your Highness, this hostility between our houses no longer serves either of us, nor our Kingdom. If we can set this aside, think of all that we can accomplish, for the greater good of the nation. If you and I can make peace, think of the message that sends, not only to our own kinsmen, but to our neighbors. I believe it is at last time we set aside the petty bickering, and work together, the two most powerful families in Sharron.”
Lyrra-Sharron saw the sincerity in his eyes, heard it in his voice. As long as she had known him, sincere is never a word she would have associated with the Baron. “Alright, Tilroan. I accept that you have finally chosen to do something for the good of Sharron.”
The Baron raised his glass to the Princess. “To the end of old rivalries.”
Lyrra-Sharron inclined her tankard to the man, and took a draught, feeling a little better about Tilroan’s presence.
If she could broker peace between the houses of Tilroan and Anduin, she could truly do anything. The Falcon Raiders would be ready.
*****
The members of the Council were assembling in the customary meeting chamber. All were here, save General Bodrir and General Sopirr. Tulock had passed the order, as he’d been requested, but refused to answer the questions of the others.
Lady Ara had sat on the council since before her Queen’s passing. Emergency meetings were nothing new, and in light of the present situation, were almost constant.
Varlock-Sharron entered the room. He seemed less dour, more present than he’d been in a long time to all. He held his head higher, his step appeared livelier. He gestured to each of them, as they took up their customary seats.
The King sat in his place, and cleared his throat, signaling that he was ready to begin.
“I bid you good morning,” he began. “I am sorry to call you all so early, but a matter of the utmost importance has come before me. There may be another, more promising solution to the Falcon Raider crisis then that which we have laid ahead for ourselves.”
“We’ve considered all our options well, your Majesty,” stated Sir Garvol. “Did we miss something?”
The King actually grinned. “No, my friend. We missed nothing. But an unexpected envoy has brought us a new hope,” he glanced towards the doorway. “Cam Murtallan?”
A man came into the Council, flanked by a pair of guards. He was of average height, with long, dark hair pulled back and tied off by a leather cord.
Besides Tulock, only Captain-General Ov Callan and Sir Garvol had seen this man close-up before. The look of surprise was evident on their faces.
“I should like to introduce you to an envoy who came to us from the Falcon Raiders. This is Cam Murtallan.”
“Majesty, isn’t this...” Sir Garvol began.
“Yes, Sir Garvol. This is the very same Sorcerer who escaped us.”
“What?” exclaimed Lady Ara, leaning away from the table. She’d been caught off guard by things that had happened in these meetings, but this was the first time she was truly shocked.
Lady Marna stared curiously at the Sorcerer.
“Your Majesty, what is this?” questioned Ov Callan.
The King arose, and walked to Cam’s side. “Cam Murtallan, as you all know, was the Sorcerer we captured and sentenced to death, who was freed by the Falcon Raiders. He hid with them, trained with them. Fought with them. Now, after all these months, he has come before me, with a better, less detrimental solution to this crisis. I have granted him amnesty, and he will now explain the situation that has brought him here.”
They all turned their eyes to Cam.
For the next quarter of an hour, the Council listened with rapt attention as Cam described his release and subsequent escape, his joining the Falcon Raiders, his place among them, and the current plan they were putting into motion. He was careful to omit certain details, many of which were private between him and the King.
“By tomorrow or the day after, she will have gathered her full strength. Along with these Barons, she’ll have the whole of the Falcon Raiders at Tarmollo. By the end of the week, they march to Mintarn,” concluded Cam.
There was almost a collected release of bated breath. Each member of the Council reacted in their own manner, considering the words of the Sorcerer.
Lady Ara felt a renewed hope. Perhaps the Princess, whom she often though
t of as her own daughter, having been the motherly figure in the girl’s life for more than a decade, could be spared.
“This leaves us a couple options,” remarked Sir Garvol. “We can inform our people in place at Mintarn of what they can expect. Or we can shift our forces, and hit them at Tarmollo by tomorrow night.”
“I can have Guardsman ready to move out, to join the strike force,” added Ov Callan. “I would lead them myself.”
“No,” said the King. “That will not be necessary.”
He paused, and looked to the Sorcerer. “What Cam has not told you is that he can get me to Lyrra-Sharron. I will go to her, tell her what is at stake, and try to dissuade her from this course.”
“This cannot be permitted, your Majesty,” stated Captain-General Callan firmly, standing.
“It will not be safe,” added Sir Garvol. “She might kill you.”
“No, she will not,” said the King emphatically. He shook his head. “She does not wish me dead, else she would have bided her time here, and seen to it. She knows her history, and remembers well what happened the last time such a ploy was used to take the Crown.”
Lady Ara recalled the records of Walia Val-Cara’s murder, and what had ensued after.
“I must go to her with Cam Murtallan, and try my best to remove her from this course,” remarked the King. “If we want to avoid losing needed military forces, and disrupting the line of succession, it is our only hope. This is our best chance to do this with the smallest cost. It is a chance I simply must take. I will make preparations, and leave tomorrow morning.”
“This is rather sudden, your Majesty,” commented Ov Callan, his tone still argumentative. “I’ll prepare the guard.”
“No, you will not,” said the King gently. “I go with Cam, alone. It is the only way I shall be able to get close to Lyrra-Sharron. I will have to trust my life to him, and his abilities.”
“His abilities?” questioned Ov Callan. “I thought he was without his powers, and that was why you had chosen to have him hanged?”
The King gestured to Cam to answer that.
“During my time amongst the Falcon Raiders, I worked to recover my abilities. I can easily protect the King.”
“I don’t like this,” stated Sir Garvol plainly. “None of my spies said anything of this man joining Lyrra-Sharron’s rabble.”
“Pardon me, but from what I’ve heard, Sir Garvol, none of your spies have succeeded at infiltrating the Falcon Raiders,” Cam said pointedly.
Sir Garvol opened his mouth as if to speak, but remained silent.
“Be that as it may, I still doubt you can protect the King,” commented Ov Callan.
Cam took a look across the table, and noted a goblet at Lady Marna’s hand. He took a breath, and began, clearly, “Power within me, magic of sorcery, power beyond sight: Make the goblet fly to my hand, through the air at my command. With this spell, let it take flight. The goblet aloft like a bird on its way, by my power come to me as I say – Fly!”
The goblet arose and sailed across the table to Cam’s outstretched hand.
Gasps and curses went about the table, ending in silence as all eyes were on the goblet now in Cam Murtallan’s hand.
Lady Ara had never seen a sorcerous act before. The mix of fear and wonder she felt left her mouth dry.
“As you can see, the Sorcerer is no longer without his powers,” remarked Varlock-Sharron, breaking the tense silence. “This is, as I have said, our best hope.”
He let that sink in a moment, before issuing further orders. “In the mean time, remove the Black Knight Company and all other needed Army forces from Mintarn. Send them to the Medaelian border. Do so with all the rest of our forces not yet so positioned. I want you, Constable, to see to this, in the absence of my Generals.”
“Immediately, your Majesty,” responded Constable drey-Sharron.
“Even if you do this, your Majesty, she may still march to Mintarn,” commented Sir Garvol darkly. “Best we keep the Black Knight Company in place.”
“It will not matter,” stated Varlock-Sharron matter-of-factly. “With this new course of action, no matter the outcome, everything changes.”
The King turned to his Seneschal. “Sir Tulock. As of tomorrow morning, you will be in charge here. If I fail...” he paused, took a breath. “If I fail, we shall be as ready as we can for war. Sir Garvol will go to Mintarn today and prepare to address Common.”
He looked to Sir Garvol. “If Lyrra-Sharron arrives in Mintarn, you must address Common, and tell them what has happened.”
“What am I to tell them, exactly?” Sir Garvol questioned, clearly not happy with this new plan.
“Everything,” replied the King. “Tell them everything. When Lyrra-Sharron presents herself to them, she will already have lost. If I fail, Sir Tulock will take the crown. You will place that before them as well.”
“If you don’t fail?” asked Sir Tulock.
Varlock-Sharron grinned wryly. “If I do not fail, an envoy will be sent to you in two to three days. I will ride to the Medaelian border, to meet the Generals, and prepare to face the invading forces. Likely the envoy will be my daughter, if I do not fail.”
“I still do not like this,” stated Sir Garvol despondently. “It’s too unpredictable.”
“True enough,” remarked the King. “But it gives us a chance to stop the Falcon Raiders, without needless waste of resources, and without bloodshed. If I can reconcile with my daughter, we no longer face conflict on two fronts. Perhaps, that resolved, we will be more than ready to face the Medaelian onslaught, and stop them.”
“We can only hope,” remarked Lady Marna, still staring at her goblet in Cam Murtallan’s hand.
“Make ready, then,” commanded the King, rising. “We are through here, for now. The Falcon Raider crisis, one way or the other, will soon be done. We have other business to attend to.”
Lady Ara found herself on the verge of tears. Hoping beyond hope that the King might succeed, and Lyrra-Sharron would continue to live.
*****
Even during the Season of Stillness, she arose with the sun.
She had been up for a number of hours, now. After preparing her morning breakfast, she was ready to walk the short distance to her barn.
She was a middle-aged woman, and she and her husband had purchased this farmstead more than three decades ago.
Her children were grown, her youngest daughter had married two years ago, her middle daughter was still in Afpar, teaching at a university there. Her son was a traveling merchant, and usually spent the winter in Nevarna, where he was ranked as an Esquire. Her son owned lands near the Cilrin Sea, where bamboo, his best product, was cultivated.
During the middle of the last Season of Growing, her husband had been working in the orchard, picking apples from the trees, and had apparently collapsed. When she found him under the light of the moons, he was already dead, most likely from a heart attack.
She had grieved for him, and her youngest daughter and son made the journey for the funeral.
Her daughter lived in the town of Penidir with her husband, at the mouth of the River Mendanaria. They had tried to persuade her to sell the orchard, situated just off the river very near the border with Sharron, but this had been her home a long time now.
She refused to uproot herself, and would hire hands to pick the apples when they ripened. Her son had been more understanding, and offered to send her funds to assist.
Normally, since the children had grown, she and her husband had hired a dozen workers to pick their apples. This time, she had also hired a merchant to collect and sell them. He was an old friend of her husband, and had worked with him to market their produce during the Season of Harvest.
Unfortunately, he showed a different side of his personality, chose to be greedy, and turned over barely half of what the produce was worth.
She was no fool, but he pulled a knife on her when she threatened to involve the local Count. She relented, and he was gone.
Once the workers were paid, she would not have enough money for wood to fuel her fire during Stillness.
So she had chopped down several of the oldest trees, and turned them into firewood. There would be less to tend come the new year, and she would need to find a new, honest merchant to take her apples to market. Otherwise, she would need to trust the hired harvesters alone on the farmstead, while she went to sell the fruit herself.
She pulled a cloak over her shoulders, and stepped out. It was surprisingly warm, given the season. All winter had been mild, which pleased her. She headed for her barn, where she planned to take one of her chickens, to be prepared for soup.
She glanced down the road, which was currently empty. She had watched a number of soldiers march from Penlorka over the past couple months. She never would leave her house to watch them pass, for even the most disciplined company might choose to take advantage of a widow. More than that, she did not recognize the armor and uniforms of several companies that had passed.
Clearly, they were setting up for another conflict with their Sharronian counterparts. Politics did not interest her, and the local Count did not tax her lands at all. So long as she was left alone to live as she chose, she could care less about the nation in which she lived.
She paused when she reached the barn. The door was slightly open. She remembered, when she had gone in yesterday to collect eggs from her chickens, that she closed it tightly.
Cautiously, she stepped in. Glancing to her right, she found a pitchfork. She took it, and moved silently in further.
Just ahead and to the right, on a pile of hay, there was a disheveled looking girl, fast asleep. She looked ragged, her blonde hair a tangled mess, and she was clearly slender, under a tattered cloak and ill-fitting tunic and breeches she wore.
Her foot crunched an eggshell, which had clearly been placed there by the girl. Before she could blink, the girl had jumped up, brandishing a knife.
“Have no fear, girl, I won’t harm you,” she said, letting the tines of the pitchfork touch the ground.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said. “I’ve been on the run for days, now. The horse I had…well he dropped in the middle of the night. I walked til I saw the barn, and I was exhausted. I need to get home.”