Count Connor gestured toward the seat before him. “Sit. I have not felt quite well since my visit with Viscount Derek, so forgive me for not rising.”

Sherif had never faced a count so closely and felt some pressure, but he remembered that his third brother had inflicted terrible losses on this very man. He sat down and stated his business bluntly.

“Viscount Derek is my brother. He sent me to discuss something with you.”

“Then I would hear the wise counsel of Viscount Derek. What advice has he for a defeated man like me?”

A seasoned envoy might have smoothed over the sarcasm with a few artful compliments. Sherif barely seemed to notice it. “We want you to influence the Holy Cross army's route and make it bypass Birch Fort.”

Connor's eldest son laughed. “Dream on. This time we are fully prepared. One hundred thousand men will march on Birch Fort. Derek can wait there to die.”

“Then prepare to fill Birch Fort with another fifty thousand lives.”

“This time Father will not command. Let them die.”

“Then we will surrender. Will the new commander receive your King’s reward for that?”

The blunt reply struck their true weakness. However much they wanted Derek to suffer, they wanted Connor's successor to win glory even less. Connor silenced his son with one raised hand and studied Sherif anew.

“I know what you want. I can agree, but I have conditions.”

“Please state them.”

“I want a barony of more than ten thousand people and annual taxes above a thousand gold coins. Can the Viscount give that?”

Before leaving, Derek had analyzed likely demands: armor, weapons, warhorses, population. Sherif had authority to accept key terms because there would be no time for another contact before the Holy Cross army moved.

But he had never expected Connor to demand land. A barony of that scale was no trifle. The Kingdom of Locke contained scarcely a hundred landed houses of baronial rank or higher, and House Ferreira's fief had required generations of development to reach roughly the same level. This was a foundation upon which an entire dynasty could be built.

Sherif knew Derek controlled enough land to meet the demand, but no envoy could casually promise away a barony. Refusal, however, might end the negotiation, and Derek had stressed the mission’s importance.

Be decisive.

“Agreed,” Sherif said through clenched teeth. “I pledge it in House Augusta's name. We will fulfill the promise within ten years.”

“Impressive. Viscount Derek's ambitions are anything but small.” Connor applauded. He assumed Sherif could not possibly have made such a pledge on his own; Derek must have rehearsed the possibility before sending him. A Viscount who promised away so rich a barony would have to become a landed count at the very least. Connor did not fear that Derek would break his word. After his own defeat, he had no desire to see the Kingdom recover Saint Miller Province, and a man who had risen from an ordinary knight to found a comital house possessed ambitions of his own.

“Sherif, you have courage. Tell Viscount Derek that we can cooperate more deeply. I await his good news.”

Connor added terms concerning trade, warhorses, and other matters. Sherif did not know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

...

Derek had no idea that his brother had made so enormous a pledge on his behalf. He had not expected Connor to demand territory, but had he been present, he would still have agreed. Crisis and opportunity were two faces of the same moment.

Saint Miller looked surrounded by danger, but its location was excellent. To the north lay a vast wilderness, former territory of the Holy United Kingdom and far from barren. Barbarians held it now. Locke had once gathered strength to recover that old land; being maneuvered into Saint Miller had changed the route, not the objective.

Spreading a rough scout map before his knights, Derek explained, “None of the three kingdoms recognizes the Barbarian Kingdom. It may have profited from this war, but beneath its appearance of strength, it remains weak. A tribal structure gives it little power to mobilize. The Barbarian King's orders do not even reach every part of the land he claims.

“Had they seized enough people this time, perhaps their King would have found the confidence to reform the state. They have copied our institutions and technology and absorbed some subjects of the old kingdom, but none of that changes their fundamental weakness. My scouts tell me this wilderness is vast enough to support a duchy. Few tribes live in this region. Control these hubs, and we control the whole expanse. The land could sustain a million people.”

Inside Locke, he could not expand by annexation. Going east into the Holy Cross was suicide; even after ten defeats, it could defend itself. The long stalemate between Locke and the Holy Cross proved it. Only the barbarian threat, which no one had foreseen, had allowed Saint Miller to fall.

That left only the north. The wilderness lay beyond Locke's legal borders, and under the kingdom's frontier-settlement laws, whoever conquered and developed such land could claim it. Yet wars of expansion were normally launched by the Kingdom itself. Individuals rarely possessed the necessary strength, and even those who did were seldom permitted to act without royal sanction.

Derek believed that if war exhausted Locke and Holy Cross strength in the north, he could gain at least a year and a half. That was enough to do much.

Everyone assumed Derek's next step was to become a count and build a knightly legend like the Sword of God. His vision reached further. He wanted to conquer wilderness and carve out a realm of his own. The temptation was almost unbearable.

Everything depended on the Holy Cross Kingdom cooperating. If the coming war consumed Derek's own strength instead of everyone else's, the dream would end before it began.

He wanted to become a duke. For now, he could only shout it inside his heart. One day, he hoped to say it openly.

While Derek and his knights rehearsed strategic possibilities, other nobles were busy. Winter was not for commoners; as war approached, noble contacts became more frequent.

Count Lovett hosted Marquis Hussein. Though Hussein had recently joined northerners in cheating Lovett, it did not prevent them drinking and watching dancers. In a quiet corner, core nobles formed a loose circle.

“Marquis, seeing your brilliance again, your planning was truly excellent. But you hurt us badly,” Lovett said, half-joking.

The capital nobles smiled. Taking the fruits of victory was not shameful; it was worth boasting of. Hussein dabbed his lips and said, “Everything is for the King.”

“Then are you willing to do more for the King?” Lovett pressed.

Hussein understood the dinner's purpose and had come because sufficient profit could overcome old grievances. Before the capital nobles, however, he could not openly reject Lovett's appeal. “Of course. For the King.”

Lovett picked up a bottle and drew Hussein toward the window, away from the surrounding nobles. “We cannot possibly be satisfied with this outcome. The southern houses have endured for ten years and paid dearly to promote the recovery of the lands lost to the barbarians. Even now, we supply part of Saint Miller's food.”

Hussein did not respond. Without real value, he would not yield.

“More than half of Saint Miller's food comes from the southern and central regions. We need only tighten our control slightly and delay deliveries for a few days at the right moment—say, after Holy Cross and Derek have both suffered heavy losses.”

“Impossible,” Hussein said, his face changing. “It is not in His Majesty’s interest.”

“But it is in yours. If the opportunity is wrong, you can refuse. Once Derek loses his land, our two sides can give you Augusta.”

The temptation was enormous. The King's interests belonged to the King, not to Hussein. “I heard none of this. But the King's will stands above all.”

Lovett understood the implication. “Yes. The King’s will is above all. Viscount Derek is arrogant and not a loyal servant.” The bargain was sealed without either man stating it openly.

Lovett did not care if Saint Miller was lost in the process. His holdings lay farthest from the front, with little territory directly exposed, and he could always retreat. The King and the northern knights would bear the greatest losses. Anyone who insisted on eating the whole feast alone deserved to choke on it.

After the banquet, Lovett learned that his brother Tamir had returned. Tamir was merely a court baron, with little hope of advancing in the South. He had reached the North even before Lovett, then rushed into the Holy Cross Kingdom as soon as he learned of the northern-capital agreement to divide Saint Miller.

By the time he appeared in Lovett's study, Tamir had washed and changed into proper clothes, but fresh lines had formed across his face and exhaustion remained impossible to hide. He had crossed the same roads twice in a short span while matching wits with men inside an enemy kingdom. The journey had cost him dearly—but the result made it worthwhile.

He had contacted the man chosen to command the Holy Cross offensive after spring planting: Sebastian Bruno Fernandez, the King's brother and the court-appointed Grand Duke of Holy Light. Lovett was surprised that King Bruno had entrusted the opportunity to his brother. For all Fernandez's grand title, it came without land and lacked the substance and dignity of a true duke.

Tamir had promised Fernandez the locations of the grain stores. In return, the Grand Duke agreed to direct the offensive through northern territory—especially Viscount Derek's lands. That was what mattered. If Holy Cross could be used to weaken the northern knights, sacrificing a few granaries was a trivial price.

“Nothing is not for sale,” Count Lovett said proudly.