Chapter 14
Joff went outside early the the next morning and started gathering firewood. The sticks were heavy but Joff found that he could manage it. After a while he started to whistle as he enjoyed the cool morning and his own independence. He had about as much wood as he thought he could carry, around a third as much as Eduard had always brought back, when he found a fallen log. The wood looked fresh and Joff pictured it in logs weathering outside the cottage all summer and burning slowly through the day in the winter.
The thought of warm, cozy days inside with Coursa brought a wide smile to Joff’s face. He walked back to the cottage and dumped his armload of wood near the front door. An axe rested on a shelf in the stables and Joff retrieved it. There were no horses in the stable now. Coursa’s descendants had taken all that were available to go about their grim tasks. Joff wished they had left one. The log would be hard to move, even after he cut it up. A horse would have been helpful.
Joff tried to rest the axe on his shoulder as he had seen woodcutters do and nearly cut his own ear off. He sighed and resolved to carry the axe in both hands in front of him. The walk back to the log made him sweat, despite the cool morning. By the time he reached the log he was starting to breath hard. Joff knew that he would have go back, but he wanted to take one good swing at the log before he did. He raised the axe high over his head. It balanced there for a moment before it descended backward, taking Joff with hit. He lay on his back, gasping, and let darkness take him.
“Joff?”
He opened his eyes and saw Jain kneeling over him. The light in the forest indicated that he had slept for about an hour. He rose easily and smiled.
“Are you alright?” Jain asked.
“I’m fine. I just overdid it a bit.” He rubbed the back of his head. “If we could avoid telling Coursa about this, that would be great.”
Jain looked past Joff. He rolled his eyes. “Hello, my love.”
“Keeping secrets?” Coursa asked as she put her arm around his shoulders.
Joff sighed. “How did you find me?”
“I found the log when I was gathering wood yesterday,” Jain said. She nodded to a saw that sat propped against the log in question. “I came back to cut it up and I found you. So I went and got Coursa.”
“Of course you did,” Joff answered, pointedly not looking at Coursa.
Jain looked at the axe and shook her head. “It would have taken you all day to get through the log with that.”
“First time cutting wood,” Joff explained lamely.
“How did you survive before we found you?” Jain asked.
Joff gestured vaguely with one hand but said nothing.
“Come on,” Coursa said. “Let’s get you home. You’ve had enough of the outdoors for today.”
“I’m fine,” Joff said.
Coursa rested her chin on his shoulder and whispered. “I’m sure we could find enjoyable ways to pass the time inside, my love.”
For the next week Joff and Coursa lived together as a happy couple, with frequent visits from Jain. The smell of the muscle enhancing Corman hung heavily in the cottage at all times and Joff soon found that he no longer noticed its slightly bitter taste in his food. Real labor remained well beyond his abilities but he found that he could do a few hours a day of work, more if he worked slowly. So he cleaned the empty stables, weeded in the garden, and gathered firewood.
The peaceful, happy week ended abruptly when Eduard and Eli rode up to the cottage accompanied by Coursa’s son and Eli’s father, Alban. A life of servitude in a castle had made Alban pale and somewhat portly. He dismounted his horse with exaggerated care and embraced his mother.
Coursa brought them all in and had them sit at the table. There was no hot food in the house so Joff got out bread and cheese for them to eat. Coursa talked to Alban at length about Grima. The others sat around in silence, unable to add anything or to leave with undue awkwardness. Eventually, Coursa asked about the grim task she had given Alban.
“It is done,” he said. “Twelve lairds showed up for the council. Nine of them died of the poison. Laird Silas took ill and when I left it was suspected that he would not survive.”
“And the other two?” Coursa asked.
A wry laugh shook Alban’s jowls. “The other two knew better than to eat or drink. Clever bastards.”
“Were you suspected?” Coursa asked.
“We all were,” Alban replied. He explained that all of the servants had been interrogated and their quarters thoroughly searched. But Alban had not kept any of the poison and had disposed of the vial in the castle moat. Even in the palace of the Council of Lairds there were more likely assassins than a fat, middle-aged servant. Before Alban played his part news had reached the City of Augurs that three other lairds had died suddenly and another had survived only because he had lent his cousin the use of his favorite mistress, so the assassin had killed the wrong man.
“What’s the mood of The Holdings?” Joff asked.
He had addressed Alban, but it was Eduard who replied. “Panic. Everyone goes armed now. It is difficult to travel from one holding to another. Soldiers question all who travel. And there is word of intrigues in the courts. Heirs have died and so have lesser members of noble families. Parnshire is said to be in chaos. The Laird and his heir both died. There is no one to take over except a few cousins who are threatening to fight each other for succession.”
“So what happens now?” Joff asked.
Coursa drummed her fingers on the table. “Now I need a laird who needs help. A laird with ambition.”
“Laird Telamon,” Alban said immediately. “His cousin is one of the men I poisoned. He had long schemed for his own holding and it is rumored that his ambitions rival Tomkin’s.”
“Joff,” Coursa said. “Write a letter to Telamon. Tell him I am interested in supporting him. Tell him I think it’s time The Holdings had a king. Have it ready by tomorrow for Eduard and Eli to deliver.”
“But we just . . .” Eli began. Everyone at the table looked at him. Their expressions ranged from Alban’s concerned look and subtle headshake to Coursa’s glare that threatened murder. “Tomorrow, then,” he finished in a quiet voice.
When the others had gone, Coursa got out bottle of ink, a few quills, and some sheets of paper. Joff tapped the dry quill on the paper. He could read several languages, had read hundreds of books, was possibly the best reader and translator in all of The Holdings. For all his reading talent, he had never learned to compose worth a damn.
To the Honorable Telamon, Laird of Zohershire, the letter began. Recent events have thrown The Holdings into chaos. The situation is dangerous to all. With our leadership in disarray we are vulnerable to goblin raids and perhaps even assault from the Sorenians or some such enemy. This peril will be lifted only when peace between lairds and shires is achieved. The situations reveals the vulnerabilities of our disorganized ways. Joff paused as he tried to think of what to say next. What was the proper way to inform a laird that he was going to be the next king? Joff startled when he felt hands on his shoulders, but he relaxed as Coursa began to massage away the tension.
“Just write. It’ll be perfect.”
Joff took her hand and kissed it. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Her hair was tied under a bandana and Joff regretted that. He liked the feel of her hair on him.
The Holdings need a strong king who is aware of the political realities of this great land, the letter continued. To that end, Mistress Coursa, whose reputation and resources are well known, has seen fit to support you in your efforts to expand your noble reach. The mistress respectfully requests a meeting with your lairdship for the purpose of establishing a plan to this end. The messenger who brings this letter will lead you to a place of meeting.
The sanction of Coursa carries no official weight. This you know. But her support can ensure that your enemies face a long series of mis
fortunes while your court becomes very dangerous for any who plot against you. Coursa is sometimes called the Queen of Rogues. She will be a more formidable ally than any laird or combination of lairds in The Holdings.
Should you choose to accept, simply accompany the messenger on his return journey. Your ambition and progress have been noted and we will continue to watch with interest and admiration. Truly, you are a man that even rogues will bow to.
Regards, Joff paused again to consider how he wanted to sign the letter. Laird Telamon had probably never heard him. Joff shrugged and wrote Joff the Scirbe. Joff blew on the ink to dry it and looked over his letter.
“All finished?” Coursa asked as she filled his tea cup.
“Yes. Would you like me to read it to you?”
Coursa smiled and picked up the paper. After scanning it for a few minutes, she said, “It looks good. Your penmanship needs work.” She smiled at his expression. “Did ya’ think I didn’t have none of that book learnin’,” Coursa drawled in an exaggerated rustic accent.
“Well, it’s just that you’re very busy, between robbing the lairds blind, killing them, and seducing men a third of your age.”
Coursa smiled and set the paper down. “You may be well read,” she whispered into his ear. “But you cannot imagine what I know.”
Her breath in his ear made Joff shudder. “Show me,” he said.
Eduard and Eli left the next day. Alban stayed in one of the spare rooms of the cottage and mostly kept to kimself. More of Coursa’s relatives returned in the following days and confirmed what Eduard had already reported. No actual wars had broken out in the turmoil, but poison was the flavor of the month among most of the nobility, and hunting accidents, suicides, and various other mishaps happened with alarming frequency. The situation seemed to change with each new arrival. Every one of them brought news of another laird who had died, another throne left vacant for a gang of relatives to brawl over.
A full week passed before Eli returned with the announcement that Laird Telamon had accepted Coursa’s invitation and would be along in few days. Joff helped her clean out the stables while Alban all but took over the cottage, cleaning, organizing, and preparing a menu for Telamon’s arrival. Eli was quickly put to work as a messenger to Coursa’s closer relatives. He was to bring food and decoration from those who had them and to make sure that all those able to fight waited in the woods near the cottage. Should the meeting go badly and Telamon turn beligerant, Coursa would be ready.
Everything seemed only half done when Jason, Coursa’s blacksmith grandson, came riding up to the cottage on a donkey. Jason reported that Laird Telamon had entered the forest and would arrive within the hour. Jason also brought eight crossbows and a large bag of bolts. These were distributed to the relatives who waited in the woods.
Coursa let her hair down and Jain helped her style it into the long, lavish curls that Jain so admired. Then Joff, Coursa, and five of Coursa’s cleaner associates went outside to wait for his lairdship’s arrival. Coursa wore a blue dress with long loose sleeves and high neckline. The dress revealed nothing save her head and hands, but it did fit snugly at the waist to showcase her lean figure. She was the only one in her group who was not armed. Joff had his short sword and a dagger provided by Coursa. Jain, the only other female in the group, wore a sword on her hip, as did the other men.
A rider on fine white pony trotted into the clearing. He was a youth of about thirteen and carried no weapons, only a pole with the snake and eagle banner of Laird Telamon. “Laird Telamon approaches,” the rider said.
“Thank you, herald,” Coursa said. “Tell your laird that he is welcomed as a friend. There is a stable in the back of the house for his horses. And food inside for him.”
The rider nodded and wheeled his mount without saying a word.
“Friendly fellow,” Joff quipped.
“Nobles,” Jain said distastefully.
A few minutes later the rider reappeared. This time he sat very straight in the saddle and moved his horse at a walk. Behind him rode two soldiers. They wore no armor, but their horses were large, sturdy battle stallions and each man had a sword on his belt and a shield ready on the saddle. Both of them wore tabards decorated with the snake and eagle. Behind them rode three men. To Coursa’s right was Eduard, looking a bit confused about riding in procession. To Coursa’s left rode a middle aged man with brown hair going grey at the temples. He wore the shrewd, slightly constipated expression common to all stewards. Between these two rode a man about Joff’s age or perhaps a little younger. His horse was the same beautiful white of the pony, but the horse was larger than any of the others and muscled like an ox. This was, this could only be, a laird. Telamon sat perfectly straight in the saddle. He was tall but very lean with wiry muscles suited to swift action. His clean shaven face had a slightly boyish look but the dark eyes scanned everything with the calculation of an aspiring king. The two stout soldiers riding horses behind him looked humble and petite by comparison.
“Halt!” Telamon called abruptly. The group halted. Telamon urged his horse forward, around his men, and toward the cottage until he looked down at Coursa. “You are Coursa, the cause of all the fear and chaos in the land.”
Joff desperately wanted to point out that it was, in fact the utter incompetence of the various lairds that caused the fear and chaos in the land. But he knew that it was not his time. He looked past the laird, at nothing in particular, and remained silent.
“And you are the man who seeks to gain by it,” Coursa said evenly. “Come, receive the hospitality of my home and we will discuss the days ahead and how we might help each other.”
The steward rode forward. “The laird needs no help from peasants.”
Coursa grinned. “Anyone who wants to leave this forest needs my help. But it won’t come to that. Come, we will eat and plan for a better future.”
“You are most gracious,” Telamon said to Coursa. “I will not trouble your fine home with my soldiers. They have provisions and tents and will camp outside.” He turned to the steward. “Reginald, we are guests in this shire and at this house. You will show proper respect.”
Reginald blinked a few times. “Yes, my lord. Forgive me, mistress. There are those who have sought to imply that there some problem with my lord’s elevation.”
Telamon laughed at that. “A true steward. Intelligent, organized, and without a hint of charm.” He dismounted and his companions all did the same. One of the soldiers took his horse and followed Eduard to the back of the cottage and the stables.
Jain and one of the men went into the cottage and began setting out plates and cups.
“Will you dine with us?” Coursa asked. “Our fare is humble, but it’s hearty.”
Telamon inclined his head. “I am famished. Your hospitality is appreciated.”
They ate and made small talk. When the meal was finished, Telamon said, “So what arrangement did you have in mind?”
“Put the kettle on, would you,” Coursa said to one of her grandsons. “My lord, my plan is simple. You have a holding and soldiers. I have people in every holding. I can make your enemies disappear, or bring you their plans, or tell you the secret ways into and out of their castles.” She leaned forward, her expression stern and her eyes wide and fiery. “I can make you a king.”
Telamon laughed wryly as he leaned back. “That is quite an offer.”
“What do you want for it?” Reginald asked. “Money?”
“Oh, come on,” Joff said, finally unable to resist the urge to talk out of turn. “Money? Really? She just wiped out half the nobility in a week and you think she’s after money? That would be like . . .”
“Joff,” Coursa said. He fell silent and looked at the table.
Telamon smiled. “Are you the scribe?”
Joff nodded. “I am.”
“That was a good letter.” Telamon looked at Coursa. “So what
do you want in return for the crown?”
“I want you to know who put you in power, and who can remove you,” Coursa replied. “And I want you to marry one of my granddaughters. It’ll be a fine gesture, the new king marrying a commoner.”
Telamon nodded in Jain’s direction. “That granddaughter?”
Coursa looked at Jain, then back at Telamon. “She’s not my granddaughter.” Coursa tapped her finger on the table. “But . . . Would you like to be queen, Jain?”
“Um . . . no. Thank you.”
“So we find a granddaughter of yours for me to marry,” Telamon said. “And I look the other way while your family quietly runs my kingdom. Is there anything else?”
“That should suffice,” Coursa replied.
“It’s a bold offer,” Reginald said. “We know where your cottage is. Would it not serve my lord better to simply capture you and deliver you to the lairds?”
“That won’t get him a crown,” Joff replied. “Mostly what it’ll get him is a knife in the back.” Joff raised a hand to forestall the steward’s protest. “Even if he avoided that, there is nothing about Coursa that would cause the lairds or the peasants to unite on account of her death. She is something of a legend among the lower classes in the City of Books. Her death might actually cause a backlash against whoever killed her.”
“Don’t pretend you’re going to pass this up,” Coursa said to Telamon. “I’m offering you more power than any laird has held since the time of Adara, and you are an ambitious man, my lord.”
“That I am. I am afraid the marriage is out of the question. Laird Lernen of Weshire has already offered me his daughter’s hand.” Telamon’s right eye twitched. “By all the gods, she’s ugly,” he muttered. Telamon shook his head, snapping himself out of it. “I need Lernen’s support. He protects my eastern flank and he has almost as many men as I do. I can promise to ennoble your descendants to replace any lairds who oppose me. That will give your family legitimate authority and the opportunity to arrange to marry into the royal line later on.”
Laird’s wielded near absolute power over their shires, and probably would continue to do so even if there was a king. The Holdings were too wild and the terrain to rough and varied for centralized government to be very successful. With a few of her children and grandchildren as lairds Coursa could all but rule as a bandit queen while Telamon dealt with the petty squabbles and feuds of courtly life. “I think we have an accord,” Coursa said.
“I am sorry to speak out of turn, my lord,” Reginald said in a tone that lacked remorse of any kind. “But I believe we are forgetting the Council of Augurs. They have not advocated for a king since the death of King Cyrus.” King Cyrus, the last king of The Holdings, had died without an heir when Adara crushed his army. “They will oppose you, if only for fear that you may limit their power.”
“Pardon me,” Joff said. “But it is not for the Council to stop him. It is the Council of Lairds that votes to elect a king.”
“I am aware of the law,” Reginald said. “But we cannot ignore the influence the augurs have with the lairds and with the peasants. If they throw in behind one of my lord’s enemies, Laird Guilliam, let’s say, then many will flock to his banner.”
“My steward makes a compelling point. I cannot wage war against gods and men together. And the reach of Coursa is long indeed if she can risk invoking the ire of the augurs.”
“If the augurs will not support you, then perhaps the Sorenians will,” Joff said.
All eyes turned to him in shock. Even Coursa, who always seemed to know everything the world had in store before it did, looked taken aback. “I think,” Telamon said slowly, “that you had better explain that, because it sounded like you were proposing treason.”
“Not at all,” Joff said casually. “I was merely suggesting that if the augurs oppose the unification of our country then perhaps the Sorenians would support the ascension of a king.”
“They would only support an Adaran,” Reginald said.
Joff nodded.
“You are saying I should convert?” Telamon said.
“No,” Joff answered patiently. “I’m saying you should threaten to convert. Zoher is fortified and you have a mighty castle. Those defenses have long held the Sorenians off. But if Zohershire turned to the Adarans then the Sorenians could enter this country unopposed and they would have a stronghold to fight from. There is nothing between your castle and the City of Books. But the Sorenians wouldn’t need to hurry about it. They could take their time plundering Luishire, since the defences are all on the western border by the Goblin Hills. Weshire has a strong castle, but no. . .”
“Joff,” Coursa said.
He fell silent.
Telamon looked from Joff to Coursa with a quizzical expression. The old woman had some kind of hold over this brilliant, rambling scribe that gave her his insight and loyalty with absolute obedience. Telamon would have wanted an alliance with Coursa for the chance to study her gift for wielding power even if she had nothing else to offer. “You make an excellent point, master scribe. We will discuss things further in the days to come. I am not ready to claim the throne just yet. With careful planning I believe we can expand my influence. We will move when the time is right.”
More lairds died over the next few months. Some fell ill while others had accidents and a few were blatantly murdered. The deaths lacked the randomness of the previous round of noble expirations. The lairds of Luishire suffered particularly, until there was no one left of Tomkin’s bloodline to claim lairdship. By a happy accident Lernen and Telamon had their men training together near the Luishire border when news reached them of the newest laird’s death. They marched their combined forces into Luishire and occupied the castle.
The following day a rider approached the castle. He sat tall and straight on his mount and his large, brown eyes took in everything he saw with intelligence and intensity. The guards at the gate let him in and a stable boy took his horse.
“I am Tefir,” the man said to a guard at the entrance to the laird’s throne room.
The guard nodded and opened the door. He banged the butt of his spear on the flagstones and said, “Tefir, grandson of Travin, seeks audience.”
Telamon and Lernen sat at a small table in the middle of the room, playing a board game. Lernen was a grey haired, middle aged man with a prominent belly and the reserved, dignified bearing of someone who has spent a lot of time looking important while other people talked. An augur stood nearby, waiting silently next to Reginald. He had long blond hair and the build of a warrior, though he carried no weapons. A few soldiers stood at ease around the room. Telamon smiled and looked away from the game that he had been about to lose. “It is granted.”
Tefir entered the chamber and bowed.
“Arise,” Telamon said. “What brings you here?”
“I come to claim what is mine,” Tefir said. “I am grandson to Travin, nephew to Tomkin, and rightful heir to his lairdship.”
The augur looked from Tefir to Telamon with wide eyes but did not say anything.
“What say you, Lernen?” Telamon asked. “Does this man look like a rightful heir to Tomkin’s line?”
“The resemblance is uncanny,” Lernen said without looking up from the board.
“Approach and take a knee,” Telamon said. Tefir walked to the table and knelt. Telamon touched him on the shoulder. “I name you Sir Tefir, Laird of Luishire. Rise, my lord.”
“My lords!” the augur said indignantly. Reginald grabbed him by the elbow and coaxed him toward a side door. The augur was larger and stronger, but two soldiers approached quickly and he did not struggle. Reginald walked him through the castle and out into its garden. Flowers had once bloomed in abundance there but in the turmoil of the last few months everything had been allowed to wilt. “What is this farce?” the augur asked.
“Telamon has need of a laird here,” Reginald explained calmly.
“Tefir’s claim is legitimate, I swear it. He is a child of a bastard of Travin. Telamon knew this ahead of time.”
“The Council of Lairds . . .”
“Is in chaos,” Reginald interrupted in the same calm tone. “Two lairds have certified Tefir’s claim. He is now the laird. If you agree to this then my lords Tomkin, Lernen, and Tefir will be pleased. If you create trouble then they will be disappointed.”
The augur stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. “What strange days we live in.”
Reginald smiled mirthlessly. “You have no idea.”
In the following weeks Tefir’s ascension drew protest from the other nobles. Especially vocal about it was Alerick, the son of Edvis and nephew of Tomkin. Alerick demanded that the Council of Lairds meet to approve any new ascensions, especially of anyone who was not a noble.
Candle after candle burned down as Joff worked feverishly drafting Telamon’s letters to the other lairds explaining the need for steadier leadership and more decisive action to stop the chaos that seemed to define The Holdings. A typical letter read:
To the attention of Laird Dmitri, son of Grishka, Laird of Cainshire,
We hope that our correspondence finds my lord in good health and good times. My lord is no doubt aware of the chaos that has recently gripped The Holdings and of the untimely death of the former laird of Luishire. We saw fit to rectify the situation by supporting the ascension of Master Tefir, now Laird Tefir of Luishire. Our decision was made in the presence and with the full support of my lord Lernen of Weshire.
Our intention is to restore order to The Holdings with the greatest possible speed. A meeting of the Council of Lairds would have taken time, time we could ill afford given the general disorder among the nobility. Laird Tefir’s ascension and close alliance with us and with Laird Lernen will assure a stronger rule, one in which neighbors work together to prevent the ill fortune that has claimed the lives of too many lairds of late. Lairds who join us will have their security assured. To continue to operate alone is to risk continued turmoil and none of us wants that.
It is our hope that you, my lord, will see fit to support the ascension of our newest brother noble. We feel that you are a brave and wise laird who will move forward with us in our quest to bring lasting peace, security, and stability to this land. We will await your reply,
Best regards,
Laird Telamon, Laird of Zohershire, Defender of the Land
Joff set the quill down and blew on the paper. Most of the letter had come directly from Telamon but Joff had added a few touches to get the message across more clearly. Royalty referred to themselves in the first person plural. By using “we” and “us” in the letter Telamon could either be referring to himself as king or simply alluding to his agreement with Lernen and Tefir. “Protector of the Realm” had been one of the monikers associated with the kings of The Holdings in ages past. “Defender of the Land” could simply refer to Telamon’s duties to defend Zohershire or it could refer to his shire’s position as the bulwark against Sorenian invasion. Telamon could not have been more obvious if he held a formal coronation. It could not have been harder to prove his intentions if he had taken up plow and started farming.
As pleased as he was with himself, Joff felt a bit said. He had left Coursa in her cottage so that he could go and coordinate Telamon’s ascension. Joff was not alone. Coursa had agents among Telamon’s servants and soldiers, people the laird did not know about. But Joff wanted friends to sit with and he wanted the woman he loved. After years of relative solitude, Joff the Scribe found that he dearly wanted human companionship.
“Why so glum?” Telamon asked as he walked into the study where Joff worked. Joff never closed the door. To do so might arouse suspicion.
Joff looked up and smiled politely. “Lost in thought, my lord. I have your letter.”
“Read it to me,” Telamon said as he walked to the window. Telamon could write his own name, with difficulty, but that seemed to be the extent of his ability with letters. Joff read what he hoped would be the final draft of the letter. When he had finished, Telamon turned back to face him. “It is a good letter, just like all the others you have written.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Telamon pulled a chair up and sat across from Joff. “Tell me, Master Scribe, how does a rogue employ the services of one such as yourself? The only scribes I have ever been able to find are augurs. They are neither very clever nor very creative.”
“It’s a long story. The short version is that Coursa sought me out for my talents and gave me more than my previous life offered. I had the choice of going back to the City of Books to live out my days as a cripple writing translations or starting a new life as a rogue scholar. The first choice would have meant poverty and was, quite frankly, boring. I couldn’t tell you how many books on . . .”
“Come to the point, man,” Telamon said.
“My old life was dull and unrewarding,” Joff said patiently. “My new life is full of adventure. You could not imagine the texts I have seen. Now I’m helping the next king.”
“It was your choice to stay with Coursa,” Telamon said evenly.
Joff nodded.
“And it would be your choice to leave, should you so desire.”
Joff nodded again.
“You’re completely free.” With that, Laird Telamon rose and left. Joff wondered how a man with his physical limitations could be considered completely free, and if Telamon thought of himself as free. Such questions, the scribe knew, had troubled philosophers since time out of mind. Joff was free to work for Coursa or to go back to life that, in retrospect, was one of misery. Telamon was free to ascend in power and rank or to be killed in the convulsive turmoil into which Coursa had plunged The Holdings. In their own ways they were both as bound as any tenant though Joff guessed that many tenants would be thrilled to have the problems either of them faced.
Two of the lairds Joff wrote to answered that they would fully support the ascension of Tefir. They both had holdings bordering Weshire and both came from families that had long been enemies of Tomkin. Eight more lairds wrote that they would take no action in regard to Tefir, essentially stating their neutrality in the matter. That left seven lairds with seven shires and enough men to significantly outnumber Telamon and his allies should it come to war. They all signed their names to a letter that read as follows:
To lairds Telamon and Lernen,
It was with great dismay that we, the undersigned lairds, learned of your attempt to ascend a peasant of uncertain lineage and dubious claim to a position of distinction and nobility. It is well established that the Council of Lairds, with the blessing of the Council of Augurs, decides such things. Those rules have been waived in recent times due to these extraordinarily chaotic times. The waivers have been allowable due to the presence of strong candidates acceptable to the other lairds and the necessity to maintain order.
The death of the laird of Luishire left a situation which you satisfactorily filled with your presence in that shire. Though it is questionable how my lords had their armies ready at the exact moment of the laird’s death, such things are not for us to question at this time. You could have and should have simply held the shire until the next laird could be properly selected. Instead you acted in the manner of self appointed kings in apparent disregard of our laws and traditions
We, the undersigned lairds find this unacceptable. We demand that you denounce the lairdship of Tefir. If he wishes to present his candidacy to a full council then he may do so. Failure to do as has been asked will result in Tefir and all who support him being labeled as traitors to the realm. We will await your reply.
The document was signed by the seven lairds, with Alerick’s name first among them and written the largest. A knot formed in Joff’s stomach as he finished reading. He briefly wondered how long it would take him to get out of The Holdings if he went to the stables, got on his horse, and
pointed it at Sorena.
“They will be assembling their armies now,” Reginald said to Telamon. The two of them stood with the blond augur, whose name was Gregoire, and Lairds Tefir and Lernen in the throne room.
“We will be outnumbered,” Tefir said. “Five shires to their seven, and theirs were not troubled as much by the Rephaim.”
“Compose a message to our allies,” Telamon said. “Tell them to come quickly. I want them to bring men at arms only. No peasant conscripts. We will organize here, at this castle and march out to meet Alerick.”
“My lord, that is suicide,” Reginald said.
“It’s also the strategy that Laird Oliver used to defeat the Sorenians,” Joff said. “A small, elite army can often defeat a larger one.”
“You recommend this?” Tefir asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Joff said. “Your army will be faster and easier to control than that of your enemies. Even if you are not victorious you may inflict great slaughter. The other lairds will be slow to challenge you after that.”
Lernen gave Joff an appraising look. “I need to hire a scribe. This man is quite useful.”