Three figures sat in the dark and cold; a fire flickered in the fireplace, but the welcoming flames seemed to do little to dispel the chill rising from the walls of red-tinged stone. The heat coming from their expressions was a sharp contrast to the frigid air as they glanced from one another over the surface of an ornate able, leaning back in high-backed chairs.

“You gave up too soon.” The tone was acrid and accusatory. The speaker was a woman, proud and unbent despite the silver streaks in her auburn hair. Her cheeks were somewhat sunken from age and worry, but nevertheless served only to accentuate her regal look and bearing. By all rights, anyone caught in that gimlet gaze should have quailed and shied away. The target of her displeasure instead bridled in indignation, starring back belligerently.

“His majesty was dead. Sebastian’s army was in ruins and he himself cowering in Rotenstein. The Eastern March was already in flames. What, exactly, was I was meant to do, Eva?” The man was tall and skeletally thin. Pale eyes peered from under a fringe of black hair, thin red lips drawn into a tight gash.

“That’s Dowager Baroness Akhe to you, Eomund!”

“No.” Sebastian, Baron Rotenstein, has a deep and sonorous voice that rumbled from the barrel of his chest. He spoke calmly and slowly, enunciating every word. “Here and now, with the three of us, it’s Eva from us to you, Eva. We have no cause to stand on ceremony here.”

The fire flickered. Shadows danced over the walls, illuminating tapestries and hangings adorning the somber walls, contrasting with the red-flecked stones. Eva’s face could have been carved from the same rock, belying the fury in her eyes.

“Fine.” She said, holding herself stiffly erect. “His majesty was dead, true. Had he no heirs? Have you no honor? You sit here, Sebastian, having bent the knee. Eomund too – the Easterners never even so much as poked a toe into your county!”

The Earl of Drachmont sighed, an exhalation equal parts exasperation and frustrated regret. “I sit here, as does my Lord Rotenstein, reduced and defeated but still in control of our ancestral lands. You sit here a widow, with your husband and son dead on the field and their knights skulking in the woods like bandits and your lands forfeit.” The needling words drew blood, the Dowager Baroness’ face paling in fury. Sebastian raised his hands placatingly.

“Let’s be polite here; this isn’t behavior that benefits peers of the realm-“

“What realm?!” Eva burst out. “There is no realm! There’s us, and a few others, those who swore fealty to House Stanmark and those who hid in the hills.”

Sebastian of Rotenstein nodded, his manner still placid and placating. His clothes were rich even now after defeat, the golden flower on green fields of his house patterning the brocade, a needling reminder that though defeat had come, he had weathered the worst of the conquest unbent.

“We swore.” His sonorous voice was quiet. “We all spoke oaths of fealty and oaths of homage. And all of those words are nothing. Eva, the House of Waccewald is dead. If any heirs are still alive, they’re in the wind.”

“Your words may have been wind.” Eva’s voice was also quiet, but no less vehement. “I’ve stayed true to mine.”

“You have nothing left but those words.” Sebastian said, chiding. “Your manors and castle are forfeit because you fought to the last. Your family is dead. You knights came to me asking for support, did you know?” Her head shook in denial, of this situation as much as his words. Sebastian heaved a heavy sigh. “Do you think I don’t wish this was different?” His fist thumped into the lacquered wood of the table once, twice. “They killed my son!”

“So why did you submit?”

Sebastian looked like he was trying to strangle reason from the thin air. Earl Eomund stepped in. “Because, Eva.” He had regained his calm, drawing nobility around his thin frame like a cloak. Because there was no point in throwing everything away. Because it would be worse than a sin, it would be a mistake.” His hands indicated the three around the table. “Between us, we represent two of the marches. We could have fought to the bitter end; Seb could have sat behind barred gates and waited for them to starve him out, and watch the future of his remaining children go up in smoke.” Like you did.

The silence stretched after that, the unspoken words lingering in the air with the woodsmoke. The air seemed to cool. All three nobles settled back, their anger still there but held in check – ice cold rather than burning hot.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“What now?” Eva’s voice was quiet and bleak. “Why have you gathered us here to begin with, Eomund? You’re right, the Kingdom is gone. We few that remain skulk in the shadows waiting for the Easterners to root us out like rats. So why?”

“Because despite what you apparently think, I am not quite as resigned as you make me out to be.”

“And what role do I play in these schemes of yours?” Eva asked. “I am Baroness only in name. My family is dead, my land stripped. I have a few followers still loyal to me – to Rigobert’s memory, really – but surely not enough to merit my place at this table.”

“I have a suggestion.” Sebastian’s voice was quiet. “Eva, I knew Rigobert for years; we’d squired together at the same household, and I was sad to see him go.” Eva nodded, tears leaking down her cheek. She wiped them away with an angry gesture, trying to reel in the unwanted emotion. Sebastian continued: “I do not mean my suggestion in any way to besmirch his memory. You are, at least in name, still Dowager Baroness of those lands. The Easterners have not bestowed them on another. But as a woman, and one still in rebellion, you cannot make a claim on them.”

“You cannot possibly be suggesting what I think you are.” Eva said, hiding the tears behind scorn. Sebastian spread his hands.

“A union of our houses would allow me – nominally having sworn loyalty – to press your claim and regain your lands. I could help bring in your remaining followers from the hills and normalize their current state.” The remaining words ran unspoken, eager ambition like a thrill. And we could unify the two baronies – bring them into a single whole. Bring the March to new heights. Buy us both a seat at the table from now on.

There was no empty talk of love; Eva, in some abstract part of her mind, appreciated that at least. Her grief was still too raw, and in any case… for us, love is a pointless affectation. Unlikely, unreal. What mattered was advantage and alliance, the ties that bound individuals and houses to common name and cause. She spoke through dry lips, her voice a whisper. “Yes.”

The figures at the table relaxed marginally. The first question of the day had been settled. Eomund leaned back forward, his hands clasped on the table’s surface and eyes peering out from under the black locks. “As I said, I am not resigned to our fate. We lost the war, this is true, and I cannot deny it. The Easterners moved faster than we thought was possible and caught us in our beds.” His eyes flashed with anger and indignant ambition. “But what they did not do is defeat our host in battle. We are leaderless, divided, scattered between our individual holdings. But the Kingdom is an idea, and that idea is rock.”

Sebastian shifted uneasily. He had been in the field, unlike the others at the table; been with his retinues when the mailed fist from the East smashed them like an egg and swept the shards aside in their thrust towards Waccewald itself. “What would make this time different? There is no King, no Marshal to bring our reticent barons and dukes out in force.”

“There can still be both.” The yearning in Eomund’s voice was palpable. He glanced between his companions. “We sit here, representatives of two marches; between us, we can pull in half the remaining nobility. The rest would follow, I’m sure of it.”

“And if they don’t?” The acrid tone had not quite leeched out of Eva’s voice as she regarded the Earl of Drachmont. “The Baron Rotenstein asked a pertinent question. What makes this time different?” Besides you not hiding in your hole while our homes burn. The slap was not spoken aloud, but must have communicated clearly enough through her eyes. Eomund bridled indignantly before taking deep breaths and settling back.

“For a start, we have the initiative now. They smashed us piecemeal then; but now, we can choose when to strike and how at our leisure. Make plans – make allies! The lords in Hordarholmr and Hatland cannot like Stanmark in the ascendancy any more than we do, and may help us cast them down.”

Sebastian leaned in, interested. “Have you entertained envoys?” Eomund’s smile was probably meant to be enigmatic, but the barely restrained ambition made it into a beast’s snarl.

“Perhaps. All that matters is the possibility is there.” The Earl leaned in again, close over the table. “Make no mistake, though, possibilities move, open and close as they will. I would have you swear to this purpose now, not prevaricate. Prevarication is what lost us the kingdom last time.”

Sebastian grimaced at that, but unwillingly nodded, adjusting his bulk uncomfortably. He’d been perhaps too quick to take the field, placing himself in an isolated position – a calculated and necessary risk, from the marcher lord on the old kingdom’s eastern flank. But he would not forget how the remaining lords had taken their time assembling their retinues and marching to his aid, then withdrawn to their homes rather than mustering to hold the crown city.

“There’ll be no turning back, if we swear.” He warned, his eyes flicking from one to the next. “For any of us. Each will hold the other two’s lives in the palm of their hands. We’ve sworn oaths, binding ones, to the new king.” Eomund spat aside at those words. Sebastian continued, “the Eastern king will not take kindly to our betrayal this soon.” It’s barely been a year.

Eomund shrugged carelessly. “If we win, that is all immaterial. And if we are to win, we have to move now. Already, they begin to consolidate their power. Soon, they will have cemented the conquest in truth. Turned the loyalties of one baron too many, parceled out new fiefs to their own Lords, raised new castles where old ones have been cast down.” Spiderlike fingers curled into a fist. “But for now, we still have the advantage. We even have the numbers, if the rest of old Waccewald joins us!” His hands moved animatedly, his eyes glazed over as he imagined armies, wealth, lines on a map as yet undrawn.

And on his shoulder, unseen, his own demons laughed softly as they beckoned forth another war.