Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Afterword

"You had the right of it, Grandfather."

Damn, was his voice always so deep? Colbern asked himself. Or perhaps he has grown into his role, like all of us did before him?

Colbern studied the War Hall. How it had all changed in a matter of days. The adornments he had come to know in the decades since the Century War had been removed except for one long table with seating for five. All else had been replaced by parchment after parchment showing maps of Afari or potential battle formations for the troops they had amassed. Other tools – a triangular divider, quills, ink wells, wax seals – laid out before them, along with silver trays bearing food and drink aplenty, all suggestive of the long hours their conversation would require.

Beauty was forgone for the practical, leaving utility without apology. The scene reminded Colbern of his younger years when both he and his brother found themselves primed to lead.

"I suppose I did," Colbern answered, moments after the opportunity had passed. His voice carried long and far through the chamber, without furniture or masses to absorb his sound.

"How many this time?" Symon queried.

"Three," Ely snapped before taking a draught from his goblet. "The bloody bastards were entrenched here far too long. One agent had been here for over four years, working first as a baker's assistant before somehow worming his way into the guardhouse as a squire. The little runt was almost knighted too before a patrol caught him in the dungeon scouting the tunnels. Only under extreme duress was his ploy uncovered."

Symon shut his eyes and grimaced. "And what of that traitor now?" he seethed.

"Well, like the rest of him, he shat himself when he took to the noose. Struggled for a full minute too."

Colbern turned his lip. He loathed any method of punishment that prolonged the inevitable, with hangings being his least favorite. Berold would have approved, though. Drat, he thought. And if he were here, he would say as much. No matter. It's not his turn. Still, best to keep up appearances.

"Good riddance," Colbern uttered. "And a display like that sends a message."

Ely raised his goblet to his grandfather in agreement. Colbern returned the gesture, forcing himself to choke down the drink rather than spew it.

"Any idea from whence they came?" Dawkin asked without bothering to turn around. He mulled at the open window, leaning against the pillar as he stared at the harbor below.

Ely shook his head. "Nay. The three captives screamed only a few words to confess their treacherous acts. None spoke of their origins. Mayhaps they grew up in Tosily and were trained to blend into our peoples. Or they could have been recruited from our island and paid handsomely for each year of their ruse. Whatever their way, we'll never know."

Dawkin spun away from the window, grinding his teeth. "Too many secrets! How are we supposed to fight the enemy if we don't even know them?"

Thump-tat-tat-thump. Their signature knock for the day rapped on the door before parting. Gerry entered with scrolls in hand. Forlorn, his eyelids and cheeks hung, speaking volumes of the hour which had passed.

"Brother," Symon began, "is it that bad?"

Gerry passed his scrolls in answer. Still garbed to receive court, he trudged to the nearest empty chair, dropping his regal circlet as he sat. The ornament clattered onto the table, spinning twice before finally settling down.