And also, Katerin’s lover.
Beside Luthien came Oliver deBurrows, a fellow Gascon, that most curious of fellows. Felese liked Oliver quite a bit, mostly because of the way the halfling unnerved deJulienne, whom Felese did not like at all. Anchoring the line on Brind’Amour’s right stood the half-elf Siobhan, a former slave, leader of the notorious Cutters, a band of Fairborn who had ever been a thorn in the side of those who would unlawfully rule Eriador.
Felese looked them over carefully, trying to guess the intent. It was the presence of Kayryn Kulthwain, the one he did not know, who finally tipped him off. This was no announcement of a future queen of Eriador, Felese realized, for these were Brind’Amour’s generals!
“I do appreciate your coming here on such short notice,” Brind’Amour said casually.
“We are entertaining a great guest?” deJulienne asked, nodding to the empty chair.
“A fellow king,” Brind’Amour replied.
“Huegoth?” Felese asked hopefully, for news that the war on the eastern shores was at its end would have been most welcome to the Gascon.
Brind’Amour didn’t miss that excited smile, and he also noticed that deJulienne didn’t seem so pleased.
The Eriadoran king shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Not Huegoth.” Then, without dragging out the suspense, Brind ’Amour motioned to one of the guards standing in front of a side door. The man opened the door and an orange-bearded dwarf, regally attired in a flowing purple tabard hanging loosely over gleaming silver mail, strode confidently into the room.
Both ambassadors went down to one knee as the orange-bearded dwarf walked past to take his seat beside Brind’Amour.
“I trust that you two are familiar with King Bellick dan Burso of DunDarrow?” Brind’Amour asked, and he did well to hide his smile at the hint of a frown tugging at the edges of Guy deJulienne’s mouth.
“I am honored, good King Bellick,” said Felese sincerely.
“My friend Brind’Amour has spoken well of you,” Bellick answered, and neither ambassador missed the importance of the fact that Bellick had not referred to Eriador’s leader as “King Brind’Amour.”
“I, too, am honored,” said deJulienne.
Bellick snorted derisively and looked to Brind’Amour.
“I have summoned you here to announce a truce,” Brind’Amour explained, then looked to his dwarvish friend. “More than a truce,” he corrected. “Know you that the kingdoms of Eriador and DunDarrow are now one.”
Felese wore a grin, though he realized that the situation in Avonsea might soon deteriorate. DeJulienne, though, openly gawked, obviously displeased by the prospect of taking such unwelcome news to his merciless king!
“Under Eriador’s flag?” Felese asked.
Brind’Amour looked to Bellick, and both shrugged. “Perhaps we will design a new flag,” Brind’Amour said with a laugh, for they hadn’t even thought of such minor details.
“But you, Brind’Amour, will speak for DunDarrow in Eriador’s dealings with Gascony?” Felese pressed, thinking that this might work out well for his merchant kingdom.
“Well-reasoned,” replied Brind’Amour.
Guy deJulienne could hardly contain himself; he knew by the fearful flutter of his heart that something bigger would be revealed here.
Brind’Amour saw his discomfort, and so he played along, enjoying the spectacle. “All goods traded between Gascony and DunDarrow will flow through Port Charley,” he explained. “Port Charley to Caer MacDonald, and then distributed to the dwarvish encampments in the Iron Cross.”
Guy deJulienne was trembling.
“And what of the east?” Felese pressed. “When will Chalmbers be opened to Gascon trade?”
“The fighting in the east is ended,” Brind’Amour announced, and it seemed to him as if deJulienne was having trouble drawing breath. How the Eriadoran king was enjoying this! “The men of Isenland will not fight in the face of Eriador’s fleet.”
“A stolen fleet!” deJulienne blurted before he could help himself.
Brind’Amour shrugged and chuckled, willing to concede that irrelevant point. “However gotten, the fleet flies under Eriador’s flag, and the fierce Huegoths will not battle with these ships, for they have no desire to give aid to Greensparrow, who is Eriador’s enemy.”
The words sent a shock ripple through the gathering, sent murmurs along the line behind the Eriadoran king and even from the guards standing at the room’s three doors. All of those waves seemed to gather heavily on the shoulders of the foppish diplomat from Avon.
Baron Guy deJulienne worked very hard to control himself, to steady his breathing. Had Brind’Amour just declared war with Avon?
“Surely we have not come together on this glorious occasion to hurl insults,” said Felese, trying to soothe things. The news of the Caer MacDonald-DunDarrow alliance was marvelous, the news of cessation of hostilities with the Huegoths even better, and Felese didn’t want the continuing animosity between Eriador and Avon to put a damper on this bright situation. From Gascony’s greedy perspective, it was better for all if the two kingdoms of Avonsea were at peace.
“Insults?” deJulienne managed to stammer. “Or threats?”
“Neither,” Brind’Amour said sternly, coming out of his seat to stand tall over the foppish man. Felese tried to intervene, but the powerful wizard simply nudged him aside. “Know you that there will be no peace between Eriador and Avon as long as Greensparrow sits on Avon’s throne,” Brind’Amour proclaimed, as overt a gesture of war as could be made.
“How dare you?” deJulienne said breathlessly.
“My good King Brind’Amour,” soothed the shocked Gascon ambassador.
Brind’Amour relaxed visibly, but did not sit down and did not let the scowl diminish from his face. “We asked for peace,” he explained. “In good faith earlier this same year, we signed in Princetown with Duchess Deanna Wellworth, who spoke for King Greensparrow of Avon, a binding document for peace.”
“Binding!” echoed deJulienne loudly, pointing an accusing finger and seeming to gain a fleeting moment of momentum.
Oliver blew him a kiss and the distraction gave Brind’Amour the upper hand.
“Broken!” the Eriadoran king roared, coming forward, and the stunned deJulienne skittered backward and nearly tumbled. Brind’Amour did not pursue him physically, but his verbal tirade continued the assault. “Broken by cyclopians, working for your treacherous king! Broken by the spilled blood of Eriadoran innocents in hamlets along the Iron Cross!
“Broken,” shouted Brind’Amour, motioning to his stern-faced fellow sitting calmly in the second throne, “by the spilled blood of DunDarrow’s dwarfs.”
“Be not a fool!” deJulienne pleaded. “We have Huegoths to contend with, and so many other . . .”
Brind’Amour waved his hand and the terrified man fell silent. “We of Eriador have a more pressing enemy.” Then, responding with his trump card, Brind’Amour motioned again to the two guards standing at the door over to the side of the room. Again the door was opened and a miserable Resmore was dragged in by two elven escorts.
Felese stood back in thoughtful posture, his hand stroking his fashionable goatee.
“Now you know your enemies, foolish pawn of Greensparrow,” Brind’Amour said to deJulienne. “Go to your king. War is at your door!”
The man of Avon, horrified, ran from the room, but Felese remained, seeming truly intrigued. “A friend of Greensparrow’s?” he asked, indicating Resmore, who was in a crouch on the floor, seeming barely conscious.