"News has come from Maisak," the Baron announced. "The Dread Empire has abandoned the stronghold. Not one enemy occupies one square foot of the Fatherland. The war is over."
Ragnarson wanted to protest. The conflict could never end while the Tervola existed. But he held his peace. Hardle's remarks had drawn unanimous applause.
Hardle continued, "I suggest we return to the task we faced before the invasion. We need a King. A man able to make decisions and stick to them. The near future will be harrowing. All parties, all classes, all interests, must repudiate the politics of divisiveness. Or perish. We need a leader who understands us, our strength and our weakness. He must be fair, patient, and intolerant of threats to Kavelin's survival."
Bragi whispered, "Derel, they wanted me to hear self-serving
Nordmen campaign speeches?" Hardle, when wound up, could talk interminably.
Hardle spent an hour describing Kavelin's future King. Then, "The Estates enter a consensus proposition: that the Regency be declared void and the Regent proclaimed King."
Bragi's dumbfoundment persisted while the Wesson party seconded the proposal.
"Hold it!" he bellowed. He realized that all this had been orchestrated. "Derel.... Gjerdrum...."
Both feigned surprise. "Don't look at me," said Prataxis. "It's their idea."
"How much help did they have coming up with it?" He glared at Varthlokkur, who lurked in the shadows, smiling smugly.
The Siluro and Marena Dimura minorities accepted the proposal too.
"I don't want the aggravation!" Bragi shouted an hour later, having exhausted argument. "With no war to keep you out of mischief you'd drive me crazy in a month."
He now suspected the motives of The Estates. A King was more constrained by law and custom than a Regent.
They out-stubborned him. They were planning the corona-tion before he yielded. His election, Derel insisted, would be lent legitimacy by the attendance of the K ings with the western army.
"You know," he told Prataxis, "Haaken never wanted to come south. He wanted to fight the Pretender. If I'd known leaving would lead to this, I would've stayed."
Prataxis grinned. "I doubt it. Kavelin was always your destiny."
Kavelin. Always Kavelin. Damnable, demanding little Kavelin.
A sweating courier rushed in. He bore Inger's response. Bragi read it, said, "All right. You've got me. Gods help us all."
In his rags, with sores disfiguring his hands and face, the bent man didn't stand out. He was but one of tattered thousands lining the avenue. The King's Own Horse Guards pranced past, followed by Gjerdrum Eanredson, the new Marshall, then the Vorgrebergers.
The King and his wife approached. The Royal carriage wasn't much. Fiana's hearse converted. Kavelin had few resources to waste.
The old man hobbled away on feet tortured by hundreds ofmiles. He stared at the flagstones, hoped he wouldn't catch Varthlokkur's eye.
He squeezed the Tear shape in his pocket.
The wizard had been singularly careless, leaving it unat-tended.
But that was the nature of the Poles. To be forgotten. His own was the same.
Varthlokkur might not check on it for years.
He hobbled eastward, gripping the Tear with one hand, tumbling his gold medallion with the other. An hour outside Vorgreberg he began humming. He had had setbacks before. This one hadn't been so terrible after all. The Nawami Crusades had gone worse.
There were countless tomorrows in his sentence without end.