Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

46: The privilege of pride

Change of pov
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Grayson paced his study, his hand tracing along the edge of his cluttered desk. He paced back and forth, back and forth, until he was sure the rug beneath bore the marks of his boots. 

Outside, a ferocious snowstorm raged, roughly pushing against the windowpanes, and rattling the glass. The second day of consecutive storm they'd had, and it didn't look like it would let up anytime soon.

He didn't know what time it was. He supposed some time past three or four, but he couldn't be sure. The past few days had bled into one single excruciatingly long century, and he'd lost track of time a while ago.

Though it had only been two days ago, it seemed that it had been ages since he'd been in that meeting room, speaking with the nobles, when that messenger from Hampton had come in, wet with snow and panting with exertion, announcing there had been another skirmish with the fae.

Grayson had called that meeting to gather the nobles he knew were on the fence about the war. The nobles he knew he might be able to sway in his favour. He'd been pleading his case, trying to make some headway, when the news of the skirmish threw everything down the gutter.

Fear, accusations and fret swept through the room, as they all clambered to their feet, eager to flee to their own lands.

How could Grayson convince them that waging an all-out war wasn't necessary, that they needn't all give their armies and gold to Pendergold when this skirmish had undermined what he'd been saying?

Fear-mongering was a most effective weapon. What better way to get everyone to comply, than to turn them all—nobles and commoners alike—into meek, frightened lambs, running straight into the wolf's maw?

It had been a feat in and of itself to get all the nobles to calm down. He had his dear cousin and aunt to thank for that, who'd quickly eased the nobles with their soft cajoling, coaxing the guests to stay, telling them it was much too cold for them to travel in this horrid storm. And wouldn't they much prefer to spend a few days in the manor, enjoying a feast?

Grayson had pulled no stops. Taking advantage of the situation, he'd enticed them all with the promise of a feast and lively music. He'd brought out the best wines from the cellars—Harrion would have had a conniption if he could see—and he'd even brought in a well-known musician to keep them all merry and distracted.

There was nothing that nobles loved more than a good party, and Grayson had no qualms about exploiting this to keep them under his thumb for a while.

All talk of alliances was effectively soured—Nothing quelled negotiations quite like the looming threat of attack—but if he could keep them all there for a couple of days, he could perhaps reopen negotiations in a few days.

He would, however, need to be careful with the prying eyes. There was a handful of the guests that he had suspicions about.

Wasn't it such a coincidence that this attack had taken place just when Grayson had planned a meeting? Each day, he was more and more wary about Jonas Pendergold.

He now knew Pendergold and Harrion had been involved in much more than simply sharing mines and ores. Their depravity ran deep, as Grayson had uncovered, and he was slowly coming to see just how far they would go for a chance to seize all power.

It was why he'd relented when Cedric had asked—begged—for Grayson not to send the troops Pendergold was requesting.

It was a risky move. As much as Grayson did not trust Pendergold, he had no proof beyond a couple of dossiers detailing his perverse businesses. This was hardly enough for Grayson to accuse him yet, less so to get him punished or stripped from his charge.