Chapter 191 Divided Tables
Chapter 191 Divided Tables
Before the light had more than a hint of grey about the east, a peculiar rhythm came over Levy Point. It was the thudding of feet on the dry, packed earth, measured and precise; a sound to turn heads at cookfires and wagons where late risers still sat.
Those who had spent time around Avalon recognized the sound immediately.
The visitors did not.
Mercenaries, priests, merchants, and hedgeward knights drifted toward the noise, curious to see what had interrupted the camp’s slow awakening.
Their curiosity quickly turned to amusement.
A detachment of the White Company, no more than twenty-five men, emerged from their camp already running. Each wore the strange leather armor that Avalon favored, and each maintained the same steady pace without speaking.
The laughter grew louder when several people noticed another figure among them.
Aldric.
The heir of Avalon ran alongside the soldiers without distinction or privilege. No horse was waiting for him, no attendants carrying his gear, and no effort was made to separate him from the surrounding men.
Several mercenaries found this hilarious.
More than one Hedgeward knight loudly questioned the wisdom of running anywhere when a perfectly good horse existed.
One veteran even declared that real knights never practiced running because running was what happened when battles went poorly.
The jokes continued for nearly half an hour.
When the White Company finally returned, they remained in formation and moved with the same steady rhythm that had carried them out of camp. No man had fallen behind, no man had quit, and none appeared exhausted by the effort. As the soldiers slowed to a halt, the laughter from the gathered crowd began to fade and was replaced by something much closer to respect.
The professional soldiers watching from the sidelines started studying them more carefully. A few mercenary captains exchanged looks, silently calculating what they had just witnessed.
Five miles in armor was impressive.
Five miles in armor while carrying on a conversation afterward was something else entirely.
The comments changed.
The mockery remained, but there was now an edge to its language and jestures.
A desire to explain away what they had seen.
One particularly arrogant mercenary finally stepped forward.
He was a large man with the confidence common among fighters who had won enough battles to believe they could win every one that followed.
“If any of you lads want real training,” he called loudly, “I’d be happy to teach you.”
His men laughed then. Several men near them did too. "Someone has to teach you that running isn't fighting," the mercenary shouted throwing out his arms wide. Someone actually answered.
“Very well.”
The laughter stopped.
Tiberan, known as Tib, stepped away from the White Company.
The veteran’s expression remained calm, almost bored.
The mercenary grinned.
“You're volunteering?”
“I am.”
The grin widened.
“Excellent.”
Tiberan glanced toward the eastern horizon where the sun was slowly climbing behind a line of distant trees.
He studied it for a moment before nodding.
“When the sun clears those trees,” he said calmly, “we will be finished.”
The mercenary followed his gaze.
Fifteen minutes.
Perhaps a little less.
The man laughed.
“Finished with what?”
Tiberan removed his gloves and handed them to one of his soldiers.
“Training.”
That single word caused several White Company veterans to smile.
The mercenary noticed.
Unfortunately for him, he misunderstood the reason.
Around them, the crowd began to grow. Mercenaries abandoned breakfast. Teamsters stopped working. Even a few nobles wandering the camp paused to watch.
Something interesting was about to happen.
Tiberan removed his sword belt and passed it aside.
“No weapons.”
The mercenary nodded confidently.
“No weapons.”
“No permanent injuries.”
That earned a few chuckles from the White Company.
The mercenary’s confidence finally wavered.
Only slightly.
Still, pride had already trapped him.
Too many people were watching.
Too many people were smiling.
Retreat was no longer possible.
Tiberan simply nodded.
“Good.”
The veteran stepped onto the open ground and waited.
The mercenary joined him a moment later.
As the first rays of sunlight touched the tops of the trees, the growing crowd fell silent.
Everyone understood the same thing.
One of these men knew exactly what was about to happen.
The other did not.
…
Later that morning
The mess tents were jammed. Laborers sat next to the merchants, and mercenaries pressed close on tables packed with teamsters and guards. Even a couple of the Hedgeward knights had given their pride a holiday to get at the hot stew and good tea.
Squire Ryn Breckenmere hurried between the tables, carrying trays of bread, bowls of porridge, and steaming mugs.
He never knew being a squire could be profitable.
“Boy!”
A copper landed in his hand.
The merchant who tossed it pointed toward an empty seat.
“Tell us what happened.”
Ryn grinned.
This was the fourth time in the last half-hour.
He set down his tray and immediately began.
“It started when that mercenary captain said he’d teach the White Company how to fight.”
The table laughed.
“He thought running made them weak.”
Now others nearby began listening.
Ryn was surprised that several people were turning their chairs slightly to listen to him.
A few more coppers appeared.
That encouraged him greatly.
“Then Tiberan stepped forward.”
“Who’s Tiberan?” someone asked.
“The soldier in white armor near Lord Aldric. The skilled veteran.”
“Which veteran?”
Ryn paused.
That was becoming a problem.
The White Company seemed to be filled with veterans.
“The one that smiles, talks a lot.”
That did not help.
Several people laughed.
“The one who fought.”
That earned even more laughter.
Ryn ignored them and continued.
“He looked at the sun and said they would be finished before it cleared the trees.”
A few listeners exchanged looks.
They had heard that part already.
“What happened next?”
Ryn’s eyes widened.
“He never stopped moving.”
Now the nearby tables were listening as well.
The young squire set down the tray entirely and began demonstrating with his hands.
“The captain would step forward, and Tiberan would already be somewhere else.”
He pointed.
“He’d dodge.”
Another gesture.
“He’d twist.”
Another.
“He’d strike with an elbow.”
A fourth.
“A shoulder.”
A knee.
“A foot.”
The listeners leaned forward.
Ryn shook his head.
“I swear I’ve never seen anything like it.”
That part was completely true.
“The captain couldn’t get hold of him. Every time he tried, Tiberan would drive him to the ground.”
A mercenary frowned.
“How many times?”
Ryn thought.
The actual number was becoming fuzzy.
“Six.”
Someone at another table snorted.
“It was four,” said a mercenary.
“It was six,” confirmed someone from the crowd.
“It was enough,” said a merchant in frustration.
That answer generated laughter.
Ryn pointed dramatically.
“And every single time Tiberan stepped back and let him get up again.”
That earned several approving nods.
Honor mattered.
Especially among fighting men.
The mercenary captain’s defeat was becoming entertaining.
The manner of it was becoming impressive.
Another copper appeared.
Then another.
Ryn quickly pocketed both.
“Tell it again.”
So he did.
By the third telling, Tiberan moved faster.
By the fourth, the mercenary captain hit the ground harder.
By the fifth, Ryn was no longer entirely certain which details had actually happened.
The listeners certainly didn’t care.
The story was good.
That was enough.
What surprised him were the questions.
The same question appeared at nearly every table.
“Who is Tiberan ?”
At first, the answer seemed obvious.
“Tiberan.”
The questioner would immediately shake his head.
“No. Who is he?”
Ryn frowned every time.
He had no answer.
Tiberan was just Tiberan.
A White company veteran.
A man who followed orders.
A man who seemed to know everything.
A man everyone listened to.
Beyond that, he realized he knew almost nothing.
Near the back of the tent, a mercenary captain finally asked the question differently.
“Was he angry?”
Ryn thought about it.
About the fight.
About Tiberan’s face.
Then he shook his head.
“No.”
The table became quiet.
“No?”
“No.”
Ryn searched for the right words.
“It looked like practice.”
The silence that followed lasted several heartbeats.
A teamster slowly lowered his mug.
A mercenary frowned.
Practice.
Not a duel. Not a mock battle, just practice.
The implication settled heavily over the table.
If that had been practice...
What happened when the White Company fought for real?
Ryn watched the thought spread from face to face.
Then another copper landed in his hand.
The merchant smiled.
“Boy.”
“Yes?”
“Tell it again.”
Ryn grinned.
He was beginning to think this might be the finest morning of his young life.
…
Minister Halvern’s voice was beginning to fail him.
The conclave had been in session for days, and although younger men might still possess energy for endless debate, the minister’s throat had long since surrendered.
Even so, he continued.
The midday meal had become something of a tradition. Rather than break entirely, the assembled lords, ministers, merchants, priests, and landholders gathered beneath the great pavilion while the steward’s staff distributed food and drink. During that time, Halvern reviewed the agreements reached during the morning session.
It kept everyone informed.
It also prevented certain individuals from later claiming they had misunderstood what they had agreed to.
“The first matter settled,” Halvern announced, consulting his notes, “concerns the hiring and administration of mercenary companies.”
That immediately drew attention from half the room.
Several mercenary captains straightened.
Others looked nervous.
“There shall be no central guild, authority, or organization controlling the hiring, payment, discipline, or deployment of mercenary companies operating within the Levy Point charter.”
The first lot let out some heavy breaths of relief. Most of the rest just scowled. Halvern went on, "Each lord shall be individually liable for whatever company he retains. Payment, and the behavior, the contract, the discipline of that company rest with the hiring lord."
Lord Varlen nodded.
Lady Seryn nodded.
Lord Malric looked mildly pleased.
Several merchants looked disappointed.
The proposal had been debated heavily.
Some had hoped to create a central authority that could regulate contracts and rates.
Others had hoped to use it to gain influence over military forces.
Neither side had succeeded.
One mercenary captain stood.
“What of our rights?”
A few groans immediately followed.
The question had already consumed nearly an hour that morning.
Halvern rubbed his forehead.
“Your rights remain unchanged.”
The mercenary frowned.
“And privileges?”
Now several nobles openly rolled their eyes.
The man pressed onward.
“If we serve the realm, should we not possess the same protections as knights?”
That statement immediately reignited the room.
Several mercenary captains voiced support.
A few lesser lords nodded cautiously.
Then Ser Garrick Valemont stood.
The Crown Prince’s representative.
The King’s representative.
The room quieted.
Ser Garrick possessed a remarkable ability to silence arguments merely by standing.
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
The mercenary blinked. “No?”
“No.”
Ser Garrick folded his hands behind his back.
“A knight serves through oath.”
His gaze swept across the room.
“A knight serves through duty.”
Then toward the mercenaries.
“A mercenary serves through contract.”
The distinction landed hard.
A few captains frowned.
Others wisely remained silent.
“The Crown will not grant knightly privileges to men who may choose a different employer tomorrow.”
The discussion ended.
Not because everyone agreed.
Because everyone understood the decision had been made.
Halvern immediately moved on before anyone could attempt another argument.
“The second matter concerns criminal judgments and penalties within Levy Point and upon the levy roads.”
That generated far more attention.
And considerably less happiness.
Several ministers immediately sat up straighter.
The priests exchanged glances.
Cassivar of Prosperterra smiled at a man who sensed trouble approaching.
Halvern continued reading.
“Levy Point shall operate under Avalonian legal standards regarding violent crime.”
The room became very quiet.
Then very loud.
“What?”
“Avalonian law?”
“Absolutely not.”
Several voices erupted at once.
Lord Malric smiled.
Lady Anastara looked entirely unsurprised.
Aldric continued eating.
Halvern waited.
Eventually, the noise faded.
“Rape.”
The minister read directly from the document.
“Violent assault. Murder. Arson. Theft of horses. Theft of livestock.”
His eyes swept across the room.
“These shall be capital offenses.”
The reaction was immediate.
Several priests began speaking at once.
Merchants looked horrified.
One lesser lord nearly spilled his wine.
Halvern continued before anyone could interrupt.
“For men fifteen years of age and older.”
That produced another wave of discussion.
“For women, review and judgment shall occur before sentencing may be carried out.”
The objections came quickly.
Too quickly.
A priest rose first.
“Those laws were abandoned centuries ago throughout much of the kingdom.”
“Not in Avalon,” Lord Malric replied.
The priest frowned.
“That does not make them correct.”
“No.”
Malric nodded.
“It merely makes them effective.”
A murmur spread through the room.
The priest did not look pleased.
Halvern continued reading.
“Coercion. Bribery. Intimidation. Extortion.”
Now several ministers looked uncomfortable.
Cassivar’s smile vanished entirely.
“First offenses may result in banishment.”
The room quieted.
“Repeated or serious offenses may result in imprisonment or servitude.”
Now the ministers were no longer smiling.
“Major offenses resulting in significant harm may carry capital punishment.”
That statement exploded like a thrown torch.
Several nobles immediately objected.
The priests objected louder.
A merchant loudly declared the law barbaric.
Another declared it necessary.
Soon, half the room was arguing.
With a sense of amusement that steadily increased, Lady Elena watched the debate progress.
The fascinating part was not the outrage.
It was the ones who appeared outraged.
Many of the same people objecting most strongly were also the people who routinely used influence, favors, threats, and political pressure to achieve their goals.
Avalon had quietly declared such behavior a crime.
And suddenly, those individuals found themselves deeply concerned about legal philosophy.
Lady Anastara leaned toward her.
“Interesting and very clever, isn’t it?”
Elena smiled slightly.
“Very.”
Across the room, Cassivar rose.
Surely intending to make a speech.
Before he could speak, Lord Varlen raised a hand.
“Are you objecting because the law is unfair?”
The Eastwatch lord paused.
“Or because you might violate it before supper?”
The room erupted in laughter.
Even a few ministers failed to hide their smiles.
Cassivar sat back down.
The debate continued.
The arguments multiplied.
Yet as the meal progressed, a realization slowly spread through the gathering.
Levy Point was not merely building roads.
It was laying the foundations of rules.
And for perhaps the first time, many of the assembled nobles were beginning to understand that Avalon intended those rules to apply equally to everyone.
…
Later
The break after the midday meal was short but productive.
Lady Anastara, Lord Malric of Isenford, Lady Elena Avalon, Lady Seryn of Windwatch, River Warden Hadrien, and Ser Garrick Valemont gathered inside a small command tent overlooking the river.
Once everyone was seated, Lady Anastara opened a ledger.
“Before we begin, Avalon has a favor to ask of Windwatch.”
Lady Seryn smiled.
“That sounds expensive.”
“You will probably make it so,” Malric replied.
The laughter helped ease the tension.
Anastara pointed to a map spread across the table.
“Windwatch has the nearest river port capable of handling Avalon’s levy shipment for the Crown. We have reviewed the roads and docks around Levy Point, and unloading everything here would likely take three weeks.”
River Warden Hadrien nodded.
“That sounds about right.”
“We would like this year’s levy shipment delivered directly to Windwatch,” Anastara continued. “From there, Ser Garrick can collect it and begin transporting it to the capital.”
Malric slid a thick ledger across the table.
“These are the final counts.”
Ser Garrick opened the book.
His eyes moved quickly across the pages.
Then he turned another page.
And another.
Meanwhile, Lady Elena quietly “borrowed” a second copy from the stack beside Anastara.
She opened it.
Salt.
Wool.
Timber.
Pitch.
Food stores.
And a massive value in silver.
These numbers seemed impossible.
Twice she reread the same page.
A third time, she checked the totals.
By the fourth page, she was wondering if Avalon had somehow discovered an extra season while she had been away.
Across the table, Ser Garrick closed the ledger.
“I accept.”
The answer came immediately.
Lady Seryn laughed.
“You did not even negotiate.”
The knight smiled.
“My lady, if this agreement allows me to leave tonight and avoid the young knight sent by the Crown Prince’s son, then I consider it an excellent agreement.”
That drew laughter from everyone.
He tapped the ledger.
“This is my primary duty. Assuming Lady Seryn agrees, I will depart after signing tomorrow.”
Lady Seryn turned toward her River Warden.
“Hadrien, can we handle it?”
The man studied the numbers one final time.
“Yes.”
The answer surprised her.
“Only yes?”
“It will disrupt the harbor for two days,” he said. “Three if the weather turns against us.”
Lady Seryn nodded.
“Then Windwatch agrees.”
“Excellent,” Anastara said. “We can discuss compensation afterward.”
The meeting appeared finished.
Anastara stood.
Malric stood.
Ser Garrick stood.
Lady Elena spoke before anyone reached the tent flap.
“You may all go.”
Everyone paused hopefully.
Then she continued.
“Except you two.”
She pointed directly at Anastara and Malric.
Lady Seryn immediately hid a smile.
Ser Garrick suddenly became very interested in leaving.
Within moments, the others had escaped.
The tent flap closed.
Silence followed.
Lady Elena slowly tapped the ledger resting before her.
The very troubling ledger.
The ledger was filled with numbers that still made no sense.
She looked at Anastara.
Then at Malric.
Both were seasoned rulers.
Both had survived decades of politics.
At that moment, neither looked eager to remain.
Lady Elena smiled.
It was not a comforting smile.
“I have questions.”
Malric sighed.
Anastara closed her eyes.
The reactions alone answered several of those questions.
Lady Elena tapped the ledger again.
“Start talking.”
Outside, the conclave continued its endless debates.
Inside, two powerful nobles found themselves facing a far more dangerous challenge.
An Avalonian matron with time, patience, and a long list of unanswered questions.
…
Minister Halvern stood once more before the assembly, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a stack of notes in the other. His voice had become noticeably rough from days of debate, negotiation, and endless questions, but the old minister pressed on.
“My lords, ladies, ministers, and honored guests,” he began, “I am pleased to report that the core framework of our agreements has now been established. Tomorrow will be devoted to final review, clarification where needed, and the formal signing by all parties affected.”
That announcement drew a wave of approval from the crowd.
Halvern consulted his notes.
“First, it has been agreed that the King’s ministers shall develop and communicate the framework by which ownership of the open keeps shall be determined. It is with humility that I accept the responsibility you have entrusted to my office.”
Several ministers nodded while a few lesser lords exchanged cautious looks.
“Second, the Ministerial Council shall also establish the framework governing the support and placement of the priestly houses.”
That generated immediate interest.
“It is specifically noted,” Halvern continued, “that neither Levy Point, its governing council, nor its financial backers shall be responsible for funding the construction, establishment, or maintenance of any priestly house. Such arrangements must be negotiated directly between the religious orders and the individual landholders.”
A few priests frowned.
Several merchants looked relieved.
Most of the nobles simply nodded.
The matter had already been argued thoroughly.
“Third, the ministerial offices shall publish a monthly report detailing the condition, progress, and development of the town, the roads, and the keeps, but not the fortress. These reports shall be made available to all participating parties.”
That proposal received broad approval.
Information, after all, was often worth more than silver.
Halvern took another sip of tea.
“As for the matter of governance, each keep shall provide and maintain its own military authority in accordance with its charter. The town itself shall be governed by a council of three members, with one permanent seat reserved for Avalon.”
A low wave of grumbling rolled through portions of the crowd.
Several Midland representatives appeared particularly unhappy.
Before the complaints could gain momentum, Lord Malric’s voice cut through the pavilion.
“Our coin. Our rule.”
The statement drew laughter and a few groans, ultimately ending the discussion.
Halvern wisely continued.
“The ministerial offices shall also receive proposals from any house wishing to establish new ventures, industries, services, or developments within Levy Point. Approval shall depend upon the existence of funding, responsibility, and agreement between the relevant parties.”
That drew considerably more interest.
Several merchants immediately began making notes.
“Additionally, the labor rate charter has been completed.”
That announcement captured the attention of nearly everyone.
"The charter provides a fixed schedule of rates for laborer, tradesman, teamsters, servants, accommodation, board and services necessary for road maintenance and improvements. It provides maximum interest on any funds invested in or lent by Levy Point."
That proposal had required days of negotiation and was greeted with more relief than enthusiasm.
Nobody loved it.
Everybody could live with it.
Which, Halvern reflected privately, was often the sign of a successful agreement. Even more so since Avalon was the one paying those rates.
Finally, the minister turned to the last page.
“It is expected that within two months a permanent name for this settlement shall be agreed upon jointly by Avalon, the holders of the keeps, and representatives of the Crown.”
That generated a surprising amount of discussion.
Several people clearly already had favorites.
Others immediately began arguing over them.
Halvern smiled faintly.
“The work of this conclave will continue in the coming months. However, the agreements reached here today remove the necessity for every house to maintain a permanent presence at this location. Future meetings may be conducted through designated representatives, ministers, and stewards.”
He closed the ledger.
For a moment, the great pavilion remained quiet.
The roads had not yet been completed.
The keeps had not yet been claimed.
The town existed mostly as plans, foundations, and ambition.
Yet everyone present understood the same thing.
Levy Point was no longer an idea.
It had become a reality.
And with tomorrow’s signatures, it would become law.
…
The last dinner
The southern lords celebrated with food, friendship, and cautious optimism.
The middle lords held a very different dinner.
Lord Cassivar of Prosperterra had reserved one of the larger pavilions overlooking the camp. The table was well appointed, the wine expensive, and the servants discreet. None of the great middle houses had sent their ruling lord personally, but each had dispatched trusted representatives empowered to negotiate and observe.
Cassivar considered that a mistake.
Not theirs.
His.
Had the actual lords attended, he might have persuaded them.
Representatives were far more difficult.
Seated around the table were Lady Merrow of Northvale, a sharp-eyed widow who missed very little and trusted even less. Beside her sat Lord Harland Norwyn, representing the March of Norwyn, a practical man whose interests rarely extended beyond whether something would increase his revenues. Across from them sat Baron Teren of Valley Run, a cautious noble who had spent most of the conclave waiting for someone else to make a mistake before committing himself. The Duchy of Stonecross had sent Lord Darius Voss, a broad-shouldered veteran with little patience for politics and even less patience for Prosperterra. Finally, there was Sir Edrin of the Norfields, a younger representative whose primary talent appeared to be agreeing with whoever had spoken last.
Cassivar looked around the table.
They were all fools.
Useful fools, perhaps.
But fools nonetheless.
He waited until the servants withdrew before speaking.
“You are all making a mistake.”
Several heads turned.
Lord Voss sighed.
“Must we begin there?”
“We must.”
Cassivar leaned forward.
“The southern lords are not building a road.”
No one responded.
“The southern lords are not building a town.”
Still silence.
“They are building a government.”
That finally gained attention.
Lady Merrow lifted her cup.
“Go on.”
Cassivar pointed toward the distant lights of Levy Point.
“Avalon is creating laws. Avalon is creating courts. Avalon is creating trade standards. Avalon is creating labor agreements. Avalon is creating reporting structures.”
His finger tapped the table.
“Most importantly, Avalon is creating habits.”
That caused several of them to pause.
Now he had reached the important part.
“Today they agreed on roads.”
Another tap.
“Tomorrow they agree on trade.”
Another.
“The day after that, they agree on governance.”
His gaze swept around the table.
“And every agreement makes the next agreement easier.”
The room grew quieter.
Even Lord Voss listened.
Cassivar pressed his advantage.
“Aldric Avalon is not building a levy station.”
The words came slowly.
“He is building order.”
That statement lingered.
Lady Merrow was the first to nod.
“That much is obvious.”
Cassivar felt a brief spark of satisfaction.
“Then you understand the danger.”
Her expression remained unchanged.
“No.”
His satisfaction vanished.
Lady Merrow calmly sipped her wine.
“The danger to whom?”
Cassivar blinked.
“The middle houses.”
“The southern houses already trade with us.”
“Not like this.”
“They already coordinate.”
“Not like this.”
“They already grow wealthier every year.”
Cassivar frowned.
This was not going as planned.
Lord Harland Norwyn finally joined the discussion.
“I fail to see a problem.”
Cassivar stared.
“The problem is that Avalon is growing stronger.”
Lord Harland shrugged.
“They border shadow-infested wilderness and half the known horrors of the continent. I would prefer they remain strong.”
Several people nodded.
Cassivar’s irritation deepened.
“They are becoming politically unified.”
Lord Voss laughed.
The sound was not friendly.
“So much that Prosperterra fears it?”
Several smiles appeared around the table.
Cassivar ignored them.
“Today it is roads.”
He pointed toward the south.
“Tomorrow, there will be tariffs on our goods.”
“Next, the management of trade.”
“Following that, military agreements.”
“And eventually?”
His voice lowered.
“A southern bloc capable of challenging the middle houses.”
Baron Teren finally spoke.
“Do you truly believe that?”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
Unfortunately, it came too quickly.
The others noticed.
Lady Merrow’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Lord Voss leaned back in his chair. “You are afraid of Avalon.”
The accusation landed harder than Cassivar expected. “I am cautious.”
“No.” Lord Voss smiled. “You are afraid.”
The room became uncomfortable.
Not because the statement was false.
Because it might be true.
Cassivar changed tactics.
“If not Avalon, then consider the Crown.”
That gained some interest.
“Aldric is doing this with royal approval.”
Now Lord Harland frowned.
Cassivar sensed opportunity.
“The Crown gains roads.”
“The Crown gains trade.”
“The Crown gains reporting.”
“The Crown gains oversight.”
He spread his hands.
“Tell me which part of that makes your positions stronger.”
That was a better argument.
Several people considered it.
Then Lady Merrow ruined everything.
“The same roads make my merchants richer.”
The room chuckled.
Lord Harland nodded. “The trade helps my villages.”
Baron Teren shrugged. “The reports provide information.”
Lord Voss raised his cup.
“And the roads mean Avalon can march north faster if shadow beasts come pouring out of their mountains.”
More laughter followed.
Cassivar could feel the discussion slipping away.
He made one final attempt.
“We should oppose this.”
The room quieted.
“We should demand concessions.”
A pause followed.
Then Lord Voss asked the obvious question. “To what end?”
Cassivar opened his mouth.
Then, he closed it.
Because the honest answer was impossible to say.
To weaken Avalon.
To slow Avalon.
To preserve Prosperterra’s relative position.
Everyone at the table already understood that.
Lady Merrow smiled.
A dangerous smile. “The problem, Lord Cassivar, is that we do not trust Avalon.”
For a moment, hope returned.
Then she continued. “But we trust Prosperterra even less.”
The room erupted into laughter.
Even Sir Edrin laughed before realizing he probably shouldn’t.
Cassivar sat back heavily.
The discussion drifted elsewhere.
Trade.
Roads.
Profits.
Appointments.
The opportunity was gone.
The middle houses had arrived divided.
They would leave divided.
And as the dinner continued around him, Lord Cassivar of Prosperterra found himself staring into his wine.
For perhaps the first time since arriving at Levy Point, he understood the true danger.
It was not the roads.
It was not the keeps.
It was not even the trade.
It was the fact that Aldric Avalon had convinced rivals to work together while his enemies remained incapable of doing the same.
And that, Cassivar realized, was far more dangerous than any fortress.