“You will leave names of those who attempted to thwart your efforts in any way with Tavish,” the king ordered.
The Hunter dipped his head and waited for permission to take his leave.
“One more thing, Cadmus,” the king said. “News has reached me that a spy from Drogath has landed on our shores. I need not remind you that whispers of war with Drogath have started.”
“Aye, my king, and the whispers spread rapidly,” Cadmus confirmed, relieved the king was finally addressing him by his given name, a sign that his anger had abated.
Urgency sparked in the king’s eyes. “Find him, Cadmus, and bring him to me.”
“With pleasure, my king.”
“Go,” the king commanded with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Cadmus bobbed his head and eagerly took his leave.
The king waited until the echo of footfalls faded beyond the closed door before he spoke to the other man in the room.
“You held your tongue the whole time, Tavish. It is unusual that my advisor has nothing to say.”
Tavish stepped forward, the firelight highlighting his auburn hair and touching on a face cut with intelligence and command. He was a few years older than the king, though it showed only in his composure, the calm of a man who weighed every word before speaking it. His build was lean, his movements deliberate, his dark eyes sharp with thought rather than caution. He wore a dark green, well-fitted tunic, the mark of a man who found authority in presence, not adornment.
“You handled it well enough. Besides, I’m more interested in the gossip that runs rampant among the castle servants about the debauchery that took place in your bedchamber last night.”
“Jealous that I can enjoy myself while you are saddled with a wife?”
“You will join me soon enough,” Tavish said with a gleeful smile. “Three fathers are vying for their daughter to be your wife. Naturally, I am doing due diligence in deciding what clan would most benefit the kingdom.”
“With possible war on the horizon this is not a time for marriage.”
“I disagree. Marriage will keep you focused. Debauchery clouds the mind. And alliances, if chosen well, bring more loyal swords should the whispers of war prove true.” Tavish’s grin faded. “You truly think Warlord Tharne of Drogath would risk war with Scotara?”
“You said it yourself… rumors grow. I prefer to know which carry truth.”
“They have no cause,” Tavish said. “We’ve traded with them for years, grain, timber, steel. There’s been no quarrel, no insult. Yet they strengthen their forces. Why now?”
The king paced the length of the table, his steps measured. “Perhaps they see weakness where there is none. Or they wish to claim what they have long envied.”
“And what would that be?”
“Our fertile soil that keeps us fed well. Our iron that produces such exceptional weapons. Our fine wool and the skilled women who weave it.” He stopped. “Or perhaps they fear what I seek.”
Tavish studied him for a moment. “The healer?”
The king faced the hearth, the firelight carving his intense expression into harsh planes of shadow and gold.
“A woman who can be victorious against death. If she is found, Scotara’s armies will not fall as Drogath’s will. Our men will not be buried in mud while theirs rot beside them.”
“And if she is only a tale?”
“Then let the tale end by my hand.”
Tavish sighed. “You chase ghosts, my king. Even if she were real, such power would unnerve every realm that hears of it. Warlord Tharne may not be building armies for conquest, he may be building them out of fear of what you might command.”
The king’s gaze darkened. “Fear is the first sign of defeat.”
“Sometimes… fear is also wisdom.”
The king’s voice cooled. “You would have me do nothing while they gather strength across the sea?”