The king sighed as he slipped a gaudy necklace of gold and rubies over his neck. The Ramere was isolated in the far southeast of Dezrel, tucked in between the Erze Forest, the Quellan Forest, and the Crestwall Mountains. Lord Ingram Murband there owned everything from the Thulon Ocean to the Kingstrip, yet he complained more than any of the other Lords. And it was always about the blasted elves.
“Don’t they insist they’re our allies? Granted, I have no trust in their claims. No one lies like an elf, right?”
“Too true,” Gerand said dryly. “However, Ingram claims that the Quellan elves have begun shooting arrows at his loggers.”
“He go too far into the forest again?” the king asked with a chuckle. Gerand was not amused.
“He’s asking for permission to declare war.”
King Vaelor scoffed.
“You’re telling me he’s to be the rough part of my day? Bring in the old goat. I’ll laugh in his face and tell him if he wants to cut down the whole Quellan Forest he’s more than welcome to, but he’ll use his own soldiers as arrow bait, not mine.”
“Any provocation in the south may cause the Dezren elves to retaliate in kind,” Gerand warned. “We have many farming villages stretching north from the Erze Forest. Thousands of acres of crops might burn.”
Edwin pulled on his thick crimson robe hemmed with white dove feathers.
“It won’t happen,” he said. “If Ingram sends in any troops, they’ll be dead in hours, and then all his precious farmland will be vulnerable. He won’t dare risk conflict if he knows I won’t protect his idiotic ass.”
“Your wisdom is unquestionable,” Gerand said. He clucked his tongue, immediately angry at himself afterward for doing something that announced his nervousness. So far the conversation had gone as expected. This next part, however, was what mattered. Murband and his elves could go dive into the Bone Ditch for all he cared.
“One last matter,” Gerand said. “I’ve received word that Thren Felhorn is expected to kill the Trifect at their Kensgold.”
“Which member, exactly?” Edwin asked as he stared at himself in a mirror, turning this way and that to see if anything seemed out of place.
“All of them, your majesty,” the advisor said. “The heads of all three families, to die within minutes of one another.”
The king whistled appreciatively.
“Good to know the old boy hasn’t lost his balls. How’s he expect to do that?”
Gerand explained the plan. The king’s eyes never left the mirror.
“Interesting,” said the king. “Clearly we can’t let him go through with it. Send word to one of them, Connington maybe, about their plan. Let them find some devious way to scheme it to their benefit.”
“I’m not sure that is the best course of action,” Gerand said, broaching the subject carefully. He was well aware of the king’s paranoia, and he planned to use that to his full advantage. “But you remember what their last Kensgold was like, don’t you?”
“You’re assuming I even know what a bloody Kensgold is.”
Gerand mentally swore. The last time the Trifect had held a Kensgold was two years ago. The king had only been fourteen at the time.
“A Kensgold is a meeting of all three houses of the Trifect,” the advisor explained. “They meet at one of their estates. They brag about their riches, compare trade agreements, discuss the downfall of any competitors, and overall spend a frightening amount of gold. It’s a show of wealth, power, and solidarity.”
“I care about this why?” Edwin asked. He grabbed his gold sword from a chair beside him. Gerand turned and coughed, using the excuse to roll his eyes. The king had commissioned the sword as one of his first orders of rule when he ascended the throne at age twelve. The longsword wasn’t tinted gold or covered with gold at the hilt. The whole bloody thing was made of solid gold: heavy, cumbersome, and thoroughly impractical. It shone beautifully in the light, though, and that was all Edwin cared about.
“Mercenaries from all over Dezrel will come pouring in for a taste of the coin the Trifect will be spending during the Kensgold. Hundreds upon hundreds, some from as far west as Ker and Mordan. At their last Kensgold, our best estimates put them at having over five thousand men on their retainer, not counting their house soldiers.”
King Vaelor looked at Gerand as if he were insane.
“That’s nearly seven thousand men sworn to one banner inside my walls.”
“Within a short walk from your castle doors, yes,” Gerand added, unable to