Ethan nodded, and seemed appreciative of that fact. “But I never went to the south,” he replied. “Gahris commanded me to go to Port Charley, then to sail to Carlisle, where I would be given a rank of minor importance in the Avon army and sent to the Kingdom of Duree.”
“To battle beside the Gascon army in their war,” Luthien put in, for he knew well the tale.
Ethan nodded. “To battle, and likely to die, in that distant kingdom. But I would not accept that banishment and so chose one of my own instead.”
“With the Huegoths?” Luthien was incredulous.
Ethan shook his head and smiled. “Land’s End,” he corrected. “I went south from Bedwydrin for a while, then turned east, through MacDonald’s Swath. My destination became Gybi, where I paid handsomely for transport, in secret, to the Isle of Colonsey. I believed that I could live out my life quietly in Land’s End. They ask few questions there.”
“But the Huegoths came and crushed the settlement,” Luthien accused, and his voice turned grim as he spoke of the probable deaths of many Eriadorans.
Ethan shook his head and stopped his brother’s errant reasoning. “Land’s End remains intact to this day,” Ethan replied. “Not a single man or woman of that settlement has been injured or captured.”
“Then how?”
“My boat never got there, for it was swamped in a storm,” Ethan explained. “The Huegoths pulled me from the sea; chance alone put them in my path, and it was simple chance, simple good fortune, that the captain of the longship was Torin Rogar.”
Luthien rested back on his heels and spent a long moment digesting the story. “Good fortune for you,” he said. “And for Eriador, it would seem.”
“I am pleased by what you have told me of our Eriador,” Ethan said, unstrapping Blind-Striker and handing it back to Luthien. “And I am proud of you, Luthien Bedwyr. It is right that you should wear the sword of family Bedwyr.” Ethan’s face grew grim and uncompromising. “But understand that I am Huegoth now,” he said, “and not of your family. Deliver your treaty to my king or we—and I—will fight you.”
Luthien knew that the words were a promise, not a threat, and he believed that promise.
11
Politics
Incredibly, less than two weeks after leaving the Huegoth encampment in Colonsey, Luthien and Oliver had the great Ministry of Caer MacDonald in sight. They had covered hundreds of miles, by sea and by land, and Riverdancer and Threadbare were haggard. Katerin had not returned with them; rather, she had gone south from Gybi by longship, with Ethan and Brother Jamesis, headed for the Eriadoran port city of Chalmbers.
“The journey back should be easier,” Luthien remarked to his exhausted companion. “We shall use Brind’Amour’s magics to cross the land. Perhaps our king will accompany us, wishing to sign the treaty personally with Asmund of Isenland.”
Oliver grimaced at the young Bedwyr’s continued optimism. All along the journey, the halfling had tried to calm Luthien down, had tried to temper that bubbly optimism with some very real obstacles that Luthien apparently was not counting on. So far, Oliver had tried to be subtle, and apparently it wasn’t working.
He pulled Threadbare up short, and Luthien did likewise with Riverdancer, sidling up to the halfling, following Oliver’s gaze to the great cathedral. He figured that Oliver just wanted a moment with the spectacular view of this city that had become their home.
“Brind’Amour will not agree,” Oliver said bluntly.
Luthien nearly toppled from his mount, sat staring open-mouthed at his diminutive companion.
“My bumpkin-type friend,” the halfling explained, “there is a little matter of a treaty.”
Luthien thought Oliver was referring to the pending treaty with Asmund. Was the halfling saying that Brind’Amour would never agree to terms with the Huegoths? The young Bedwyr moved to argue the logic, but Oliver merely rolled his eyes and gave Threadbare a kick, and the skinny yellow pony trotted on.
The two friends stood before Brind’Amour in the audience room at the Ministry within the hour, with Luthien happily spilling the details of the Huegoth advance, and the potential for a truce. The old wizard who was Eriador’s king beamed at the news that the Huegoths were not in league with Greensparrow, but that wide smile gradually diminished, and Brind’Amour spent more time looking at worldly Oliver than at Luthien, as the young Bedwyr’s full tale began to unfold.
“And all we need do is deliver the treaty within the month to King Asmund,” Luthien finished, oblivious to the grim mood about him. “And Greensparrow be damned!”
If the young Bedwyr expected Brind’Amour to turn cartwheels in joy, he was sorely disappointed. The king of Eriador eased back in his great chair, rubbing his white beard, his eyes staring into empty air.
“Should I pen a draft for you?” Luthien asked hopefully, though he was beginning to catch on that something was surely amiss here.
Brind’Amour looked at him directly. “If you do, you must also pen a fitting explanation to our Gascon allies,” he replied.
Luthien didn’t seem to understand. He looked to Oliver, who only shrugged and reminded him again that there was a treaty that might get in the way.
Suddenly Luthien understood that Oliver hadn’t been doubting the potential treaty between Brind’Amour and Asmund, but about a treaty that had already been signed.
“Nothing is ever as easy as a bumpkin-type would think,” the halfling said dryly.
Luthien decided that he would have to speak to Oliver about that bumpkin reference, but this was neither the time nor the place.
“There is a matter of a treaty signed by myself and the duchess of Mannington, acting on King Greensparrow’s behalf,” Brind’Amour clarified, taking up the halfling’s argument. “We are not at war with Avon, and our truce does not include a provision for acceptable invasions.”
The sarcasm stung Luthien profoundly. He understood the pragmatism of it all, of course, but in his mind Greensparrow had already broken the treaty many times over. “Sougles’s Glen,” he said grimly. “And Menster. Have you forgotten?”
Brind’Amour came forward at once, eyes gleaming. “I have not!” he yelled, the sheer strength of his voice forcing Luthien back a step. The old wizard calmed at once and eased himself to a straight posture. “Cyclopian raids, both,” Brind’Amour said.
“But we know that Greensparrow was behind them,” Luthien replied, full of determination, full of frustrated rage.
“What is known and what can be proven are oft two very different things,” Oliver remarked.
“True enough,” agreed the king. “And on strictly moral grounds, I agree with you,” he said to Luthien. “I have no discomfort with the morality of launching a war, with Huegoth allies, against the king of Avon. Politically, though, we would be inviting complete disaster. Any attack on Avon would not rest well with the lords of Gascony, for it would disrupt their trade with both our kingdoms and make a mockery of their aid to us, playing the role of victims, in the previous war. They would not help us this time, I fear. They might even offer some warships to Greensparrow, that the war, and particularly the Huegoth threat, be quickly ended.”
Luthien clenched his fists at his sides. He looked to Oliver, who only shrugged, and then back to Brind’Amour, though he was so angry that he was viewing a wall of red more than any distinct forms. “If we do not ally with Asmund,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, “then we will be forced into a war with the Huegoths.”
Brind’Amour agreed with the assessment, nodding and then giving a small chuckle. “The ultimate irony,” he replied. “Might it be that Eriador will join in common cause with Avon against the Huegoths?”
Luthien rocked back on his heels.
“Oh, yes,” Brind’Amour assured him. “While you were on the road, King Greensparrow’s emissary reached out to me, begging alliance against the troublesome barbarians of Isenland.”