Read Online The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) by R.J. Grieve - Free Book Online
Authors: R.J. Grieve
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dressed richly in
wine-coloured velvet, a golden chain hanging around his neck. He knew himself
to be handsome and took almost indecent pleasure in the thought that he outdid
his rival in this respect - but in fact he erred. Although every feature of the
Prince’s visage, taken individually, was good, his face was less than the sum
of its parts. It was, perhaps, his habitual expression that marred the effect,
a shadow of the bitter character within. Vesarion noted that Enrick had grown a
beard during the last year, sculpted with such care around his lips and jawline
that it unfortunately trumpeted his vanity.
The Prince’s rival, on the other hand, cared nothing for vanity.
He was clean-shaven and his brown hair was cut with military shortness. His
attire, though appropriate to his rank, bore the plainness of a man who thought
little about his appearance. The Prince would have been galled, had he but known
it, that for all the fair-haired good looks that his mirror told him he
possessed, when the two men were in a room together, it was Vesarion who drew
the eye.
If any of these thoughts were passing through the Prince’s
mind that morning, nothing of them appeared in his manner. He leaned forward
with all the eagerness of a terrier at a rat hole. In contrast with his father,
he appeared vigorous and decisive. His confidence had grown markedly in the
last year, almost in direct proportion to the King’s decline.
Vesarion directed a sharp glance towards the Prince,
revealing nothing of his thoughts. “All you have told me is interesting enough
in its way, but I see no evidence that the eastern baronies are on the edge of
revolt. My Lord of Sorne may be hot-tempered and a little rash, and I can well
believe that this new tax of yours hit hard, but he is by his very nature direct.
If he felt you had dealt with him unfairly, the first thing he would do would
be to get on his horse and come to Addania to tell you so to your face. The
others may grumble a bit and complain, but that is a far cry from insurrection.
I think you read too much into a bit of discontent.”
“That is not what my informants tell me.”
Westrin shrugged disdainfully. “Informants? You mean the
scoundrels who take your gold then tell you what you want to hear?”
Enrick lost a little of his poise. “Do you think I want to hear of revolt?” he snapped.
His cousin eyed him coolly. “Do you not?” he asked softly.
The Prince shot a swift look at his father before
reattaching his smile. “Come, Westrin, let us not quarrel when there is no
need. I assure you that we are of one mind in this matter. We both know that
Eskendria’s strength lies in her unity and anything that undermines that unity
is something that we both abhor.”
Westrin merely bowed slightly in reply, disconcerted that
the mask was back in place so quickly. He briefly turned his eyes to the King
to see how he was taking all this, but the older man was still gazing absently
into the fire as if he neither heard nor cared.
Although unable to read his cousin’s thoughts, Enrick was
aware that he had failed to convince him.
“Very well,” he said. “Since nothing less than seeing the
evidence with your own eyes will serve to reassure you that what I say is true,
go to Sorne on some pretext or other and do a little observing on your own
account.” He appeared to consider the matter further. “I know, take Sareth with
you and you can tell Sorne that you wished to inform him of your betrothal in
person. He will like that, as he has always had an inflated idea of his own
importance.”
Vesarion, well aware that he was being manipulated, opened
his mouth to demur, but the Prince pre-empted him. “You said yourself that we
lacked accurate information and, forgive me, but I feel that anything I tell
you is by definition suspect.”
The Prince had the satisfaction of seeing such direct tactics
pay off. Westrin knew he had been boxed in a corner and
wine-coloured velvet, a golden chain hanging around his neck. He knew himself
to be handsome and took almost indecent pleasure in the thought that he outdid
his rival in this respect - but in fact he erred. Although every feature of the
Prince’s visage, taken individually, was good, his face was less than the sum
of its parts. It was, perhaps, his habitual expression that marred the effect,
a shadow of the bitter character within. Vesarion noted that Enrick had grown a
beard during the last year, sculpted with such care around his lips and jawline
that it unfortunately trumpeted his vanity.
The Prince’s rival, on the other hand, cared nothing for vanity.
He was clean-shaven and his brown hair was cut with military shortness. His
attire, though appropriate to his rank, bore the plainness of a man who thought
little about his appearance. The Prince would have been galled, had he but known
it, that for all the fair-haired good looks that his mirror told him he
possessed, when the two men were in a room together, it was Vesarion who drew
the eye.
If any of these thoughts were passing through the Prince’s
mind that morning, nothing of them appeared in his manner. He leaned forward
with all the eagerness of a terrier at a rat hole. In contrast with his father,
he appeared vigorous and decisive. His confidence had grown markedly in the
last year, almost in direct proportion to the King’s decline.
Vesarion directed a sharp glance towards the Prince,
revealing nothing of his thoughts. “All you have told me is interesting enough
in its way, but I see no evidence that the eastern baronies are on the edge of
revolt. My Lord of Sorne may be hot-tempered and a little rash, and I can well
believe that this new tax of yours hit hard, but he is by his very nature direct.
If he felt you had dealt with him unfairly, the first thing he would do would
be to get on his horse and come to Addania to tell you so to your face. The
others may grumble a bit and complain, but that is a far cry from insurrection.
I think you read too much into a bit of discontent.”
“That is not what my informants tell me.”
Westrin shrugged disdainfully. “Informants? You mean the
scoundrels who take your gold then tell you what you want to hear?”
Enrick lost a little of his poise. “Do you think I want to hear of revolt?” he snapped.
His cousin eyed him coolly. “Do you not?” he asked softly.
The Prince shot a swift look at his father before
reattaching his smile. “Come, Westrin, let us not quarrel when there is no
need. I assure you that we are of one mind in this matter. We both know that
Eskendria’s strength lies in her unity and anything that undermines that unity
is something that we both abhor.”
Westrin merely bowed slightly in reply, disconcerted that
the mask was back in place so quickly. He briefly turned his eyes to the King
to see how he was taking all this, but the older man was still gazing absently
into the fire as if he neither heard nor cared.
Although unable to read his cousin’s thoughts, Enrick was
aware that he had failed to convince him.
“Very well,” he said. “Since nothing less than seeing the
evidence with your own eyes will serve to reassure you that what I say is true,
go to Sorne on some pretext or other and do a little observing on your own
account.” He appeared to consider the matter further. “I know, take Sareth with
you and you can tell Sorne that you wished to inform him of your betrothal in
person. He will like that, as he has always had an inflated idea of his own
importance.”
Vesarion, well aware that he was being manipulated, opened
his mouth to demur, but the Prince pre-empted him. “You said yourself that we
lacked accurate information and, forgive me, but I feel that anything I tell
you is by definition suspect.”
The Prince had the satisfaction of seeing such direct tactics
pay off. Westrin knew he had been boxed in a corner and
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