An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 18

Starhaven, Sidor

Edmund sat in his chamber, a goblet of wine untouched at his side. The hearth was empty and the windows had been opened to allow a cool breeze in, to cut the summer heat. There were more comfortable places in the palace to spend time, less stuffy than the king’s private study, but Edmund reveled in it. In the trappings of office that he’d always coveted. He couldn’t help but wonder if he still would have coveted this if he’d known how he would have gotten it.

He didn’t have to consider the point long. Of course, he would have.

It didn’t make dealing with all of this any less annoying. He’d hoped by removing Serwyn and framing Aldric, he could have had an opportunity to calm things down. Instead, he’d only made it worse.

At least he’d convinced the Icelanders to take an active part. He’d had to give over more than he’d want to, but he could live with the agreement. They would still supply men as needed and pay taxes, and what did he want of frozen lands peopled by the barely civilized? In return, he would get to control the new nobility in the other duchies when they won this war.

From Cadogan’s wyvern, things were going well and they were already in control of the southern sister and much of the Darien Hills, although there were apparently holdouts that had not surrendered yet.

There was a knock on the door, which opened before he could respond, admitting Orlan and a dark-complexioned man. It was a danger, doing this here. When Gavric had so generously offered him office space here in the palace, he had studied old plans closely, focusing on some of the oldest drawings of the palace. Many knew of the secret passages into the palace, but few knew of all their entrances, and those that were well known had been sealed up, along with their entrances, for fear they could be used against them.

They had missed some though. Some that were in the older plans but had disappeared from the newer ones. Which is why he’d picked the office he had. It was one of the few that had one of the forgotten passages.

The king’s study, on the other hand, didn’t have a passage. Which meant anyone who came to him could be seen. Edmund had controlled some of that, having the guards clear the halls, making sure the men protecting the chamber were Colm’s men.

But still, it was a danger. It would have been safer to do this in his old studies, which he’d kept for himself, even with those precautions. But this room reminded people of his status. Of his power.

Now that he had it, he wasn’t willing to give it away.

Edmund gestured for the man to sit as Orlan shut the door, leaving them in private.

“Your message suggested urgency,” the agent said, his accent marking him as from southern Lynese.

“Indeed.” Edmund lifted the untouched wine. “Would you care for refreshment?”

“I would prefer we conduct our business.”

Edmund set the goblet down. “Very well. I asked you here because things have changed, as you can see. I wanted your master to know that I now have the power to end this unfortunate war between our nations. The Emperor need only provide additional support against these rebels, and…”

“The war is already over,” the man said, looking at him like he was somehow lost.

“What?”

“A peace treaty was signed two weeks ago. By your son, I believe.”

“William would ...” Edmund started, then stopped himself.

William had always been a defiant boy, always certain that he was right. They hadn’t spoken, aside from a handful of messages, for more than a year, but he knew that William had become more self-assured and confident in himself since he’d been sent to Lynese. That had been part of the point, to make a man out of him, but the fact that the boy would then turn against him should not have been a shock.

William had always been weak.

“You’re certain of this?”

“Quite. The terms of the treaty he worked out, especially the concessions he forced from the emperor, were onerous enough that everyone in my homeland is aware of it. It is hard not to know of a treaty that cedes part of our own land to another power.”

“Part of your own land?”

“You … you really haven’t heard.”

“No, so perhaps you should start explaining it. What territory was ceded?”

“One of the major points of the peace treaty was the ceding of the province of Rendallia to Sidor. I believe his army is retreating to that land now, to maintain possession of it.”

Edmund couldn’t believe it. It was a concession he wasn’t sure he would have even asked for, because it was so far outside of what he would have thought possible. Still, it was concerning that William hadn’t told him about it directly.

“This changes nothing between us. The Emperor still needs me and I still need him to continue his assistance in return.”

“With the war concluded, I fail to see what you could offer that would interest His Imperial Majesty.”

“Consider what happens if I lose this civil war. Garris Sinclair takes power, and all the Emperor’s carefully cultivated influence evaporates.”

“Perhaps His Imperial Majesty would prefer to support Baron Sinclair instead. A fresh alliance, unburdened by past... complications.”

“Garris despises Lynese far more than I ever could,” Edmund said. “He has always been a devotee of my brother Gavric, and you should know how clearly his feelings are to your people.”

“I still have not heard what you are offering to do for us.”

“For one, accepting Lynesian envoys in Rendallia, allowing for your continued presence in the ‘lost’ province. In fact, I could see that leading to further discussions about the province’s ultimate disposition.”

“You would consider returning Rendallia?”

“In time, with the proper agreements in place. But first, I need to secure my throne.” Edmund spread his hands. “The Emperor can have everything he wants - a compliant Sidor, continued influence, even the possibility of regaining Rendallia. Or he can risk Garris Sinclair turning our kingdom against him. The choice seems clear to me.”

“What exactly do you want from His Imperial Majesty?”

“For starters, gold. Enough to hire companies from Werna and Inos. Good fighters, who know how to handle themselves in difficult situations.”

“Your war has already cost Lynese dearly. The treasury runs low after years of conflict and the concessions your son extracted.”

“Consider the alternative. What happens when Garris sees how weak you’ve become? He’s always had an eye toward expansion. The moment he secures his crown, he’ll look to press his advantage.”

“So you keep saying, with each request.”

“Because that is the biggest danger to you. I would be far more... accommodating. Your master could have a friend on the throne. Someone who understands the value of cooperation between our realms.”

“And if His Imperial Majesty declines?”

“Then I must look elsewhere for support. Perhaps to Gesting. They’ve always chafed at being under your sphere of influence. Wanted a way to get more. With Rendallia in our position, we are on the right side of the straits to work with them. Or maybe even Thay. It would be... disagreeable to work with heretics, but, if we are left no other choices…”

Edmund spread his hands again, the rest of the sentence obvious.

“You would never ally with purifiers?”

“I would do what I must to secure my throne. The question is whether your master wants Sidor as a friend or a rival. Consider how much more dangerous we’d be with another nation as friends.”

“These are dangerous threats you make.”

“Not threats. Options. I prefer to work with Lynese, but I won’t let sentiment limit my choices.” Edmund set down his goblet. “Tell your master he can have a grateful ally or a determined rival. The choice is his, but he must choose quickly.”

The agent rose from his chair. “I will convey your... message.”

“Do that. But understand, if I must turn elsewhere for aid, any future negotiations will be conducted with a much less friendly crown.” Edmund watched the man head for the door. “And do hurry. Some opportunities only present themselves once.”

Edmund stayed where he was as the Orlan escorted the man back to the way out of the palace, the guards closing the door once again. He hadn’t wanted to push quite so hard, but circumstances left him little choice. Baudric would see the wisdom in maintaining influence over Sidor rather than risking a hostile alliance on his borders.

One way or another, he would get what he needed to push the fight and crush Sinclair, and any who stood with him.

***

Rendallia City, Rendallia

Isolde had only been to Rendallia City once before coming here with William, as a younger girl when her father had made a procession of each of the provincial capitals. She hadn’t been impressed at the time, finding it small and poor. Rendallia was a remote province, cut off by sea and the Dead Man’s Hills, all but cutting it off from the rest of the empire.

Its former empire.

After two weeks trapped inside the keep, not allowed to leave, it looked better than the finest market in all of Valemonde. It had taken her a week of constant nagging to wear the Baron down and allow her out of her ‘prison.’ She was still limited to areas close to the keep and she had a small army of guards following her around, as if her own people would ever harm her.

She’d taken the offer in a heartbeat. Anything to get outside. It also gave her a chance to see her people in person, not hearing reports from sending one of her handmaidens out to report back to her.

It’s why she’d come to the marketplace, as poor as it was. It hadn’t been without strings. Pembroke had allowed her out but had asked her to engage not only the locals but with the Sidorians stationed here as well. He made the point that they were her people now too, if she is to maintain her duties as the wife of a prominent noble. She understood his point, even if the prospect of interacting with Sidorians still filled her with a measure of dread.

There were not many Sidorians in the market, aside from the guards stationed here to keep the peace and the guards following. She couldn’t help but notice, however, that the few Sidorian merchants she saw looked no different than the Lynesian ones. It drove home another of Pembroke’s points. That to the commoners, it did not matter who was ruling them. Their lives would go on much the same as it had.

People were just people.

Not necessarily good people, she thought, as a commotion caught her attention. A group of Sidorian merchants were engaged in a heated argument with several Lynesian vendors. The Sidorians were demanding the Lynesians surrender their prime spots in the square. Their words were vile, belittling the men who’d lived and worked here for generations, calling them dirt. Worthless.

Worse, the Sidorian soldiers tasked with guarding the market remained still, not seeming to care about the confrontation. It seemed unlikely the Lynesians would be able to hold their spot. They were outnumbered by the Sidorians and the other Lynesians were clearly hesitant to step in and support their fellows. It wasn’t a surprise. Their position here was still unsure. They were certainly concerned by the possibility of reprisals.

“Why aren’t you doing something about this?” she demanded of the market guard nearest her.

“It isn’t our problem.”

“Not your problem? You’re here to prevent violence, are you not?”

The guard shrugged. “We prevent brawls, not merchant squabbles.”

Her patience thinned. She glanced at her handmaidens and then to the guards who had been following her around, who seemed equally indifferent to the confrontation.

“Who is the ranking Sidorian here?” she demanded.

One of her guards pointed to a burly man standing near a stack of barrels, arms crossed, watching the confrontation unfold with indifference.

Isolde charged up to him, squaring her shoulders. “I am Isolde Montborne, wife of William Whitton, and a princess of Sidor.”

The man looked her up and down, unbothered by her presence. “I know who you are.”

“Then you know that I’ve spent considerable time with Baron Pembroke helping him oversee the assimilation of Rendallia. He assured me the people of this province would maintain their rights, that they would be treated as fair Sidorian subjects. Which they now are.”

The man didn’t say anything, but his hard stare weakened, and he looked away, breaking eye contact.

“These Lynesian merchants have the right to keep their stalls, just as any Sidorian would, according to the laws of this market. If you allow this behavior to continue, I will personally report this to Baron Pembroke. Do you believe he will find this acceptable?”

The man looked at her again, but … searching. Not hard. Maybe trying to determine how serious she was.

He must have decided she was very serious because he finally looked past her and said to his other guards, “Make them move to another stall and let the original men stay. The rules of the market are first come first serve. They can abide by that or leave.”

The market had all but fallen silent, the entire crowd watching the conversation, so passing the order was unnecessary. Everyone heard it. For a moment, the Sidorian merchants stared her down, clearly angry that the Sidorians would listen to an outsider, but then backed down, starting to repack their things.

There were mutterings and more sideways glances, but they moved as they were instructed.

“Thank you,” Isolde said to the guard, trying to sound as genuine as possible.

The man nodded slightly as she walked past him, continuing on with her tour of the market, her small entourage in tow.

The crowd that had gathered during her confrontation with the guard did not disperse. Instead, people drew closer. Although all the people of the Shattered Lands looked like the ancients, bore their features, everyone could still see the differences between the peoples of the major nations. By the way they dressed, the way they spoke, and the way they carried themselves.

These people were all locals, former Lyenseians. People who had been her subjects before and remained her subjects still, only under a new banner. As they crowded in, her guards moved in to surround her, starting to push the people back.

She could see their concern, being charged to guard someone that a large crowd was rushing toward. It was an honest and honorable response. And the wrong one.

“Stand down,” Isolde commanded the lead guard. “These are my people. They mean me no harm.”

“Your Highness,” one guard protested, “Baron Pembroke ordered us to keep you safe.”

“And I am quite safe. These are the people of Rendallia. My people.”

The man looked displeased, but did as he was ordered, waving the other guards back, letting the people flow around her, pressing in on her and her handmaidens from all sides. Hands reached out, caressing her sleeves. Gentle touches by people who adored her.

“Your Highness, they say the Sidorians will take our homes, force us into the streets,” an old woman said.

“My brother was told by a friend of his that someone his sister-in-law knew had already been kicked out of their home,” an older man said. “That it was given to a Sidorian family instead.”

Baron Pembroke had told her no homes were taken, but she suspected this was fearful rumor. Stories told by one person to another, changing into what they feared instead of what was actually happening.

“You were misinformed. I have personally spoken with Commander Pembroke about your rights. Your homes and businesses are protected under Sidorian law. You are now subjects of Sidor, with all the rights that entails.”

“But the merchants just now...” a young man began.

“Were acting against the law,” Isolde finished. “And you saw how quickly that was resolved once proper authority was informed. This is still your home. Your province. The banners may have changed, but you are the heart of Rendallia.”

The rumblings of protest and complaint subsided. People were scared, and needed reassurance.

“I give you my word - I will continue to ensure your rights are protected. You will not lose what you have spent so long to protect. Now, I suggest you all return to your shopping. The market won’t stay open forever, and I see some very fine vegetables that won’t last the day.”

Tentative laughter broke out. The crowd began to thin, people drifting back to the stalls with somewhat lighter expressions.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the elderly woman said, patting her on the arm as she returned to her shopping.

Isolde watched them disperse, and knew this would not be the last of this. In time it would subside if Pembroke stayed true to his word and punished those Sidorians who looked to break the law and gain advantage. If not... things would get worse.

It was clear what her duty was. To see to it that Pembroke stood to his word. Perhaps he was right. The Sidorian soldiers did love her husband. The confrontation among the merchants showed that, if she could get the soldiers on her side, supporting what was right, this would be much easier.

Something to think on.

“Shall we continue our tour?” she asked her guards.