The young Baron Fayle hadnāt trained in politics and matters of succession the way people like Tulori Leufroy or Liam Dunn had. Heād been lucky that his mother had been able to hire a few tutors who were willing to move to Fayle Barony to school him in the things a nobleman must know, but his training had stopped well short of reading the subtleties of court politics.
Those were lessons heād been forced to learn the hard way, making friends where he could as he navigated the shifting currents of influence and interests between the barons who were vying for the shrinking opportunities that remained in Lothian March. But it didnāt take a skilled politician to understand that something very strange was happening in Lothian right now.
Lord Bors was dead. Lady Ashlynn was dead. Lord Loman was missing along with Sir Tommin and the Inquisitor from the Holy City. Sir Rian was missing. Lord Hugo was missing. The Dunns were late and would barely arrive in time for Lord Owainās āGrand Ceremony.ā The Hanrahans werenāt just absent; they were completely silent.
On top of all that, demon raids were intensifying in the west, with rumors swirling of demons unseen since the War of Undying Demons. And Lord Owain was rushing to crown himself Marquis and marry his dead wifeās sister in a ceremony so hastily arranged that the funeral pyres for his wife and father hadnāt even been lit yet.
None of these things, taken individually, was necessarily sinister. Lords died of illness, and no one was entirely safe from demon attacks, not even high-born ladies. Brothers quarreled from time to time. Knights went missing on frontier assignments. Raids intensified during hard winters when the demons grew desperate. And a new lord had every reason to consolidate his authority quickly in uncertain times.
But all of them, taken together, in the span of a few short weeks...
Erling knew what it was like to live with a story that didnāt match the truth. Heād been living with one for fifteen years, ever since a raven spoke to him in the dark of night and offered him a bargain he couldnāt refuse.
Every time someone asked him why Fayle Barony never participated in the raids against the Southern Steppe, he told a story about vineyards and manpower and the obligations of a poor barony that couldnāt afford to send men away during the growing season.
It was a reasonable story. People believed it because they wanted to, because it confirmed what they already thought about the weakest barony in the March. But Erling knew the truth was stranger and more dangerous than anything his fellow lords could imagine, and that knowledge had given him a sensitivity to the gap between official stories and the reality they concealed.
Right now, looking at the pattern of absences and disappearances and the speed with which Owain was consolidating power, Erling could feel that same gap yawning open beneath the surface of the March. The official story was illness, tragedy, and demons. But when he assembled the clues like the tracks of a beast he was hunting, the signs he read were telling him something else entirely.
He just didnāt know what...
"Thank you," Erling said. "Iāll be more careful."
Wes studied him for a moment, trying to decide whether the younger baron had truly absorbed a warning or was just being polite.
"Tomorrowās banquet will be dangerous," Wes said. "It should be a stag party, the night before Owainās wedding, but itās overlaid with too many other things this time," he warned. "Last time, we were the only barons attending, but this time, it will be different. If youāre not confident in holding your wine, consider abstaining. Better to drink little and say less than let something slip tomorrow night," he advised.
"I know," Erling said with a light smile. "I appreciate you watching out for me, Wes. After the coronation, Iām sure Iāll need your help once Lord Owain assembles the full Court for the first time. Thatās when the real danger begins. Everything before that is just scouting and staking out our positions."
Erlingās hand found its way back to the recurve bow slung across his back. He adjusted the string by touch, testing the tension with a practiced twist of his fingers, the way he did a dozen times an hour in wet weather without conscious thought. The string would need attention again before midday if the drizzle kept up, but for now, the draw felt right.
The bow couldnāt keep him safe in the halls of power where words became weapons. What Erling truly needed right now was a quiver full of secrets to use as his arrows in the battles against his peers, but at the moment, it felt like heād arrived in Lothian City all but unarmed.
That didnāt mean he intended to stay that way. He had time, and he had allies. He had the whole of todayās hunt to learn what he could. Wes might have wished that Barons Leufroy and Otker had attended so they could pump the men for information and sus out their positions now, but Erling didnāt think that way.
Heād never been successful applying pressure to his older, wealthier peers the way Wes might have managed. Instead, heād learned long ago to value the youthful appearance that helped him to blend in with the younger lords, like Tulori and Serge, even though he was half a decade older than either of them.
Each of the young lords had their own flaws. Serge was already deep in his cups, and as the day went on, his tongue would only grow more careless and unguarded. Tulori, on the other hand, was prone to saying more than he should in an effort to establish his dominance and show off his cleverness. The well-educated young lord acted like the people around him wouldnāt understand how clever he was being unless he explained things to them.
Both weaknesses matched up well with Erlingās strengths. People underestimated him. They always had, and he felt like they always would. But if there was one thing heād learned while hunting in the grasslands, it was that having the patience to do nothing while you listened and observed would do far more to put food on the table than trying to intimidate or overwhelm your prey.
Right now, he had an opportunity to listen and observe the young men who were like bright reflections of the fathers who raised them, and they were far less careful with their words and actions than their parents would have been.
And if he was lucky, they just might help him arrive at the first gathering of the Lothian Court under Marquis Owain with a few more arrows in his quiver.