preparing for battle and Valentyna did not have to ponder too hard to guess at their enemy. Was it a ruse? Just an empty threat? Her instincts told her it was, but she would still need to tread with the greatest of care. Her relationship with Celimus teetered on a knife edge and all that stood between peace for her subjects and almost certain slaughter was her written consent to marriage with the Morgravian King.
For that tenuous security, she owed thanks to Chancellor Krell, who had forced her hand and made her send the letter. And yet Valentyna could only hang her head in despair at thedamage done by Krell’s subsequent well-meaning but shortsighted interference in writing to his counterpart in Morgravia, Chancellor Jessom. Oh, she could scream just thinking about it. In fact, she was still so angry at the old man’s actions it had taken all her willpower to maintain her composure at Krell’s funeral. He had been quietly buried in the palace cemetery. No family had come for him; he went into the ground as lonely as he went to his god, believing he was despised.
Krell had diligently and tirelessly worked for the Briavellian royal family for nigh on twoscore years. He was like a piece of old furniture: comfortable, reliable, always there in the same place. Valentyna had grown up knowing that her father relied on him, and had come to appreciate his loyalty and advice herself. Despite her anguish that he had invited such ruin with an ill-considered move, Valentyna could not help but feel a keen sorrow that the good man would be remembered for that one poor decision among a host of wise ones during a solid and devoted career serving the Crown.
Now, in a quiet moment of reflection and private recrimination, she regretted her harsh words to him. She had no doubt that she had prompted his suicide and it was something she knew she would have to live with. Valentyna had shed her tears for him in private and she would be lying if she did not admit to herself that she missed his steadfast counsel. But she had also spoken the truth when she told him she could never forgive him for his terrible error. He had overstepped his authority and in doing so had risked the lives of all Briavellians.
Morgravia’s king was vain, avaricious, and cruel, but he was not a dullard. Because of Krell’s poor judgment, Celimus would now know about Alyd Donal’s remains being smuggled into Briavel, and that the Queen he thought he had well and truly cornered was consorting with his enemies.
A man cleared his throat quietly at one end of the walkway to interrupt her musings. She looked toward him, knowing who it would be—one of the few she allowed to come to her here if duty called. All other servants were banned from tracking her down to the bridge.
“Liryk. Please join me,” she said. He bowed in respect and walked to the center of the bridge.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Valentyna said, indicating the view before them.
“More than that, your highness,” her army’s commander admitted. “It feeds the soul.”
“Liryk,” she said, unable to help herself, “you’re a poet.”
Liryk smiled. It was good to hear her playful. That tone had all but disappeared these past weeks. “No, your majesty. I just never get tired of these moors. I’m always happy to see them when I return to Werryl after being away.”
“And so how are you and I going to give this up?”
“My queen?”
“This,” she said, moving her hand in a sweeping arc. “We will be giving this to Morgravia.” There was a note of anger in her voice. “It will no longer be ours.”
“Not giving, your highness,” Liryk proposed gently. “I’d prefer to think of it as sharing.”
“Celimus is forcing us to give Briavel to him,” Valentyna said coldly. “He is blackmailing me, Commander, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. If I want our young men to live, I have to give up the realm.”
“Pardon me, your highness, but I—and I think I can
For that tenuous security, she owed thanks to Chancellor Krell, who had forced her hand and made her send the letter. And yet Valentyna could only hang her head in despair at thedamage done by Krell’s subsequent well-meaning but shortsighted interference in writing to his counterpart in Morgravia, Chancellor Jessom. Oh, she could scream just thinking about it. In fact, she was still so angry at the old man’s actions it had taken all her willpower to maintain her composure at Krell’s funeral. He had been quietly buried in the palace cemetery. No family had come for him; he went into the ground as lonely as he went to his god, believing he was despised.
Krell had diligently and tirelessly worked for the Briavellian royal family for nigh on twoscore years. He was like a piece of old furniture: comfortable, reliable, always there in the same place. Valentyna had grown up knowing that her father relied on him, and had come to appreciate his loyalty and advice herself. Despite her anguish that he had invited such ruin with an ill-considered move, Valentyna could not help but feel a keen sorrow that the good man would be remembered for that one poor decision among a host of wise ones during a solid and devoted career serving the Crown.
Now, in a quiet moment of reflection and private recrimination, she regretted her harsh words to him. She had no doubt that she had prompted his suicide and it was something she knew she would have to live with. Valentyna had shed her tears for him in private and she would be lying if she did not admit to herself that she missed his steadfast counsel. But she had also spoken the truth when she told him she could never forgive him for his terrible error. He had overstepped his authority and in doing so had risked the lives of all Briavellians.
Morgravia’s king was vain, avaricious, and cruel, but he was not a dullard. Because of Krell’s poor judgment, Celimus would now know about Alyd Donal’s remains being smuggled into Briavel, and that the Queen he thought he had well and truly cornered was consorting with his enemies.
A man cleared his throat quietly at one end of the walkway to interrupt her musings. She looked toward him, knowing who it would be—one of the few she allowed to come to her here if duty called. All other servants were banned from tracking her down to the bridge.
“Liryk. Please join me,” she said. He bowed in respect and walked to the center of the bridge.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Valentyna said, indicating the view before them.
“More than that, your highness,” her army’s commander admitted. “It feeds the soul.”
“Liryk,” she said, unable to help herself, “you’re a poet.”
Liryk smiled. It was good to hear her playful. That tone had all but disappeared these past weeks. “No, your majesty. I just never get tired of these moors. I’m always happy to see them when I return to Werryl after being away.”
“And so how are you and I going to give this up?”
“My queen?”
“This,” she said, moving her hand in a sweeping arc. “We will be giving this to Morgravia.” There was a note of anger in her voice. “It will no longer be ours.”
“Not giving, your highness,” Liryk proposed gently. “I’d prefer to think of it as sharing.”
“Celimus is forcing us to give Briavel to him,” Valentyna said coldly. “He is blackmailing me, Commander, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. If I want our young men to live, I have to give up the realm.”
“Pardon me, your highness, but I—and I think I can
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