Dawkin nearly dropped the replica. “Father... I... thank you. You do me a great honor. I do not know what to say. If you feel I am ready...”
“Bah! Of course you are ready. You are a Saliswater. Decision and wisdom runs through your veins as salt in the ocean. You have as much learning as any mage or general, perhaps more. Certainly, you are more educated than the barons and dukes who will be attending.”
“I will do you proud. I promise.”
“The Garseas are as shrewd as they are ambitious. You know that from your encounter with the Grand Duke. They have much to gain from this alliance. If we are not careful, they will shift the tide in their direction. We need to make sure that does not happen. We need to secure the Ibian cedar, the princess and every treasure we can wrestle from their grasp while giving as little away in return. Do you understand?”
Dawkin nodded. “For every fish they pull from our waters, we will take ten from theirs.”
“Exactly. I knew you to be the heir for this task. I knew it.”
“Father, if I may, I would like to return to the Library to study. You have given me much to think about, and much more to consider.”
“Yes, yes. Of course, my boy. Go, read, learn. Just be back here in time for supper. Afterwards, we and a select few from the Court will talk terms in this very room with the King and a handful of his attendants. I will need you there. Your kingdom depends on it.”
Dawkin extended the replica to his father. Audemar held out the palm of his hand. “No,” he said. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
For the remainder of the day, Dawkin surrounded himself with stacks of manuscripts and books in an alcove within the King’s Library. The athenaeum remained largely empty, with few of the dismissed scribes having returned for the day. Such tranquility left Dawkin at peace, one that allowed him to read at an astonishing rate, even by his own standards. By the time the sun set and the Guardian of Words went about lighting candles, he had finished eight volumes, all on the histories of alliances or the art of strategy.
Dawkin rose and stretched just as the Guardian rounded the shelf to his section.
“Pardon, Your Highness,” said the Guardian. “Are you in need of light?”
“Far from it,” Dawkin replied. “I was just about to take my leave. Make certain no one disturbs my reading materials or my area. I intend to return in the morning.”
“I will look after it myself,” assured the Guardian.
Dawkin strode past shelf after shelf, his steps reverberating against parchment and stone, each one seeming to embolden him. This is it, he told himself. This is the opportunity we have been waiting for. The one I have been waiting for. The defining moment of my princehood. To stand before kings and dukes, barons and mages. To impart my opinions. Nay, to command. To rule. Following tonight will come the treaty. Then marriage. And the crown.
Dawkin, finding that he was moving ahead of himself, refined his thoughts.
May Mar guide my hand and my tongue, may He bless my mind and my heart. For what happens tonight will be remembered by all. May Marland, above all else, prevail.
Chapter 13
The supper was modest. The conversation polite. The music soft. All in all the first hour stood as uneventful.
Dishes were cleared and glasses refilled without much noise. Dawkin noted not one fell to the floor. When was the last time that had happened? he asked himself. Though Dawkin had been in the War Hall before – for brief introductions with heads of state or to review written allegiances from barons – the night was already by far the longest he or any of his brothers had spent in the famed meeting space. So many more conferences had occurred in the hall that had shaped Marland’s history, affairs that at one time demanded his father or grandfather’s seclusion with generals for days or weeks at a time. Dawkin had heard tales of such gatherings, the last of which dated to when he was but a lad, as the Century War wound to a close. Since then, the affairs of the nation had paled in importance, to the point that the War Hall had scarcely been used in the nearly twenty years Dawkin could remember.
That is, until tonight. Though an extension of his home, Dawkin found himself admiring the transformation the War Hall had undergone. Before the evening, the room appeared more as a place for forgotten items than a place worthy of a convention, much less a regal one. However, in a matter of hours, a small company of servants had turned the drab quarters into a chamber worthy of the Most High in Afari themselves. Velvet tapestries draped the stone walls, displaying scenes of battles, hunts and landscapes, a tableau of Marland’s long and rich history. Many more chairs had been brought in, all of the finest aged oak, birch and elm, that the guests may not forget Marland’s rich resources. The tables had been cleared and set with gold and silver holders armed with tall candles, the light of which complimented that of the braziers in between the tapestries. The dishware and goblet reflected craftsmanship as well, as Audemar had allowed his own private collection to be used for the night’s gathering. The only remnant of the War Hall’s military usage was the vellum map, which remained front and center on the east wall, displaying the Marland, Afari and the Farflung Lands for all the guests to see.
Though the décor came off as pleasing, Dawkin knew that the food and drink doled out would be anything but, for important matters of state meant that neither king wanted themselves or their invitees to indulge too much. The meal was intended to satisfy hunger and thirst and nothing else, that all may stave off the fatigue of aftermeal and retain their focus. As a result, the conversation in the War Hall proved lacking, save for the occasional pleasantry here and there. Xain, sitting beside his uncle at the other end of the head table, avoided eye contact with most everybody. Felix, always a man of intrigue, simply ate and drank, nodding every once and a while whenever Audemar or a bishop or baron offered a word.
Dawkin, though at the center next to his father and in full view of all, remained detached with his thoughts. Centuries of history – of Marland, Ibia and the rest of Afari – flooded his consciousness. He could nary take a bite or a drink without another fact creeping its way into his head.
To his surprise, such a torrent of information did little to tire him. On the contrary, each detail recalled goaded his pride, invigorating his senses to the point that he wanted to stand and lead.
Patience, Dawkin had to remind himself. Patience. The night is young. The matters of state have yet to be started. Father will speak first, as is his duty as host. Then King Felix. Perhaps the Grand Duke, if the mood of the evening turns out to be courteous and generous. My turn will come though. And when it does, my voice will be heard, my words will be engraved as edicts for generations to come.
Marland will know its future king tonight.
A quick clap from his father garnered his attention. “Clear everything,” he commanded the servants. “Then leave. We fill our own cups from this moment forth.”
The servants swarmed in to remove what was left of the food, dishes and cutlery with haste. Half-empty carafes were replaced with full bottles as one by one the attendants withdrew. The last closed the doors behind him, the huge antique oaken doors creaking, leaving the room full of only nobility and sovereigns.
The creak, made louder by the sudden silence that followed, sent a shudder through Dawkin. For he knew what it meant. The shut doors stood as a barrier to exit or entry, one that would remain until the talks within the War Hall had concluded. Once done, only a king could give the command for them to open. It would be up to his father, or King Felix, to determine when the dialogue had ceased.
Such responsibility, Dawkin thought. Such burden. How has my father dealt with it all these years?
With that thought, his father stood. “King Felix,” Audemar began. “Tonight we make history.”
“History,” Felix repeated, raising his glass.
“What happens here will cement the terms we already discussed, with letters aplenty, and will outline much more than we could hope to imagine. Now, we create an allianc
e that will see Kin Garsea and Kin Saliswater through the ages.”
“Here, here!”
Dawkin raised his gaze to find Baron Ralf of Har-Kin Furde, Sir Everitt’s father, at the table in the far corner. Though a man of modest wealth, his support of their kin never wavered, a fact not lost on Audemar. So enthused was Ralf at the prospect of taking part in the treaty talks that he arrived a night early, choosing to sleep before a cook fire in the yard due to the absence of proper quarters.
Seeing the old man, his allegiance beaming, brought a grin to Dawkin’s face. If more barons were that enthused, this hall would be in danger of bursting, Dawkin mused. He looked over his shoulder to his Right Captain, Sir Everitt, to find the knight clenching his jaw as the color of his cheeks turned red. He stands embarrassed, he realized. He believes his father an old fool. An idealist. Loyal to a dream. If only more like his father filled this hall, perhaps my kin would not have to hide as we have.
Audemar, his enduring tone serious, nodded in the baron’s direction. He sat, turning again to Felix as he extended his hand to him. “My dear king, is there anything you wish to say before our scribes begin with the line items?”
King Felix, clearing his throat, rose. “Only this. Our two houses are grand. They have withstood the trials of history, most notably the Century War, to emerge as the hallmarks we know them today. That is due in no small part to the many manors that support us. A handful are with us now, those most loyal to each Crown. To you, I say welcome and thank you.”
A polite applause rose from the tables. Dawkin and Xain joined the chorus, allowing the two kings to indulge in the moment. Dawkin took a moment to survey the hall, picking up on the various facial cues and side whispers throughout. On one side sat the Marlish barons along with a few bishops, while on the other rested those of Ibia.
Sideway glances. One baron leaning in to another. Whispers shared from one ear to the next, even as the clapping continued. Dawkin caught sight of it all.
The proliferation of such gestures troubled him. Though loyal – the Ibians to Felix, the Marlish to Audemar – Dawkin doubted their willingness to adhere to whatever would transpire in the course of one night. Despite their rich heritage as a seafaring nation, too many Marlish were set in their prejudices towards foreigners, a byproduct of the hundred years of conflict. Through counsellors’ and servants’ whisperings, Dawkin had learned of such voiced protests at the Conclave, even from barons who voted in favor of the alliance. Such tensions now stewed in the hall, where Dawkin could feel the resentment across the aisles.
The applause simmered as the men in the War Hall took their seats, leaving the sovereigns the last to stand. Audemar bent back, about to sit, when Felix cleared his throat.
“Your Majesty, may I?” he asked, his hand sweeping toward the audience.
“Of course, my dear King Felix,” Audemar replied, a bit off guard yet still on his best manners. “Speak your mind.”
“Thank you.” Felix faced the audience of two nations. “My friends, both new and old, I very much appreciate the warm welcome our hosts have extended to us. I look forward to many years of banquets, hunts and fine companionships.” Felix clapped Audemar on the shoulder, who smiled in response.
Felix then stroked his moustache before his hand descended to caress the line of his scar. Almost instantly, his tone darkened as he stepped away from the Marlish sovereign. He tilted his head higher, his voice booming. “For all our talk of peace though, we should never forget all that it took for us to arrive at this moment. A century of war. A hundred years of conflict that saw Kins from both lands robbed of sons and daughters!”
This proclamation stirred the barons. Both sides of the hall burst spouted shouts and the pounding of fists. The Ibians erupted louder at first, but the Marlish, never wanting to be outdone, matched their pitch and volume voice for voice.
Felix, emboldened by the passion he had stirred, rounded the head table to come front and center. “Yes, yes, brothers. Our past is stained by blood, doused with brine and tears, and weathered by regret and bitterness. Even as allies through much of the Century War, our hands never embraced one another. For sailors cross sailors every day on the water. Marlish pirated Ibian ships. Ibians set afire Marlish vessels. Such is the way of the sea.
“But no more! From this day forward, we enter a new pact. One of fellowship... no! Brotherhood. An alliance that stretches across the ocean, joining two powers from now to the Judgement of Mar!”
The audience, nodding all throughout Felix’s speech, applauded. Dawkin even spotted a Marlish baron or two grin across the aisle. Perhaps this may end well, Dawkin thought.
Felix extended his hands. The uproar quieted and he clasped his hands together. “I have a confession. The confidants of my Court, my closest advisors, cautioned me on coming here. They said that Marland had much to offer – to another nation – but had no concessions so great as to woo my daughter and the rest of my family to your shores. I listened as they named many a great kin on the continent who could offer terms and unions far stronger than this island nation could.
“After hearing their concerns, I took a moment. It was then that Mar, in His benevolence, struck me with a fervor, one that I knew could only be divine. In my enlightened state, I admonished my fellow man - those I had known since childhood - as being short in sight, devoid of ambition. I dismissed them all, so as to collect my thoughts and center my soul on Mar Himself.
“At first, with no others to cloud my mind with opinions and comments, I felt alone. The Voice of Mar went silent. I considered perhaps that my command to dismiss the Court was in haste. Then it dawned on me. Me. We. I. I had accused my Court of being too consumed with the present, while I lacked any true vision to see beyond my years. My friends,” King Felix stepped away from the head table, to take his place in the center of the War Hall. “What we do here today, our intention, is not only for our benefit. Yes, some intend to line their pockets through trade and exchange, as is their right, while others want to voice discontent and protest change, as is theirs. Yet for all our motivations, with this alliance between us, those who will reap what we build, the nets we construct to harvest the sea... that will not be us. Truly, it will be our children, and our children’s children, and their kin for a thousand generations to come!”
Affirmations from both sides of the aisle, in the form of clapping, cheers and the pounding of fists, met Felix as he raised his hand. He turned to Audemar, who had raised his goblet to Felix in an act of approval. Others responded to Felix in kind. Dawkin stood, himself applauding. He threw a sideways glance at Xain, who also rose, consciously clapping faster and louder than he.
Though reveling in the mood of the hall, Felix motioned for all to hear him once more, reaching for his scar again as he waited for the audience to quiet. “With the future of our Kin and Har-Kin at stake, the treaty we seek to secure tonight cannot be done without first setting our differences aside. The whispers and asides must stop. Some in this very hall have heard of one more recent than most. You know of what, and whom, I speak.”
With that, Felix swung around to gaze upon both his nephew and Dawkin. Murmurs stirred at the onset of the look. Audemar, stroking his beard, came up out of his seat to lean forward on the table.
“My good king, what is the meaning of this?” Audemar asked. “I trust this is no plisky.”
“On the contrary, King Audemar, on the contrary. I never joke when it comes to matters of both family and state. Do not tell me you are ignorant of what transpired between my nephew and your son.”
“I have heard rumors, varied and unfounded.”
“As have I. Be they rumors or hard truths, the fact remains that there is some animosity between our kin, however exaggerated or understated.” With that statement, King Felix narrowed his focus squarely on Dawkin. “Son of my host, Prince Jameson, do you have anything you would like to add?”
For an instant, Dawkin forgot his lifelong ruse, thereby not identifying with the one name h
e and his brothers shared. He glanced at his father for guidance and support, to find his patriarch looking back, a tinge of concern and warning to his otherwise stern demeanor. The stare served as a reminder to Dawkin, who at once left his seat to address King Felix.
“My dearest King, as always, you are correct in your observations and judgment. There has been a bit of a... well, shall we say, spirit of competition between the honorable Grand Duke of Almata and myself. At first, the banter betwixt us was gentlemanly. It was hardly a matter of discussion. However, such as is to be expected of young, bold men, the amicable sport we shared escalated. As you know, he bested me at the hunt. It was my fault truly, for never before had I hunted with a man of my own age with skill comparable to mine, and in seeing a match to my princehood, my guard faltered. He succeeded in the hunt, fair as Mar can judge.”
Dawkin moved from the head table to join King Felix in the center of the War Hall. He kept a respectable distance that he may honor the monarch’s personal space, while staying in the focus of all, especially the Ibian Grand Duke, whose glare he could sense was burning a hole within his skull.
“In return, jealously overwhelmed me. I sought to even the score, so as to remind the Grand Duke of the bloodline that rules this island. In my resentment, I overlooked my responsibilities as a host and a friend. I stand here now, having been identified by my error by a foreign sovereign, to ask forgiveness for my transgression.”
Dawkin bent at his waist to bow before the Grand Duke. His gesture, long and deep, was more than necessary, as were his words. No sooner had he bowed to one lower in rank than he did a tide of murmurs swirl from the barons and bishops of both nations. Dawkin, undeterred in his public act of humility, remained prostrated. Even his gaze remained fixed on the floor, so that he stayed ignorant of the goings on around him.
“Now, that is a royal!” exclaimed Baron Ralf, whose outburst was met again with queer looks and backtalk until another Marlish lord voiced his support.
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 14
