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  “Here, here!” interjected another baron.

  “Aye!” yelled another.

  Many more Marlish, some who Dawkin could see and many more he could not, stomped their feet on the floor and beat their meaty fists against the tables in a show of support. The Ibians, urged on by the nodding and clapping of their own sovereign, applauded politely. A few even mirrored their Marlish counterparts in their gestures and shows of enthusiasm.

  Dawkin breathed a sigh of relief. His olive branch – or the modest display of one – had worked to win over his regal guests. It had even gone so far as to impress the most sympathetic of Marland’s barons, who his father had purposefully invited to the treaty discussion. Dawkin could only guess that Felix had brought a similar like-minded retinue of nobility with him. Had vocal critics of my father, or King Felix, been in attendance, Dawkin considered, then these talks would be proceeding very differently. Best not to think of such matters though. The truth is that this is going well. Best to continue to steer the course in the right direction.

  Dawkin slowed his clapping noticeably, sending a clear signal to the barons, who followed his lead in kind. As the applause died, he extended his palms to King Felix. “King Felix, know that any goodwill I show tonight, any manner of good manners and modesty, is due to my father, the Father of all of Marland, King Audemar!”

  At that, the hall roared with support from Marland’s barons. Even King Felix, accustomed to zeal and fervor, jolted a bit at the sudden wave of enthusiasm. Dawkin and all the rest waited a full minute before the noise died enough for him to continue his dialogue, which he then directed to Audemar.

  “Father, I believe you have your own thoughts on the discussions of this alliance?”

  “Indeed. King Felix, you and I have spoken at length, have we not?”

  “We have,” Felix confirmed.

  “Your words tonight, as always, have moved me. I too agree that what we do here will affect our kin for generations to come. So, rather than wait to see how our blood will handle our legacy, why not offer them the chance to run it for themselves?”

  Bloody hell, Dawkin cursed to himself. Bloody, bloody hell.

  Murmurs ebbed in from both sides of the aisle. Felix stroked his moustache before his fingertips traced his scar again. Audemar, seeing his counterpart dwelling on his proposal, sat back in his chair, stoic and patient as ever. Dawkin, facing his father, glimpsed out of the corner of his eye the Grand Duke studying the whole measure of him.

  Felix withdrew his fingers from his scar. “A bold proposal, my King.”

  “A new way of thinking, I will admit. Not an unseemly one, though.”

  “And your heart is set on this course of action?”

  Audemar looked to his son. “I am.” He then glanced at the Grand Duke, who had remained in his seat throughout this exchange, before resuming his dialogue with Felix. “What of you?”

  “My nephew is capable. But he, like your son, has much to learn.” With that, Felix ushered Xain to the space beside Dawkin. “And he will grasp such lessons with experience.”

  All eyes turned to the Grand Duke, who stood and rounded the head table to take his place beside Dawkin, albeit without haste. Felix, seemingly satisfied with the arrangement, returned to his chair, where he reclined alongside Audemar.

  The two kings looked on at the male descendants of their bloodline, as did the rest of the members of the two Courts in the War Hall. Dawkin sensed their relative ease, for the burden of decision had for once been lifted from them altogether. They rest, he told himself. Nay, it is more. They nearly slouch. For the weight of rule has been alleviated from their frames. To be placed on us.

  Even as the words flowed through his consciousness, for nary a moment, Dawkin knew too much time had passed. The audience in this room will take any further delay as indecision, he realized. I cannot hesitate. Nor can Xain. This is our moment in the sun. To shine. To prove ourselves. Be it for better or worse.

  So this is how it feels to be a king.

  Dawkin pivoted to face the Grand Duke. “Your Grace.”

  “Your Highness,” Xain replied.

  “My father had the prudence to review with me some of the terms he and your uncle discussed. Would you be so gracious as to let me begin this exchange?”

  “Of course.”

  Good. That is done with, Dawkin told himself. Now comes the difficult matters.

  “The alliance proposed between two nations – Marland and Ibia – must be true and pure, without hyperbole or secrets, as our good King Felix has said. So let the terms of this arrangement not be bogged down with fancy talk or shady undertones.” Dawkin paused to allow the grunts and calls of approval from his people ring through the hall. Not only did he like the sound of such affirmation, but he was counting on the positivity to motivate the Ibian Court to mirror their responses. “Let our proclamations today be bold! Straightforward! And clear! Always clear!”

  A few hearty claps and jeers erupted. Some even from the Ibian barons. Dawkin, not wanting to waste the opportunity, even a small one, continued. “First,” he resumed. “Let us acknowledge what we all suspect will be the cornerstone of this treaty. No tariffs between the two nations.”

  A smaller applause followed. I am losing them, he thought. Not yet, damn it. Not yet.

  “Now this is a prickly point, to be sure. As an island, we Marlish have relied on trade for nearly the entire course of our existence. However, due to our isolation from the continent, we have also come to rely on our own works, and as such, we are able to produce nearly everything we need, from ships to garb to food. Many barons have long opposed tariff-free trade, believing that it will stifle the consumption of home-made goods.

  “To those concerns, and the barons that voice them, I say: you are right. Trade free from tariffs will flood goods to both shores. The cheaper products from afar will outsell those made here on the island that cost more, to be certain. Merchants will see reductions in profits. Some will lose more.

  “If all the prospects of such a deal were to be so dour, I would stop here, and end these talks myself. As would my father, and any Saliswater of my kin, living or deceased. Yet here I remain, speaking, so convinced of the returns of this alliance that I beg your ear a while longer, to tell of the advantages this treaty will create.”

  Though subtle, and not large in total, Dawkin caught sight of barons and bishops on both sides leaning forward. One even cocked his head toward him, perhaps to listen more carefully.

  Dawkin, not wanting to hurry ahead of himself, fought back a grin and continued. “My trusted audience, a hundred years of conflict have left us bitter and opposed. We forget that before the Century War, the shores of both our nations could not hold the wares and treasures from foreign lands, that which came from afar to flood our homes and manors. Why the remnants of that age still affect us to this day.” Dawkin, craning his neck, found the patriarch of Har-Kin Furde. “Baron Ralf, do you remember how your family and I, when we were in our boyhood, used to search for buried treasures along the Welkin River?”

  “Aye,” said Baron Ralf proudly, beaming at having been called out by the young prince. “You and Everitt, with his cousins, and his oldest brother, Adequin, Mar rest his soul, used to scour the banks of the Welkin for remnants from our older trading days. Tis a hard task too, for the Welkin bears river stones that reflect the sky, like a thousand mirrors with water overflowing–”

  “Thank you, Baron Ralf, for such a remembrance. I, too, hold onto such memories fondly.” Dawkin returned his attention to the rest of the nobles. “You see? Our land still teems with treasures from over a century ago. How much richer do you think our kin were back in the day, when they actually had such articles in their hands? We can have that again by resuming trade with not just any power, but an ally. Consider the wealth. Your children will made aware of wares from a hundred towns and ports. Their children will run the shores of our rivers and harbors, finding treasures and tokens, just as I did with my friends. A
nd you, noble men from both nations, will reap your own rewards.”

  Dawkin paused again, to be greeted by the sound of cordial chitchat and murmurs. He scanned the width of the War Hall to see several heads nod approvingly. Even the hardest of the men seemed to cast their doubts aside as they leaned back in their seats and rubbed their chins.

  “The wealth will flow both ways, dear barons,” Dawkin continued. “As will the goods. Cedar from Ibia to our dry docks and quays. Metal ore from Marland to Ibian ports. All will share. All will be welcome.”

  “Welcome?!”

  Dawkin pivoted to find the Grand Duke incredulous, with his brow raised as he slanted back ever so slightly.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Prince Jameson, I mean no disrespect, but I feel compelled to correct an error when I hear one.”

  King Felix sprang from his chair. “Nephew, your tongue!”

  “Uncle, forgive my candor. I intend not to dishonor your sovereignty nor the manor of kin Garsea. I only speak because you appointed me ambassador to this island, to represent our family and our homeland in these matters.” Finding the concentration of the nobles firmly upon him, Xain stepped to the center, sweeping his arms in an arc. “I have no doubt that the men in this chamber have come to make progress, and not to slight the ambitions of their kings. That is why we have stayed. That is why I am here.

  “Cordialness and formality have their limits, though. Real progress involves casting manners aside, so that real men may discuss what is on their minds without fear of reprisal. Is that not correct, Your Highness?”

  “You have the right of it, Grand Duke,” Dawkin conceded, a tad concerned for what would follow.

  “Treaties, like swords or ships, are created with much effort, with sweat and strength. The terms we iron out shall be no different. We will not satisfy everyone. We will, however, come away bettering both nations.”

  “Your Grace,” Dawkin interjected. “You had concerns with my last statement?”

  “Did I?”

  “With my reference to ‘welcome.’”

  “Aw, yes. It struck me, as... contradictory to my own experiences with foreigners. Those, you say, who will welcome us to their lands if we do the same in return.”

  “You doubt my sincerity?”

  “Mar, no! Never. Your word is as firm as a boulder in storm. Your people, however...”

  “You leach!” shouted Baron Gale. A sailor from birth, with a figure to match a ship, he leaned over the table as he pointed at the Grand Duke, nearly tipping it over in the process. “How dare you come to this hall, drink our wine and insult our people!”

  Other Marlish barons rose in protest as their Ibian rivals pointed back at Gale, who by then had to be restrained by his countrymen.

  Dawkin snuck a look over his shoulder. His father remained seated, as did King Felix. The two glanced at each other, eying if either would rise to the aid of their kin. However, neither budged.

  They mean to have Xain and I settle this to the end.

  Knowing he had to take the lead, Dawkin rushed to the far side of the head table, where Mage Wystan eagerly awaited to be addressed. “Mage, would you be so kind as to quiet the room?”

  “At once,” Wystan replied.

  Dawkin then waved Sir Everitt to his side as he stepped to his father’s Right Captain. “Sir Lijart,” he beckoned. “I require your services for but a moment.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  Lijart fell to his left. As Wystan slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe, Dawkin commanded both Captains. “Small shields, at the ready. When the Mage does his duty, clamor away.”

  “Aye,” they replied.

  Wystan, having meandered to the middle of the hall, withdrew his hands from his sleeves. In each, he held a small bulbous sack, the outer layer of which appeared soft and powdery. He raised both above his head before looking to the ground.

  “Look away!” Dawkin warned the Captains.

  They raised their shields as Dawkin cupped his face. In a flash, the War Hall filled with a brilliant, white light, one that hung in the air like a flash of lightning suspended by Mar Himself. Aside from Mage Wystan, who somehow remained unmoved, those closest to the burst fell to the ground, their hands over their eyes. Others sank to their knees as more turned their backs or wrapped their surcoats over their heads. Xain fell over the nearest table, colliding with a Marlish baron whose goblet of wine splashed over the front of his doublet.

  As quickly as it occurred, the flash ended. Mage Wystan slipped his hands back in his sleeves as he strode quietly back to his seat. The barons, shocked and embarrassed, climbed to their feet to brush themselves clean. Xain, on the other hand, swung around to Dawkin, fuming.

  “What the hell was that?!”

  “A silencing, of sorts,” Dawkin replied calmly.

  Xain took a step toward Dawkin. In response, Lijart and Everitt raised their shields a tad higher, though they remained by their prince’s side. This defense did not go unnoticed by the Grand Duke, who recoiled. Spotting the distaste on the faces of his Court, though, he smirked. Extending his hand to an attendant, who came to his aid with cloth in hand, he nodded to Dawkin.

  “Prince Jameson, Your Highness, you are as clever as you are handsome. Your trick has calmed the room, as you intended, but it has also proved my point.”

  “Which is?”

  “If we proceed with the supposed terms of this treaty – as alluded to by your father and my uncle - freeing both people and goods into our land, and vice versa, then we will enjoy peace and comfort. For a while.”

  “I sense a ‘however’ in your tone.”

  “The scale of such a deal, however, is one-sided. Yes, my people will be able to travel your island. In turn, your people will leave your island to travel our land, which they will use as a gateway to the continent.

  “It is no secret... Marland’s territorial ambitions are well-known. That is part in part why your country entered the Century War. Why, after a hundred years of conflict, the other powers sued for peace. Why you annexed part of Colinne. Why Kin Guillen has been reduced to little more than a Har-Kin, and why Prince Denisot’s Promise to my cousin – your supposed future wife – was dissolved, leaving him to wander Afari as a beggar.

  “No, no, my sweet Prince. Freedom for all will not be granted so freely. Not unless we have assurances. Concessions, if you will, to equality.”

  Dawkin did not flinch as Xain quieted and murmurs rose from the Courts on both sides to fill the void. In the name of Mar Himself, I can hardly take much more of this back and forth, Dawkin thought. How has my father managed to survive such talks all these years and keep his sanity?

  He forced a grin. “What is it that you would call far, Your Grace?”

  “An island is so little land to travel, compared to the ground we would provide your noblemen to tread. If, say, we had more... well, more... then we would come closer to calling this treaty-in-progress even.”

  “More? Of what?”

  Xain turned to the vellum map that hung on the east wall. “As our part to keep the peace, we currently pay the Devout an annual tribute. You are familiar with the Devout, aren’t you, my Prince? Like your country, they are hungry for territory. Unlike yours, they can march overland to ours.”

  “Outrage!” Baron Ralf shouted. “These talks are an outrage!”

  “Father!” Sir Everitt cautioned. Dawkin shot a look at both men, who tightened their lips. The baron, at once apologetic for his folly of cutting off the prince, reclined in his seat. The knight turned his head aside, though in his obedience he glanced sideways, remaining ever watchful.

  Dawkin returned his attention back to the Grand Duke. “A tribute to you to pay the Devout is not too objectionable, in theory, depending on the amount, which we can discuss in full later.”

  “Very good, Your Highness. Very good. After all, what is money between families?”

  “Indeed.”

  “We should share that. An
d more.”

  More? Dawkin ground his teeth. These shrewd games were wearing on his patience. Any longer, and his displeasure would burst forth, embarrassing his Kin and leading to a breakdown of conversation.

  “My Prince?” Xain urged.

  No, Dawkin told himself. No. No more. No more games. No tricks. No clever words or fancy sentences. No constructions of dialogue meant to impress. Only silence. Let the fool spill is guts, say the wrong thing. Let cunning speech be the better of him, to reveal the vulpine character within.

  “Son?”

  Dawkin heard his father. He felt the stare of his patriarch and king bore itself through the back of his head. Yet he did not swing around to face him. His stare, undeterred, stayed fixed on Xain, and would continue to do so until the Grand Duke finished his piece.

  “It is all the right, my King,” Xain said, raising his palm to Audemar, his own gaze meeting Dawkin’s. “Your son is only extending to me the floor to me out of courtesy, not spite, which is beneath him. No doubt, he wants me to finish outlining the conditions of our nation for this historic treaty we are negotiating.”

  Xain. Felix. Audemar. All the barons and bishops from two kingdoms. Every one of them stared at the young Prince, waiting.

  Dawkin, unrelenting in his silence, knew he had to concede something. So he nodded. Once.

  “Marland’s library. Not of books. Of maps. Specifically, those of the Northwestern Waters.”

  Of murmurs and uproar, there was none. Only silence.

  Dawkin took a step, his heel clapping the tile, shattering the hush. He took another, then one more, followed by others, his trajectory taking him around Xain, whom he eyed with suspicion and malice. “You would have Marland, my country, release all of her treasures, to satisfy your greed?” he asked as he came full circle to face the Grand Duke.

  “A fair exchange is all I ask, my dearest Prince Jameson.”