“Meanwhile, the city burns. Eventually Arvel and the entire Order ride out of Kair Toren, intending to rally and return. A tragedy happens, and someone close to Arvel is killed. When Arvel learns of it, he changes his mind and retreats to his territory instead. Sauven sends for him again and again, but Arvel never comes back to the capital.”
Reynald frowned. “He abandons the Savarics?”
“He does.”
“And Everard?”
“He leaves the city in the very beginning of the Kiel mess, before Hreban shuts the gates, and goes straight to Selva.”
They were always in opposition to each other, Everard and Arvel. Even their branding seemed to identify them as rivals: Everard’s crest of green, black, and silver, while Arvel’s colors were white, azure, and gold.
“Arvel always maintained that his loyalty was to the Throne and nothing could shake it,” I said. “As long as the Savarics held the Eagle Roost, he would heed their orders. Everard can’t even bother to pretend to care about anything except the Selva Dukedom. One is the renowned and honorable Golden Knight, the pillar of the realm, and the other is the heartless and cruel Sleepless Duke, a violent isolationist.”
Sauven had spent a good deal of his reign reinforcing that status quo. Which was why Arvel was celebrated in Kair Toren, and Everard was greeted with suspicion.
“I sense abutcoming,” Reynald said.
“But when the Crimson Empire invades, they both react the same. The Empire crosses the eastern border in the north and the south.”
“A two-pronged assault.”
“Yes. Their northern offensive targets the lower Trihorn, bypassing Selva, so Everard could’ve just sat back and let them invade Rellas. Instead, the Sleepless Duke moves his forces and hits the invading army. He suffers great losses but halts the northern invasion. Meanwhile, Arvel disobeys a direct command from Sauven, breaks his oath of loyalty, marches across half of Rellas, and crashes into the legions from the south. It costs him a third of his army, but he fights the Empire to a stalemate.”
Reynald sighed. “It is as expected.”
“How so?”
“Everard was born to protect the Dukedom. It’s the purpose of his life. He carries responsibility for the lives of the people in his domain. If Rellas crumbled, the Dukedom would be next. He’s acting out of pure self-interest.”
“And Arvel?”
“Arvel has never failed. He’s admired and celebrated everywhere he goes. If all the adoration and praise were replaced with suspicion and accusations, he wouldn’t be able to deal with it. He would turn his back and retreat to a place where he would be beloved no matter what. But he is still a knight and a gifted commander. Arvel’s lands are in the Western Middle Fields. The advance of the Empire would pin him between the sea and the Copper Mountains to the south. He calculated the odds and decided fighting the battle in someone’s else backyard was better.”
I took a deep breath and blew the air out. We had to stop what was coming.
The private rooms on the third floor of Taryz were really nice.
A large solid table occupied the middle of the room. Its top resembled gold oak with a darker wood inlay sealed in several coats of resin. Reynald and I sat on one side of it in carved wooden chairs, facing a large window. Outside, the Virka flowed to the Dokkon under the evening sky. If I leaned all the way to the right, I could see our house on the other side.
The door was on our left. I thought Reynald would do that thing badasses usually did in movies and books when they either choose a chair facing the exit or dramatically move one to face it, but no. He sat with his back to the door and didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it.
The bells had struck seven about fifteen minutes ago.
I slipped Everard’s den between my fingers.
“What is that?” Reynald asked.
“A man once gave me three coins. They saved my life. I kept the last one for luck.”
I put the coin away, picked up the small teapot from the ornate metal platter, and refilled our cups. The tea in Taryz was top-notch. This one tasted a little like chocolate and something else, something slightly tart. Rose hips?
The wooden door opened, and three men entered. All three were large, in their late twenties or early thirties, wearing dark gray tabards and dark cloaks secured with a metal clasp in the shape of a dargan’s head. Dargans resembled wolves, and these three did as well.
Same clothes. Same hair: very short on the back and the sides of the head, but long enough to pull back into a short ponytail on top. Drugh understood the power of branding. Anyone familiar with the mercenaries of Rellas would see one of these guys and instantly recognize which company they belonged to.
The leader took our measure. He was slightly shorter than Reynald, with light brown hair and a harsh face. He’d asked for the Magnars and found us instead, but he didn’t seem at all surprised. Drugh Harra in the flesh.
Drugh headed for the table and sat across from me. One of his guys, the blond one, leaned against the wall by the door. The other man, with darker brown hair, moved to the window and stood behind Drugh.
