said, ‘We all took a hand in killing the wyvern, Father, but I’ll concede honours to Bethany. Her arrow spared me a scorching, I’ll avow.’
Martin nodded in agreement, as if who claimed the kill was of no importance to him.
‘What do you intend to do with it?’ asked Robert. ‘You can’t eat it.’
The brothers glanced at the repeat of the oft-repeated joke. The nobility in the east might hunt the big predators for sport, but along the Far Coast they were nothing more than a nuisance, a menace to herds and farms. Years of controlling the population of big cats, packs of dogs and wolves, and dragon-kin such as the wyverns, had kept their incursion into the lowlands a rare occurrence. Most of the Duke’s hunting was for giant boar – as it was today – elk up in the foothills, deer in the forest, and giant bears.
‘I think its head on the wall would make a wonderful trophy for my room, Father,’ said Bethany, shouldering her bow.
Lord Robert glanced at his host, who shook his head, barely containing his mirth. ‘Not one for finery?’ asked the Duke.
‘Silks and oils, gowns and shoes are lost on my Bethany.’ Turning back to his only child, he said, ‘It will hang in the trophy hall in the keep, not your quarters.’
Martin cleaned off the head of his boar-spear in the tall grass, then handed it to one of the men-at-arms.
Brendan grinned. ‘Remembering her attire at the last Midsummer Feast of Banapis, I don’t think finery is entirely lost on her.’
Even the usually dour Martin was forced to smile at this. ‘It seems you took note.’
Now it was Bethany’s turn to look slightly annoyed, and the colour rose in her fair cheeks. It was a poorly-kept secret that everyone expected the Earl’s daughter eventually to become the next Duchess of Crydee when Henry’s eldest son, Hal, became Duke. The politics of the Kingdom required all such alliances to be approved by the King, but as the Duke and his family were distant kin to the Royal House of conDoin it kept things simpler if no strong alliances were formed between those nobles on the Far Coast and the powerful noble houses in the distant Eastern Realm.
‘How fares young Hal?’ asked Robert of his host.
Harry’s expression revealed his pride in his eldest. ‘Very well, according to his last missive.’ The younger Henry was away at the university on the island kingdom of Roldem. ‘His teachers grade him well, his presence in the Royal Court does honour to our house, and he only loses a little when he gambles. He writes that he intends to enter the Tournament of Champions.’
‘Bold,’ said Robert, watching as the three youngsters retrieved their respective horses and mounted up. ‘The best swordsmen in the world vie for the title Champion of the Masters’ Court.’
‘He’s a fair hand with the blade,’ offered Martin as he rode over to his father. Martin often understated things, sometimes from a dry sense of humour, at other times from a sceptical view of the world. He was always reserved in his praise or condemnation, rarely smiled or displayed displeasure, keeping his own counsel on most matters.
Brendan could barely contain his delight. ‘He’s the finest blade in the West. Only Martin here can press Hal. According to family lore he’s a match for our ancestor, Prince Arutha.’
Brendan was the youngest, seemingly set loose in the world with but one purpose, to plague his siblings. He had been a happy baby and a rambunctious child, always striving to keep up with his older brothers. There was rarely a circumstance that found him unsmiling or unable to wrench humour out of the situation.
‘A legendary name,’ said the Earl with a polite nod.
‘Now, if he could only learn to master the bow …’ Brendan added with an evil grin. Martin had never been well suited to the weapon and had shunned it for the sword.
Robert saw the brothers eyeing one another. He had known all three sons of the Duke since they were born and was used to their constant rivalry. Should this discussion continue, he knew it would become an argument with Martin growing more frustrated by the moment, to Brendan’s evil delight.
Sensing that his sons were on the verge of another of their many confrontations, the Duke shouted, ‘Bearers, bring the head of the beast to the keep. We’ll make a trophy of its head for Lady Bethany!’
Her father’s scowl caused a grin to return to the girl’s face.
The Duke continued. ‘And you two—’ he pointed at first Martin then Brendan ‘—behave yourselves or I’ll have you riding night patrol along the Eastern border.’
Both boys knew their father wasn’t joking as each had had to endure more than one night with the garrison’s night patrols, wending their way through treacherous forests in the bitterly cold dark. ‘Yes, Father,’ they replied, almost in unison.
The Huntmaster set his bearers to work, while the nobility started the ride back to Crydee Keep.
As they made their way among the boles of the forest, seeking the game trail that would lead them back to the road to Crydee, Bethany said in a falsely sweet tone, ‘Too bad you boys didn’t find a boar.’
Both brothers exchanged looks, and for a rare moment, Brendan’s sour expression matched Martin’s.
Supper was festive despite the furious storm building outside. The mood was abetted by a roaring fire in the great hall, ample wine, and a sense of safety from the fury of the elements. The banter around the table was predictable; the two families were close and the meals shared uncountable.
Formal seating had been abandoned years before, as the two wives, the Duchess Caralin and the Countess Marriann, had quickly become like sisters, and had talked across their two husbands until the Duke had decided that comfort outweighed protocol.
So the Earl Robert sat in the seat tradition gave to the host’s wife, while she sat in his. The two men could chat, as could their wives, and harmony was ensured.
The Duke’s two sons sat to the right of the Earl, while Lady Bethany sat to her mother’s left. After most of the meal had been consumed, Brendan elbowed his brother lightly. ‘What is it?’
‘What is what?’ said Martin, his brow furrowed as if irritated by the question.
Martin’s dour expression made Brendan’s grin broaden, as if he sensed another opportunity to vex his brother. ‘Either you’re dying to overhear Mother’s conversation with Countess Marriann, or there’s something on the end of Bethany’s nose.’
Martin had indeed been inclining his head in that direction as his brother spoke, but his gaze returned with a snap to his brother. His expression was one Brendan had seen only rarely, a deep and threatening look that warned the youngest brother that this time he had stepped too far over the line. Those previous experiences usually resulted in Brendan running very fast for his mother’s protection when he was very young, or his father’s or his brother Hal’s when older.
But rather than erupt in the rage that followed that particular black look, Martin simply lowered his voice and said, ‘You saw nothing.’
His tone was so filled with controlled anger and menace that Brendan could only nod.
Sensing something between his sons,
