Gail Martin - The Sworn

Donelan’s gaze fell to Cam and Wilym. “I know your men are tired. I’ve asked a lot of them, and I’m going to have to ask more.”

“They’re ready, my liege,” said Wilym. “Ready and willing to serve.”

Donelan nodded. “Good. Let them know what we’re up against. The Veigonn will be the last line of defense if Alvior’s goal is the crown.”

“Alvior’s mine.” They all turned to look at Cam. He barely recognized his own voice, thick with anger. “I want to be the one who kills him, for the troubles he’s brought down on Margolan and for betraying his kingdom.” Cam held up his maimed hand. “And I owe him for this.”

“May Chenne grant your vow,” Donelan murmured. He motioned for them to rise, looking genuinely touched. “Realize that your loyalty may place each of you in danger. It’s clear the Divisionists are hardly vanquished. Go nowhere without a trusted armed guard. Our numbers are few enough. We can’t afford to give those bastards any more of an advantage than they already have.”

Renate, Marja, and Tahvo each bowed low and kissed Donelan’s ring in fealty, reaffirming their loyalty before they left. With a nod and a glance that seemed to speak volumes, Tice went to find Allestyr to begin preparations, and Kellen went to stand guard inside the door. Cam and Wilym lingered, and Donelan waved at them to sit back down.

Donelan went to the decanter of brandy that sat on a table near the fireplace, and he poured three generous measures, returning with nearly full goblets for each of them. Donelan sank heavily into his chair, nearly sloshing his brandy.

“By the Crone’s tits! I hope you appreciate the restraint it took not to put my sword through Mannon’s tongue!”

Wilym and Cam chuckled, accustomed to Donelan’s dark humor. “I was actually wondering how put out you’d be with me if I had slipped a blade between Yrje’s ribs.” Wilym’s tone was dry, and Cam wasn’t quite sure how much Wilym was joking.

Donelan chuckled. “Now there’s a pleasant fantasy. Perhaps I’ll fall asleep tonight picturing it.” He shook his head. “Dark Lady take my soul! This is not the legacy I’d hoped to leave Isencroft.” The smile faded from his face, and his eyes grew dark.

“Have you heard from the other kingdoms? Will they give aid?” Wilym sipped at his drink, and from his expression, Cam knew Wilym was already formulating battle plans.

Donelan nodded. “I’m trying not to take it as a bad omen that all of them sent replies by vayash moru to shave time off the trip. Kalcen is readying his army, and he says we can count on him to hold their coast. Of all the allied kingdoms, Eastmark is probably in the best position to defend itself. Plague hasn’t taken hold there, and their last harvest was good. Word came from Principality that their mercs would rise to the cause, but Staden’s seneschal added a note that the king is very ill.”

“Jonmarc Vahanian is Princess Berwyn’s liegeman,” Cam said quietly. “If war comes, he’ll be at the forefront. I know Dark Haven will rally.”

“Tris Drayke pledged his support, of course, but that’s a thorny problem.” Donelan took a long drink of his brandy and sighed as it burned down his throat. “We don’t dare let the Margolan army onto Isencroft soil, and it’s anyone’s guess whether Tris can put much of a force together, after all they’ve been through over there.”

“What of their navies?” Wilym asked.

Donelan shrugged ill-humoredly. “I’m not entirely sure what Eastmark has in ships. Principality runs its navy the same way it runs its army. It provides sanctuary to mercenaries and privateers who pledge never to sell sword against them. The letter from Principality said they had the gold to assure the privateers’ loyalty. Margolan never has had much of a navy, but I believe Tris when he says he’ll bring everything they have against the invaders. Damn it all to the Abyss!”

“Do you believe what the Oracle said? That this could be a War of Unmaking?” Cam asked quietly.

“You know what I usually think of those shrouded biddies,” Donelan grumbled. “Skulking around without showing their faces, always talking in blasted riddles. It’ll be a War of Unmaking for the poor bastards who die on the field, that’s for certain. As for the rest of us,” he said and paused, then upended the rest of his brandy. “I’ll worry about chaos after we make it through the battle.”

Donelan stood abruptly and stretched. “Damn, I wish Viata were here.” He looked up at the painting of his late wife that graced the wall above the mantel. Viata stood tall and proud, forever young, with the darkly beautiful features that made her royal Eastmark heritage clear. She wore the signet of the queen of Isencroft clearly on her right hand, and at her throat was a necklace with the crest of Eastmark, although Cam knew that her father, King Radomar, never forgave her for marrying Donelan.

“She was a fine woman, very brave, and shrewd about things like war. She was Radomar’s heir in backbone, that’s for certain,” Donelan said wistfully. He set his glass aside and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Ah well, perhaps it’s best she didn’t see these dark days.”

Donelan turned back to them, and it was as if he willed his mood to lift. “Well then, if we’re headed to war, I want to hunt tomorrow. The stag are plentiful, and if we go to war I’m likely to miss another shot at them. I’d prefer a winter hunt, but there’s no telling where we’ll be by the time the snow flies.” He nodded toward Wilym and Cam. “You’ll come with me. A good hunt clears the head. It’ll take time for the army to be ready to march. No one will miss us tomorrow.”

“Are you sure it’s safe, Your Majesty?” Wilym asked.

Donelan snorted. “I doubt Alvior managed to win over the king’s deer to his treason. Bring along a guard or two if you must, but mind that you don’t plan to march a squadron into the woods. You’ll scare off all the game!”

Wilym chuckled. “Yes, m’lord. As you wish.”

Donelan looked at Cam. “You’d best get that silversmith of yours outfitted. You’ll need a battle squire.”

“Rhistiart? I hardly think-”

Donelan’s gaze was shrewd. “He’s loyal and he’s proven that he can keep a clear head under pressure. That’s more than I can say for most men. These are hard times, m’lad. He’ll have to do.”

Cam was sure Donelan could read his uncertainty in his expression, but he nodded. “He wanted an adventure. I think he’s already gotten more than he bargained for, but I’ll tell him.”

Donelan clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Good. Now both of you, make sure you’re ready for the hunt tomorrow. It may be quite a long time before we have the chance to do this again, and I want to enjoy every minute of it.”

The next day dawned clear and crisp. The Feast of the Departed at the equinox was still more than a week away, but the air had already turned cold in Isencroft. Cam felt his spirits come close to lifting for the first time since he had left Brunnfen. A glance at Wilym told Cam that the head of the Veigonn was almost enjoying the day as well. They’d left their horses tethered at the edge of the forest. Now, Donelan, Cam, Wilym, and two guards walked silently through the forest armed with bows in search of a prize stag.

It was the kind of sacrifice Donelan would only have made for war. Cam knew that Donelan much preferred to hunt when snow lay on the ground. Donelan was an expert tracker, and a good bit of his enjoyment came from the skill of finding his quarry. Cam also knew that the king was quite partial to venison. Although the king had helped to cull the herd earlier in the year when starvation threatened to weaken the deer, those had not been trophy hunts. Today’s hunt might give Donelan a rack of antlers and bragging rights for the season.