An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 13

Outside Valemonde, Lynese

William was in the command tent, looking over the map, which his aides had just updated with the latest reports. Two more ships had arrived from Rendallia to help secure Dawnstar Lake, bringing his total to six. Not a fleet, but a large enough body to hopefully stop the small but continuous stream of smugglers bringing supplies into the city from the southern shores of the lake, which were still under Lynesian control.

They were small shipments, usually in rowboats and small one-man vessels that could slip between his patrol ships unseen in the night. They were not enough to break the siege or even keep them from starving, but every scrap of additional supplies extended how long the Lynesians could hold out, and he needed to end this siege.

Although from all accounts fighting had not started yet, Sidor had fallen into civil war. The last letter Pembroke had received indicated that two dozen baronies had declared for Sinclair and were marshaling forces. The crown still had the edge, of course, with all but three of Iceland’s twenty baronies publicly supporting the crown, along with thirty of Kingsheart’s baronies so far. That edge did not mean the crown would be able to win this rebellion. Putting aside the fact that they almost lost to a mass of peasants, there were still more than sixty baronies who had remained silent on the subject, including the entirety of River Mark and Shadowhold.

No one knew what would happen, and uncertainty brought fear and rash actions. Although they were already well supplied with the latter. He could not believe how stupid his father and cousin were. Executing a baron, dissolving the one thing that had been given to end the last revolt, already executing several of its members. They were stoking the flames, and the longer this went on, the more it seemed as if they were already over the cliff with no chance to escape.

Aldric had said he was going to try and get his brother to negotiate, but William was much less optimistic than his uncle. He knew his stepfather and cousin. The more they were dictated to, even by reality, the more they dug in their heels. They were going to let their stubbornness pull the entire kingdom down around them.

He had not heard from Isolde since her message, which meant the only way he was going to get back home was to end this siege, and the only way to do that without devastating costs was to starve them out. It would happen eventually, but anything he could do to speed that on, he was going to do.

“You are highness,” Pembroke said, pushing his way into the tent behind him. “Another messenger has come out from the city. This one under a flag of truce directly from Valemonde itself, and not skulking into the lines.”

“A reply to our offer?”

“Possibly. Probably.”

“Good. Bring him in. Let us hear what he has to say.”

Pembroke stepped half out of the tent, saying something, and then stepped back, holding open the flap, through which came a man in very official-looking Lynesian livery. Not a military man. He had the stiff bearing and turned-up nose of someone who spent a lot of time at court.

One of the baron’s official messengers, then. Two Sidorian soldiers came behind him, taking places on either side of the tent entrance. This time, William let them stay.

“I bring word from His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Baudric Montbore the Eighth,” the messenger announced, stopping in front of William.

“Speak, then.”

“His Imperial Majesty proposes a peace conference to discuss the terms of surrender sent by way of his daughter. He requests a face-to-face meeting to allow terms to be fully negotiated.”

“And what of the terms I have already proposed? Does your master agree to them?” William asked.

“The Emperor would prefer to discuss specifics in person. However, he instructed me to convey to you that he largely agrees to your terms. Those that he has issues with, he has counter-proposals for you, but he will only give those during the peace conference, as he believes that will be most beneficial to both parties. The Emperor offers to graciously hold the talks at his palace.”

William exchanged a glance with Pembroke. The older man’s expression remained neutral. William gave the baron a ‘follow me’ gesture and walked out of the tent.

“This feels like a trap,” William said, turning to face Pembroke as they were out of the tent. “What is to stop Baudric from using this meeting as an opportunity for ambush?”

Pembroke did not reply right away. He looked back to the tent, considering.

Finally, he said, “It is a risk, certainly, but not an unnecessary risk. This is going to be a step one way or another, for a treaty to work. We can take precautions to lessen the risk. For one, there is no way we go into the city. Instead, we arrange for the conference to be held under the protection of the Acolytes, on neutral ground between our lines. Both sides would be able to observe who attends the meeting.”

“That is assuming Baudric is really ready to negotiate in good faith, and this is not just a massive waste of time.”

“I think he will, now that we have him in a vice. He knows his time is limited and when the city falls he loses all chance for negotiations. He has always been more of a wheeler and dealer than a warrior. I think he will see this as his way out. That is not to say he will not have a twist or two to throw at us. If he is willing to negotiate, then he has something up his sleeve that he thinks will give him a better deal. Worst comes to worst, we tell him no and stay where we are. One way or another, this war is ending.”

“That is true,” William said. “Fine, let us hear what Baudric has to say.”

William led the way back into the tent.

“Tell your master we accept his proposal for a peace conference, but we will not do it in the city. We will have the Acolytes manage the talks on neutral ground between our lines and assure that no one comes in armed and guards stay outside. The Acolytes will mediate the talks and we can each only bring two advisors with us into the talks themselves.”

The messenger bowed his head slightly. “I will convey your acceptance and conditions to His Imperial Majesty.”

“Good,” William said, and then looked to the guards. “Escort him back to his lines.”

The messenger bowed again, more deeply this time, and left.

As the tent flap fell shut behind him, William turned to Pembroke. “What do you think the odds are that they will actually follow through?”

“Good. He did not expect us to actually go into the city. That was to give us something to counter, so we did not counter anything else. They know how dire their situation is. He will be there.”

“If this works, I want to be on the move back to Rendallia as soon as the deal is signed and we see proof that they are abiding by the terms. Send word to Sir Drummond and Alistair to be prepared to withdraw as well. Also, start getting what ships you can assemble back to Rendallia city so we can get the army back to Sidor.”

“The entire army?” Pembroke asked, and William knew what he was saying.

Over the past year, he had gotten the support of most of the army, but there were units from baronies that had declared their support for the crown that, if things came to a head, might cause problems internally.

“We need to leave some forces in Rendallia, to keep the peace and as a … counter to Baudric deciding to go back on his agreements. The less reliable segments will stay here and protect our new holdings. The more reliable units, yours, Drummond’s, Alistair’s, will go back with us.”

“I will arrange it,” Pembroke said.

“Good. Only prepare. No one is to move until we give the word.”

“I understand.”

***

Starhaven, Sidor

Edmund was slowly walking back from the council chambers, although it was difficult to even call it that anymore. The Council of Commoners was gone, with half of its members already in the ground and the rest set for executions over the next month.

That alone would not have been a major setback by itself, since the council had only been in existence for a few months. It was the carry-on effects that were the problem. Serwyn’s actions had sent the largest waves of defections to Garris’s faction since the initial wave. The Nobles council was a fraction of itself, with only fifty barons or representatives present out of the hundred and thirty-seven that would normally be in session this time of year.

The council chambers were all but empty, and the men who still showed up looked almost despondent. Worse, they were far outside of every contingency plan he’d had. And he’d had a lot.

Edmund was almost to his office, trying to think through all the moving pieces, when footsteps came up fast behind him. Edmund turned to find a messenger from the Wyvernry running toward him.

“A message from Kenna, Your Grace.”

Edmund took it from the young man and waved him off and opened the message. It wasn’t long, but he still read it carefully, going through it in full twice.

“Depths take him,” he muttered, crumpling the letter in his fist.

Edmund changed direction, heading down from the offices and residences and out the rear of the palace, to the outer courtyard, with its intricately kept gardens, riding grounds, and training rings.

It was the training ring he was heading for. As with every time he trained, the rings had all been cleared for Serwyn, surrounded by guards. Edmund stopped outside of the ring as Serwyn fought the weapons master, backing the man down with a series of thrusts and parries.

Edmund wasn’t an expert in swordsmanship by any means, but even he could see the weapons master was giving up ground to the king on purpose. The same was true for the disarming attempt that followed, as he all but threw his weapon down when Serwyn made his move.

Still, the spectators clapped and cheered at their king’s prowess. Edmund could only frown. It might do the boy’s ego good, but it made him look weak. Edmund didn’t blame the weapons master. He’d gotten his position only a handful of months before when Serwyn sent the man who’d trained him since he was younger to the dungeons for ‘insolence.’ Which in this case just meant telling the truth.

The more Serwyn flexed his power and found that people would bend to his will simply because he was king, the more emboldened he had gotten to it, until the only thing he heard from most of the people left in his radius was what he wanted to hear instead of what he needed to hear.

It was a dangerous combination.

“Uncle, I’m surprised to see you down in the training fields,” Serwyn said, coming to him as he wiped sweat and sand off his face. “It’s usually much too dirty for you.”

“Yes,” Edmund said, looking over at the training grounds. “However, this couldn’t wait. Could we speak for a moment in private?”

Serwyn handed the towel and training sword to a squire and gestured for Edmund to proceed. Edmund led the king to a side alcove, away from people, making a gesture to the guard to ensure they had space and privacy. The armored men spread out from them, forming a semi-circle around the alcove.

Not that it was needed. The nobels left in the palace were the careful sort, and weren’t likely to get too close to the king having a serious conversation, since lately, those had become fairly deadly for the people involved.

“I received a wyvern from Duke Aldric a few moments ago. He is offering to host a meeting on neutral ground between ourselves and Baron Sinclaire to negotiate peace.”

Serwyn’s face darkened. “Peace? There’s nothing to negotiate. The traitors will bend the knee, and Sinclair’s neck will be on the block, or they will face the consequences. That is all there is.”

“I agree that is how this will end, but … since the liquidation of the Council of Commoners, we have lost more Barons to the Whites, including several from Kingsheart itself.”

Serwyn’s face went almost red at the mention of the term that had become the common shorthand for Garris’s faction, which had adopted a variation on the Sidoran flag, using a silver lion instead of the traditional golden one.

“I told you I did not want to hear that name. They are traitors, and don’t deserve the legitimacy of a name. Let alone one that puts them on equal footing with the crown.”

“You’re right, of course. But the point still stands. We continue to lose barons to the rebels, growing their forces while shrinking our own.”

“So what? We still have the numbers.”

“For now, but River Mark and Shadowhold remain neutral. If Aldric stays loyal to the crown, those baronies will follow suit. We’d have overwhelming force on our side. Should he go to the rebels’ side,” Edmund said, gesturing with his hands as if to say ‘that is another matter.’

“What choice does he have? He is not only a duke of the realm but is also of our line. He has to back us.”

Edmund just barely caught himself from calling the child naive.

“That might not be so. He has always had close relations to Sinclair, and he has been against several of our policies, including the execution of Thurston. It is dangerous to think he would never go to the other side.”

“So he blackmails us into negotiating?”

“I don’t think he thinks of it like that. Aldric has always been too worried about the feelings of the barons and took up their causes even to your father. This is just how he behaves.”

“And if we refuse to meet?”

“The longer we allow Garris to gather support, the higher the chance that the southern barons will tire of waiting for Aldric and throw their lot in with Sinclair.”

“You sound as if you just want to surrender. We should instead call up our banners and march on Iron Keep, burning out every traitor on the way to taking Sinclair’s neck. Show everyone what the consequences are for betraying their oaths”

“Serwyn, that is exactly what we do not want to do. There would be consequences, but they would be as much on us as on the rebels. Attacking Sinclair would scar the holdouts into siding with him against royal aggression, regardless of what position Aldric takes.”

“Let them rebel,” Serwyn spat. “We will crush them all.”

“Maybe, but we will lose half the kingdom in the process. Our positions are too even and their base is behind the Shatterstone Mountains. Protected. No, we need Sinclair to make the first move. We need him to be the aggressor.”

“Why? He rebelled. That is the aggression.”

“There is aggression, and then there is aggression. I agree that just rebelling should be enough, but in practice things are different. If we attack first, we will be seen as tyrants, bringing violence to the kingdom. Letting Sinclair make the first move will override in their minds everything that has happened. It will give the fence-sitters a reason to stay loyal.”

“So what, we never call our banners? Never fight back?”

“We might be forced to, but if we play it right, we might not have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“We use this meeting as an opportunity. We see who on Sinclair’s side shows, and we arrest any who do.”

“Did not you just say we could not be the aggressors? And have not you been complaining about my arrest of Thurston?”

“This will be different. Once arrested we can frame it however we want. Sinclair could have used the same instance to have you killed, forcing our hand. The kingdom will see you as both just and merciful, offering peace before resorting to force.”

“Interesting,” Serwyn said, nodding slowly, warming to the idea. “Very well, uncle. We will do it your way. But I want a large guard contingent. If we can think of turning this to our advantage, so can they.”

“Your Grace, a smaller group would be more discreet. We do not want to appear desperate or afraid, and if we show up with too many guards, they could become suspicious and run. Perhaps someone we know is able to handle himself. I know Colm and his men have been proving themselves useful to you. Perhaps we bring them, appear more … meek than we plan on being.”

Serwyn was nodding again. “Yes. That would work. Very well, set it up.”

***

Outside Valemonde, Lynese

William stood in front of the large tent erected between the two armies by the Acolytes, Baron Pembroke at his side and the Lynesian Elder a few steps away, in front of the entrance to the tent. No one else was allowed in the area, to keep an ambush like the one outside of the Dead Man’s Hills from happening again.

All three men watched the Lynesian delegation coming toward them. They had agreed that William and Baudric could each bring one person with them, and yet, surprisingly, there were three Lyensians. More surprising, the third was Isolde. True, Isolde was the intermediary that got this entire peace conference underway, but William did not have the impression she was normally involved in these kinds of high-level negotiations with her father. If anything, she had given William the opposite impression, that she and her father had, at best, a contentious relationship, and she would be the last person he would bring.

Knowing Baudric, it was some kind of tactic, as if he thought bringing her would convince William to change his mind. If he did, he was about to be wildly disappointed.

The party stopped in front of them and William took stock of them. He had seen a painting of the Emperor in Soriveau, which had depicted him as larger than life, strong and imposing. Of course, artists commissioned for royal portraits tended to be … flattering. To hear Pembroke, who had met the man once, tell it, Baudric was a portly man, ruddy and large.

Either description, however, was somewhat off from the man in front of him. Sagging skin, finely tailored clothes that hung loose, as if he was losing weight faster than his tailors could keep up with.

If anything was a sign of how difficult the times were inside the city, that was.

“Your Highness,” Baudric said, stopping several steps from them, giving a slight droop of his chin in lieu of a bow.

“Your Majesty,” William said, copying the gesture.

The elder acolyte, his robes pristine despite the muddy ground, stepped forward. He raised his arms. As believers in the ancients, even emperors and princes stopped to listen when an elder spoke.

“Descendants of the Ancients. We stand here today, not as enemies, but as brothers separated by strife. The Ancients, in their wisdom, gave us this world to share, not to tear asunder with war. In such moments, they call on the men that rule in their name to hear their wisdom. Their words. The Ancients have granted you this opportunity to end the bloodshed. To forge a peace that will echo through the ages. Remember, all who stand here are bound by the same ancient blood.”

He paused for a moment, looking at the other assembled, to the lines on either side, before he turned his attention back to William and the emperor.

“May the wisdom of the Ancients guide your words and open your hearts to understanding. Let this tent be a sanctuary of peace, where the wounds of war may begin to heal,” he said, and then gestured toward the tent. “Enter now, and may your negotiations be blessed by the Ancients themselves.”

William moved first, stepping toward the tent and grasping the flap, holding it open for the others. In situations like these, the person of the highest importance entered last, forcing everyone else to wait on them. Baudric gave him an almost grin as he passed into the tent, as if he saw the maneuver William did, and appreciated the strategy of it.

Or maybe it was all in his mind, William thought, as he followed them in.

The interior was sparse, dominated by a simple wooden table with chairs arranged around it. The Elder took his position standing at the head of the table, while William and Pembroke sat on one side, facing Emperor Baudric, his advisor, and Princess Isolde.

“As agreed, the Sidorians will present their terms first,” the Elder said, gesturing to William. “Prince William, you may begin.”

“Thank you,” William said, looking at Baudric. “Our proposal remains unchanged. Lynese will cease all interference in Sidor’s sphere of influence. You will pay reparations of two hundred and fifty thousand gold sovereigns for the restitution of our wounded and lost. Additionally, you will cede the province of Rendallia to Sidor, the historical lands of House Whitton to Sidor for now and always. In exchange, our armies will withdraw from all lands outside Rendallia, with no further bloodshed. The war will end.”

William looked back to the Elder, as if to say, I am done. The Elder, in turn, gestured to the emperor. For his part, Baudric said nothing at first. He simply looked at William; whether to intimidate him or consider him, William was not sure.

“Prince William,” he finally said. “You present a difficult choice for any ruler. You ask us to limit our diplomatic options, preventing us from engaging with free kingdoms like Inos and Alchmara. You demand blood money from those you have invaded. And most egregiously, you seek to carve away a piece of our empire – lands united under my ancestor, Baudric the First.”

Baudric paused, probably for dramatic effect.

William took that opportunity to say, “Perhaps Your Majesty should have considered the consequences before sanctioning raids on our coast.”

Baudric’s lips tightened. “There is no proof of such actions.”

“I did not come here to argue old grievances. Sidor declared this war with valid reasons. This conference is to determine whether we, as the victorious party, will withdraw before Lynese lies in complete ruin. Not for you to justify your past actions or deny any responsibility for what has happened,” William said, and then leaned forward to punctuate his point. “If you wish to relitigate the causes of this conflict, we can return to our respective lines. I am content to wait until nothing remains of Valemonde but starved corpses. Then I will claim not just this city, but your entire empire.”

Isolde inhaled sharply. He knew she was surprised by his harshness. She was a pacifist at heart. But Baudric would only hear words of peace as a vulnerability, something he could exploit. To make him listen, he had to be hard-hearted and direct.

“Prince William, you speak of victory, yet I wonder if you truly understand the game we play. Your eagerness to end this conflict betrays you. I have heard whispers of unrest in Sidor, of a kingdom teetering on the brink of civil war. Is that not why you are so keen to strike a deal when your ‘victory’ seems so near? Then tell me, young prince, why do you push for peace when you could simply wait us out? This siege can last far longer than you might think. I hear you are not being supplied from home anymore.”

“You are right, Your Majesty. Sidor is not supplying my army anymore. They do not need to. You have been funding our campaign quite generously with the funds we have already taken. And the harvests will be coming in soon. More than enough to feed my men. And it will be all the easier to gather when none of it has to make it inside Valemonde’s walls.”

“And yet ...”

“It comes to this, your Majesty,” William said, interrupting him, garnering a scowl. “My cousin, the king of Sidor, has not recalled me. His orders stand. Valemonde must fall. So I am not retreating. I am not being recalled. I am not giving up. What I am doing is offering you a chance to salvage something from this war and stop the bloodshed. But I am doing it on my terms, not yours.”

“I thought this was a negotiation.”

“Then you were mistaken. This is a formal acceptance of your surrender. These are the terms you have been offered. You can take them or leave them. The choice is yours.”

The tent was totally silent. William did not look away. Did not blink. He needed the man to take him seriously, and not the young man he would otherwise seem. For a long moment, Baudric said nothing.

Finally, he said, “You drive a hard bargain, Prince William. Perhaps there is more of your uncle in you than I first thought. Very well. I am willing to accept your terms if you can agree on two concessions.”

“That depends on what they are.”

“My first condition is a reduction in the reparations. You have just boasted of how much Lynesian coin has funded your army. This war has been costly for my people, and demanding such an exorbitant sum would cripple us further. To the point where it would be worth having the fighting continue, no matter the positions we currently hold.”

“What would you consider a non-exorbitant sum?”

“Fifty thousand gold sovereigns. Any more would be beyond Lynese’s ability to pay without causing undue suffering to our people.”

William did not need to look to Pembroke to know what the Baron thought. He had been against the idea of reparations since William had suggested it. He thought William was already asking a lot for Rendalia, and reparations would push Baudric away. William had been insistent because he knew the crown would be unable to help the families of dead soldiers. He was not, however, willing to give up the peace in order to get it.

He had included it as a point where, if push came to shove, he could give ground, hoping that Baudric would be smart enough to realize it. It would give the emperor space to say he did not just give in to Sidorian demands. A chance to save face.

“Very well. We can agree to that reduction. But the cession of Rendallia province is non-negotiable.”

“That was not my second condition.”

William was caught off guard. It seemed the most likely second point for him to counter with. If anything, losing a province, even one of the more far-flung ones, would be a major blow to any nation.

“Then what is your second condition?” William asked.

“I want to end our century-long tensions and ensure that another invasion of my empire never happens.”

“No longer meddling in Sidorian affairs would be a good place to start with that.”

“Not all the tension is one-sided, young prince,” Baudric said, his tone patronizing. “I want more of a guarantee than mere words. I propose we bind our houses together. I will agree to your terms on one final, non-negotiable condition. A marriage between you and my daughter, Isolde.”

Again William was surprised. He looked to Isolde, who looked equally as shocked, meaning Baudric had not mentioned the condition to his daughter either. There was, however, something else in her expression beyond shock, something that suggested she did not entirely hate the idea.

William did not answer right away. He considered. Baudric was right, in that he wanted to return home. And as conditions went, this one was not without precedence. Political marriages had ended wars before. It could work to Sidor’s advantage, giving them a foothold in Lynese politics.

And Isolde certainly was beautiful.

“I... agree,” William heard himself saying, before he had even accepted the idea in his own mind.

Baudric looked … pleased. “Excellent. We will finalize the details at the wedding. But as a show of good faith, I will order all my forces to stand down in a cease-fire, if you do the same.”

William nodded. “Agreed.”

“Good,” Baudric declared, rising from his seat. “We will send word for details.”

As the others stood, William’s gaze drifted to Isolde once more. She met his eyes, like she was trying to read him. He offered her a small, reassuring smile, which she tentatively returned.

The war was over.