start killing ourselves, and that shall only make our enemies laugh all the harder!”
Varan nodded, coolly enough, and reclaimed his seat. Gestured for Usyn to retake his, with no small irony. Usyn stood for a moment, trembling. His temper seethed, desiring escape, yet no convenient target presented itself. Family Varan were one of Hadryn's oldest and wealthiest. They had many claims to the Great Lordship of Hadryn and there had been blood feuds in the past between Telgars and Varans…all buried now, within the common unity of the Verenthane brotherhood. Usyn was young, yet he knew that Udys Varan had many supporters amongst the other Hadryn nobles. Given his chance, Udys would make his move and claim Hadryn Great Lordship for himself.
Usyn took a deep, shaking breath. Then he sat, fighting to keep his breathing even. This was intolerable. Never in all his life had he felt so trapped, so humiliated, so…small. He was Great Lord of Hadryn. Long had he dreamed of the moment when his father's title would be his. But not like this. Not like this.
Breakfast was eaten in merciful silence. The coming sunlight coloured the walls of the tent increasingly bright. From about the camp, the sounds of activity increased. Finally, Lord Udys spoke.
“Our predicament is not unique,” he said, wiping the last grease from his plate with a piece of bread. “For as long as the descendants of the Udalyn continue to raise the flag across the border in Taneryn, these troubles will continue. They shall trouble your sons, too, my Lord,” with a meaningful glance at Usyn, “and most likely our grandsons and great-grandsons as well. The Udalyn are their inspiration, and our never-ending shame. The Udalyn have survived us for a century, hidden in their valley. We claim to be the greatest of the northern powers and yet we have failed to destroy them. That failure invites others to attack us in the Udalyn's name.”
“This was our best chance,” Yuan Heryd said sombrely. “The death of our lord gave us rights under the crown law. It is the first time we have had the chance to get that bastard Krayliss's head on a pike. Now, he's run cowering to the king for protection.” He shrugged, always pragmatic. Yuan Heryd had that reputation. “We tried. At least he may lose some credibility amongst his own people. He is belittled. We have achieved at least that much…and who knows? The king's law may see his head on a pike yet.”
“The satisfaction shall not be quite the same,” Usyn said icily. It was difficult to speak of such things so calmly as Yuan Heryd. But his father had respected the man. He would try, whatever the effort. “Sometimes I wonder whether our support for the crown law is worth all the trouble it gives us.”
“Young Lord,” said Yuan Varan, leaning forward on his stool, with meaning, “disabuse yourself of such notions. There are only three provinces of Lenayin that follow the true, chosen path of Verenthane. The other eight are weak; their Verenthane nobility lacks the courage to whip their local pagans into shape. In those eight, the pagans remain a majority. We cannot control them on our own. We control them through the king; for the king, though flawed, is a true Verenthane. Such are the unpleasant compromises of power, young Lord. Your father knew it and you should learn it also.”
“That wonderful king,” Usyn said sarcastically, “has spent the better part of my life gallivanting with pagans and serrin demons from Saalshen.”
“The better part of your life, yes,” agreed Udys. “You have barely nineteen summers, my Lord. An eyeblink in the passage of power. For a moment, the king favoured the serrin. That was the doing of Cronenverdt—that man has caused more damage to Lenayin than any other in our history. He claimed credit for great victories against Markield, and the king, believing in omens, foolishly believed that the Nasi-Keth and their serrin puppet-masters were responsible.
“But now, Cronenverdt's influence is fading. He tried to mould the king's heir into his own image, but failed. The second heir, gods be praised, is a true Verenthane, and the north holds his favour. His wife—your dear sister Wyna, my Lord—is the Lenay queen-in-waiting and has already borne us a Hadryn heir to the Verenthane throne. The king now reads new omens, most especially in the birth of his heir's son, and favours the north once more.
“Soon, the war shall come and we shall march to the Bacosh