to keep up with his older brothers. There was rarely a circumstance that found him unsmiling or unable to wrench humour out of the situation.
‘A legendary name,’ said the Earl with a polite nod.
‘Now, if he could only learn to master the bow …’ Brendan added with an evil grin. Martin had never been well suited to the weapon and had shunned it for the sword.
Robert saw the brothers eyeing one another. He had known all three sons of the Duke since they were born and was used to their constant rivalry. Should this discussion continue, he knew it would become an argument with Martin growing more frustrated by the moment, to Brendan’s evil delight.
Sensing that his sons were on the verge of another of their many confrontations, the Duke shouted, ‘Bearers, bring the head of the beast to the keep. We’ll make a trophy of its head for Lady Bethany!’
Her father’s scowl caused a grin to return to the girl’s face.
The Duke continued. ‘And you two—’ he pointed at first Martin then Brendan ‘—behave yourselves or I’ll have you riding night patrol along the Eastern border.’
Both boys knew their father wasn’t joking as each had had to endure more than one night with the garrison’s night patrols, wending their way through treacherous forests in the bitterly cold dark. ‘Yes, Father,’ they replied, almost in unison.
The Huntmaster set his bearers to work, while the nobility started the ride back to Crydee Keep.
As they made their way among the boles of the forest, seeking the game trail that would lead them back to the road to Crydee, Bethany said in a falsely sweet tone, ‘Too bad you boys didn’t find a boar.’
Both brothers exchanged looks, and for a rare moment, Brendan’s sour expression matched Martin’s.
Supper was festive despite the furious storm building outside. The mood was abetted by a roaring fire in the great hall, ample wine, and a sense of safety from the fury of the elements. The banter around the table was predictable; the two families were close and the meals shared uncountable.
Formal seating had been abandoned years before, as the two wives, the Duchess Caralin and the Countess Marriann, had quickly become like sisters, and had talked across their two husbands until the Duke had decided that comfort outweighed protocol.
So the Earl Robert sat in the seat tradition gave to the host’s wife, while she sat in his. The two men could chat, as could their wives, and harmony was ensured.
The Duke’s two sons sat to the right of the Earl, while Lady Bethany sat to her mother’s left. After most of the meal had been consumed, Brendan elbowed his brother lightly. ‘What is it?’
‘What is what?’ said Martin, his brow furrowed as if irritated by the question.
Martin’s dour expression made Brendan’s grin broaden, as if he sensed another opportunity to vex his brother. ‘Either you’re dying to overhear Mother’s conversation with Countess Marriann, or there’s something on the end of Bethany’s nose.’
Martin had indeed been inclining his head in that direction as his brother spoke, but his gaze returned with a snap to his brother. His expression was one Brendan had seen only rarely, a deep and threatening look that warned the youngest brother that this time he had stepped too far over the line. Those previous experiences usually resulted in Brendan running very fast for his mother’s protection when he was very young, or his father’s or his brother Hal’s when older.
But rather than erupt in the rage that followed that particular black look, Martin simply lowered his voice and said, ‘You saw nothing.’
His tone was so filled with controlled anger and menace that Brendan could only nod.
Sensing something between his sons, Duke Harry said, ‘If this storm gets worse, we’ll have a lot of work to do in the town for quite a few days.’ He looked at Martin. ‘I’ll want you to take a patrol to the north and north-east, to see how the villagers fare.’ Then he said to Brendan, ‘And you’re old enough to lead one as well. To the south and south-east.’
‘I can see to those villages on my way home, your grace,’ said Earl Robert.
‘Linger a few days more,’ said Harry. With a warm smile he glanced to where his wife sat in animated conversation with the Countess and added, ‘They do so miss one another.’
‘True,’ said the Earl. ‘We do seem to have less time for visits.’
Leaning over, Harry asked, ‘You have closer ties with kin in the east. What do you hear?’
The Earl knew exactly what the Duke referred to. ‘Little. It is as if people are suddenly cautious to the point of silence.’
Almost since the creation of the Western Realm of the Kingdom there had been rivalry between West and East. Everything east of the small city of Malac’s Cross was viewed as ‘the real Kingdom of the Isles’ to the majority of citizens and the ruling Congress of Lords. The West was often seen as a drain on national resources, since much of it was empty and mountainous or, worse, inhabited by non-humans, dwarves, elves, trolls, goblins, and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. Administration costs were high relative to the amount of revenue generated for the Crown, and there was almost no political advantage to be had from serving in the West. Real military and political advancement came from serving in the Eastern Realm. Hunting down raiding bands of goblins or trolls was not a path to promotion; fighting against Keshian raiders or border skirmishes against the Eastern Kingdoms was.
‘I count on you for something more dependable than what comes through Krondor,’ said the Duke. ‘Your family is new to the Far Coast, while my house …’ He let the sentence trail off.
The history of House conDoin in Crydee was well known. A brother to the King had conquered the Far Coast, once Great Kesh’s most far-flung frontier, and annexed it to the Kingdom, almost doubling the breadth of the nation in less than five years. Liking the area where he had ended up after his struggles, he had persuaded his brother to give him the Far Coast and built the very keep in which they now dined, Crydee.
Carse, the Earl’s home, was actually the more critical trading and commerce centre, being blessed with a far better harbour and sitting squarely at the heart of the coast, with all farming, mining, and foresting materials bound for export eventually finding their way to Carse’s docks.
Earl Robert’s father had been given the office of earl by Henry’s grandfather, with the King’s blessing, when the previous earl had died without issue. As no estate on the Far Coast was considered desirable enough for any Eastern noble, the award went unchallenged. More than once Lord Henry had considered that he, Earl Robert, and Morris, Earl of Tulan, were almost an autonomous little kingdom unto themselves. The taxes paid to the Crown were modest, reduced by half by what the Prince in Krondor took, but the requirements were meagre as well, so for the most part the Far Coast was ignored.
‘One hears rumours,’ said Robert, leaning over. ‘The King’s health is poor, according to one cousin I consider reliable. It’s said that healing priests are required frequently for maladies that would be counted mild in most men his age.’
Henry sighed as he sat back, lifted his goblet of wine and took a sip. ‘Patrick was the last true conDoin king, in my judgment. Those who have come after are like his wife, vindictive and manipulative, always plotting: true Eastern rulers.’ He set down his wine. ‘Mark you well, if the King dies without male issue, we may be sucked into conflict.’
Robert’s expression clouded. ‘Civil war, Harry?’
Henry shook his head. ‘No, but a political struggle in the Congress which could keep the throne vacant for a long time. And if that happens …’ He shrugged.
‘A regent. Who do you think the Congress would be likely to appoint?’
‘There’s the rub,’ said Henry. ‘You’d have to ask your Eastern kin. I haven’t the foggiest.’
The