Any council meeting usually took up a good part of the day, and war councils were often much longer than that. Verim struggled to keep his eyes open as the master of coin continued to drone on about how much the war was costing them, and how the royal bank was struggling to keep up with the finances needed to supply and pay their soldiers and compensation to the people. He knew that the matters of coin was just as important as actually fighting, especially since every war with Miiryn previously ended with both realms buried under debt. Some of those debts still lingering, even as they waged a new war.
It would be his duty someday, to decide what debts the crown could pay off, and what would have to remain untouched. It would be his duty to decide what to do with his people and how much each person was worth as a soldier. But he couldn't help dozing off at the master of coin's voice, which was always hardly above a whisper, a voice that held no authority. It was a voice well fit for the man, who was stunted at growth, and always looked slightly faint.
Still, his brother looked enraptured with every word that fell out of the man's weak lips, even leaning forwards to hear him better. He nodded thoughtfully at statements that went through one ear and out the next with Verim, and looked as if he would have liked to make some suggestions. But, as expected of him, he held his tongue, and forced on a placid expression every time their father glanced at him.
Verim was right—his brother was much more suited for the matters of council than him. He would have preferred to be down in the yards, commanding and training fresh recruits alongside Ser Gaarwain, whose absence he had noted the moment he entered the council room. The council might as well have been a mock council, done for the benefit of Illyon, who needed to know how a meeting was conducted. That still didn't give Ser Gaarwain reason enough to excuse himself from the meeting, seeing as they were also gathered to discuss matters of Illyon's maiden battle. He could only have been missing if he was teaching some poor farmer's boy how to hold a sword, for the first time in his life.
Verim blinked away the exhaustion that clung to his eyelids as the master of coin retook his seat, reaching out for his goblet. He drained it, and held it out for it to be refilled. He noted that the server was the slave that Illyon had come home with several weeks ago. He should have warned Illyon to keep the boy well away from himself, to keep him working in the stables, or to have given him to Ser Gaarwain to deal with. But Illyon, for some reason, seemed fond of the boy, and kept him constantly by his side as a steward.
It didn't bother him much—Illyon had obviously been thinking that he was rescuing the slave from the world—but he stirred unease in the rest of the council. He could see it, when they glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes every time he moved, when they covered the top of their goblets with their hands when he moved closer to refill them. The slave hadn't needed to refill any cup aside from his, as none of the council members had swallowed a drop.
He was a Miiryn captive within the walls of the king's castle, and the closest person to the second prince. Verim knew very well what the other lords in the room would have done with the slave, whether he proved himself a traitor or not. But Illyon seemed to be blind and deaf to their thoughts, and he continued to keep the boy around wherever he went. Verim found no reason to fear the boy. He was obedient enough to everyone, and mute as well.
Verim didn't miss the tense silence that fell in the room as he drank another sip of his wine, or the soft whoosh of relief that passed through the room when he evidently didn't fall to the floor, foaming at the mouth.
"Moving to matters of Illyon's maiden battle," his father broke the silence, pulling the map spread out on the table closer to him, "As Verim had, he will be situated along the wall with the archers."
Verim had warned him beforehand, but his brother's face still fell at the words, "I would be honored, your grace." Illyon still said. He was always ever so proper.
"A tourney and feast will of course be held in the young prince's honor." Lord Wynflae said, his fat lips lifting into a smile, reminding Verim of two wriggling slugs.
"Of course." His father said, turning to look at the master of coin, "How much can be spared for rewards?"
"I think a thousand gold coins to the winner of the tourney and five hundred to the second place," The master of coin said, ticking the figures off on his fingers, "and a thousand silver coins to the winner in archery, your grace."
His father nodded, "Then see to it."
"Your grace," Verim said, making his father turn towards him with a scowl, "if I may speak freely."
"Speak quickly." His father said, leaning back against his chair.
"I believe that Illyon should be marching alongside me and my cohort in his maiden battle." He said, smiling as all the lords' attentions were focused on him, half of them with their mouths hanging open, the other half casting nervous glances between him and the king, "Ser Gaarwain has stated, and I have seen myself, that Illyon is quite ready for a real battle. The maiden battle is tradition to teach boys of what a real battle is like, and if I am permitted to say, Illyon is not likely to learn anything standing on a stone wall, likely miles away from the real fight."
"That is insanity, my prince." One of the men said, "You and your cohort will be leading the battle—even the rear guard will be dangerous for a man who has never seen battle."
"Illyon will be just as safe as I am." Verim said, fixing the man with a cold stare, "Or do you suggest that my men and I are not enough to protect the prince, my lord?"
"No—never." The man stuttered, "It is just... to charge first..."
"I thank you for your concern, my lord," Verim said, "but that is for the king to decide, and I will assure him that Illyon will be as safe alongside me, if not safer."
His father had hardly even blinked through the entire exchange, and now, leaned forwards, "Is this what you think will be wise, Verim?" he asked, ignoring the indignant gasp from the other man.
"Yes, your grace."
"Then so be it." his father said, and waved them off, "You all have my leave to go. At once."
The council rose, and left through the door, bowing to his father as they left. Verim and Illyon were the last to leave, Illyon's slave trailing behind them.
"Why did you speak for my battle to be moved?" Illyon asked, turning on Verim as the door closed behind him.
"I thought you wanted something grander than standing through the night on a bloody wall."
"I did," Illyon said, as if it had just dawned on him, "and father agreed. This means that my maiden battle..."
"You'll be alongside my cohort, yes." Verim said, smiling, "A maiden battle fit for a prince."
Illyon's face split into a wide grin, "I will not let anyone down."
"I expect no less from you, brother." Verim laughed, "We will speak more of this once the feast is over."
Illyon nodded, and said, "Thank you."
Verim watched as Illyon flew down the steps, running to tell Ser Gaarwain, most like. He turned to leave as well, but froze as he saw the slave, staring at him with wide eyes, his face still and unreadable. A slight shiver went through Verim as the slave continued to stare, and he forced a smile onto his face.
"You should go after him." he said, nodding to the stairs. The slave finally blinked, and turned, disappearing down the steps. Verim let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and turned to leave, the slave's searching, discolored eyes searing his mind.
