Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

And in Hamvelt, high in its mountain fastness, angry currents among the burghers started to come together. Sworn Priests were banned there, but the agents of the Pontifex of the Black still moved in secret, spreading Elysian gold where it would do the most good. They spoke of the long-disputed border between Vordan and the League, the coastal counties over which so much blood had been spilled over the centuries. And to Hamvelt’s ancient nobility, ever jealous of its privileges, they spread the word that the queen intended to finally dissolve the Duchy of Orlanko, just across the mountains, and subordinate the old families of Vordan to the new “representatives of the people.”

At length, couriers set out from these three great cities, hastening by stagecoach and riverboat across the length and breadth of the continent. In their diplomatic bags, secured by the wax seals of the world’s most powerful men, they carried messages addressed to the new Queen of Vordan. The letters were in three different languages, couched in elaborate diplomatic circumlocutions, citing ancient legal precedents and disputes generations old. But when all the curlicues and embellishments were stripped away, they all carried the same deadly simple meaning:

War.