SEVEN
The Cyngaleg Marches, and the Marcher Lords, were established byKhaim during the conquest to subdue the borderlands and push backagainst the so-called Green Wastes. Much of their autonomy stillremains.
The Crown’s seat of power – the Principality – centres around Eascild,at the helm of the Ring of Iron.
Khaimlic History and the Centuries of War with Cyngalon,
E. van der Vos
SEVEN
‘Nothing yet from the Mortimers of Penmark, or the Strouds of Skenfrith.’
Osian’s mind was too full, and Harlan was not helping. The inaugural session for the relocated Council of Cyngalon and the Marches would begin within the bell, and he was to represent more than half of the king-appointed members of the royal household, and three bishops.
Two of the four Justices representing the Marcher lordships – those from Penmark March and Skenfrith March – had neither made the journey to Eascild nor assigned alternative representatives. Their seats would remain empty.
‘Give them a week,’ he said, ‘then send another missive.’
‘Polite or pressuring?’
‘Pointed. Blythe, I do not suppose you have heard anything?’
Blythe, striding easily behind him, next to Pedr, shrugged. She had a cousin wed to the Mortimers, but they were no longer close. ‘Nothing, Majesty. I’ll ask, though it might not do any good.’
‘Thank you. A start, Harlan?’
Harlan made a face but jotted it down.
As they moved through one of the outer arched walkways, his gaze was drawn inextricably through the lush green to a single, fixed point. His steps slowed.
Down the terraces, Meilyr was being shown the gardens.
‘Majesty?’
Osian continued to stare through the nearest archway. ‘Yes, Harlan?’
Blythe shot Pedr a look, which they stoically pretended not to notice. Turning to the steward, she said, ‘Perhaps some of this might be dealt with later, Master Harlan? I imagine His Majesty could be forgiven for being… distracted, today?’
Distracted. If only it were that simple.
He tore himself loose and moved from the arches. ‘There is no need, thank you, Blythe. Where were we, Harlan?’
Meilyr shielded his eyes as the capricious sun burned through the morning cloud. Beneath the castle, the tidal mouth of the Splintered Sea glittered as though strewn with jewels. Across it lay Khaim; the end of the grey, human-made bridge that connected the two lands was visible on the eastern shore, its mooring in Cyngalon tucked beneath the bluff.
There were rumours the Marches planned to build another bridge, northwards.
Near Gorsedd Arian, to the north-west of Eascild, Meilyr had grown from wounded orphan to bruised young man. Idwal had raised him and Celyn on stories of the gigantic afanc disturbed centuries before by Khaim’s building works. The gods-descended serpent had coursed from its ruined lake and into the Splintered Sea, to rip and tear through the foolish attempts to ford Cyngalon.
Though this bridge had long stood, and the afanc likely perished or fled into the mists of the west, perhaps building another bridge would be enough to summon it home.
‘Highness Cadogan, how good to see you.’
It was Highness Demelza, with Lady Faina at her elbow. The latter waved merrily.
It felt surprisingly good to see them. ‘Highness Demelza, Lady Faina.’
They all bowed to each other.