Stonley’s bed was more comfortable than Jordar’s. It had been a few weeks since he’d killed the little fool in the Riventomb, and each day that passed since he’d last had to hear that wretch’s voice, the more he was convinced it was the best choice he’d ever made. Jordar had been extraordinarily lucky as of late, two of his cousins died in a shipwreck! He was now only seventh in line for the throne. As Jordar sat up in his new bed, he glanced around the room. He’d left it much the same. For everything he did fault Stonley for, taste was not one. He had the money to purchase whatever he pleased. Now, Jordar had that money. It’d been a simple matter of killing Stonley, and then listening to his little ring while she whispered little secrets in his ear. It’d only been a matter of getting ahold of Stonley’s Will, which he had a habit of updating frequently. The document was in his room.

  The Ring could make his hand steady when she wanted. He’d sat at the oak desk for hours meticulously copying every twist and turn, every error and every drop of paint, so that the two pages were virtually indistinguishable from each other. Then, well, he’d moved in and watched as he’d become wealthy. The old guards were out, of course, and much of the old staff. But Jordar still had Ysiah, and as long as the grumbling old bartender was still pouring the ale, the regulars didn’t care about what Jordar did with the rest of the staff. But Jordar had not been most interested in the running of The Millstone but instead in rumors.

  “You heard of Rousse the Black?” Ysiah had asked him over drinks, leaning over the bar with the reek of ale on him.

  “Of course! No man within a thousand leagues of Durendane hasn’t.” Jordar replied.

  “Mark my words, he’ll come for his throne. Lucen is dead, and you can’t count on the little wench to hold that throne. Poor thing.” He took a long swig of ale, and turned as a tired gladiator stumbled to the bar in search of libation. Ysiah left Jordar to ponder his words.

  A king. He heard her voice in his head. King Jordar Corinth. King Jordar the Ist Corinth of Durendane.

  He quite liked the sound of that. He’d never heard a song so beautiful.

  Jordar stared at the little map on the desk before him, tracing his hand over the different roads and cities of Durendane, and the nearest portions of the world outside of it.

  Rousse was likely gathering supplies in the Free Cities before he’d attempt to march on the capital. Corinthia was a likely target, its ports would make for an excellent position from which to ferry supplies and troops. Under the flickering torchlight, Jordar weighed his options. There was too the issue of the North. His family had publicly already sworn their fealty to Queen Meriwyn the Ist Azalus. Several southern houses had, and rumor had it, the Bastard Isle. But Jordar had overheard several rumors in the fighting pits and private rooms of his Millstone. Sailors from the north were saying that they’d seen houses on the march alright, but not for the Pitchfork River- towards the Eyefort, near the coast. The Seat of House Todd. His eyes lingered on the map, the island in the midst of the lake made for a good, defensible position. A great stone bridge had long ago been constructed from the Eyefort to land, besides the dock it was the only way off the island. For someone wishing to attack the castle, they’d essentially be forced to break down the front gates and storm it by force, else attack by water. Jordar pondered if grappling hooks could even the odds, if enough men could scale the walls by night without being noticed, it’d merely be a matter of opening the gates.

  What are they planning? He wondered.

  Treason. He heard his ring whisper, her velvety voice so soft in his mind. They want the throne. Barbaric Northmen, fops, and little girls claim the throne.

  It wasn’t right that people such as they be competing for the throne of all Durendane while Jordar was in this port city running a whorehouse and fighting den. It made good money sure, but such dirty work was not meant for men of prestige. This was the sort of work best doled to an underling, perhaps someone of lowborn blood.

  Jordar stood up, pacing the lush carpet of the room. The ring on his finger seemed to thrum quietly, it glowed faintly golden in the dimness of the room. As he stared at his hand, he started to formulate a bit of an idea.

  Jordar Corinth was glad for nepotism. The captain of the city guard was 6th in Line for the seat of House Corinth, and he was not selected for his job out of some duty to justice. Kyram Corinth was most often found at the bottom of a bottle, in Jordar’s very own Millstone. Like many moral failures in the Corinth Port, Kyram had a favorite whore. Jordar didn’t care much to learn her name, but he had been able to tell by the lavish gifts that his cousin had layered onto this woman that she was someone very close to his heart. She would be Jordar’s dagger. For now, she was an indebted servant to the House of Corinth, which meant that he had the unique opportunity to use this legal slavery to his advantage.

  The guards of House Corinth operated from a Guardhouse near the market. To call it a guardhouse felt like a lie, it was more a miniature fortress. It had its own gate, a relatively small courtyard, and a stables for a rotating number of mounted guards who patrolled the city. Jordar arrived escorted by gladiators. He’d chosen his best.

  Beak was a tall, thin man with a trident and a net. He preferred the buckler shield. His brother went by Boulder, and was as fat as Beak was thin. Boulder did not fight with anything but his bare hands, his calloused and scarred skin was rumored to be so thick a dagger could not cut it.

  Intri was a Northern Spear Maiden, with a little round shield and a short spear. There were daggers fixed everywhere she could fit one and still move. Lastly was Corbek, who was mute. Jordar liked Corbek. He could not speak, and followed his orders to the letter. If all commoners were like Corbek, Jordar thought the world would be a very nice place.

  Kyram slouched as he dragged himself into the courtyard. Two men accompanied him, looking as bored as Jordar was disgusted. Kyram yawned, running a hand through his hair as he glanced down from the wall above the gate.

  “Oh, you just had to ruin my good fortune, didn’t you?” He slapped his hands onto the pale stone of the Guardhouse, ignoring the crowds passing behind Jordar and his watchful guards.

  “I was having the most wonderful dream.” He said, staring off into the distance “Now, I am faced only with disturbing reality.” He frowned.

  “If you are quite finished, I have come to discuss the most vital matter to a man’s well being.”

  Kyram seemed confused, he waited for Jordar to elaborate. Jordar sighed.

  “Gold!” Jordar shrugged exasperatedly.

  “Open the gate!” Kyram ordered, stepping back from his position above Jordar.

  If only I could just kill him. It’d make this all so much easier.

  Beak led the way in, scanning the walls from beneath his plumed helmet.

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  The men seemed as lazy as their commander. The guard patrols were less patrols, and more fluctuating groups of chattering men who spent more time discussing the latest chariot races and gladiatorial fights than they did keeping an eye out for any criminals.

  I could take the guardhouse with all of my gladiators. If I kept them loyal.

  For now, such things couldn’t be guaranteed. He couldn’t be certain everyone believed that Stonley would name him an heir. He was lucky that the little fool hadn’t sired any children of his own. If he did have any bastards running around, then Jordar would burn that bridge when he got to it.

  In Kyram’s hall, it was nearly impossible to distinguish him from any of the other South-Lords. The room was held up by marble pillars, lit by four bronze braziers that sat between the pillars, evenly spaced so as to warm the room. Smoke drifted lazily through the air, and out a small sun-roof.

  Servants poured the two of them wine, scuttering from the room quickly.

  He fancies himself a king. Jordar scoffed to himself.

  Kingmaker. The ring whispered. You choose who reigns, and who dies. Her voice was as silken as sheets, and as dark as the ocean depths.

  Beak and his boys spread out behind him, inspecting the art and furs and pottery that littered the room. Of course Kyram had not hunted any of these animals, nor met any of the artists, nor explored any of the foreign lands he seemed so intent on bringing treats from.

  Kyram had two guards near his desk, and two near the door. But it was no even fight, Jordar fancied he could clear this room alone, letting his gladiators learn a thing or two. But instead, he rested a hand lazily on his new Riversteel sword, and sauntered to Kyram’s table slowly.

  The general silence in the room was broken by the abrasive sound of Jordar deliberately dragging his chair across the floor, much to the chagrin of his cousin.

  A thin servant with graying hair and a wisp of a beard gingerly deposited two copper-colored goblets on the table. They were decorated in such a way as to seem overgrown with ivy and moss. Flowers wrapped a crown about the rim of the chalice, oxidized green. Kyram gave thanks to the servant as he poured wine from an oversized pitcher.

  “Have you only come to pester me?” He took a sip from his own glass as Jordar smelled his own.

  Hekrosi. He determined. They were soldiers, not winemakers.

  He dares give you the cheap wine? The ring asked. Who does he think he is?

  He ignored the ring for now, and the fact he found himself gripping his sword.

  “Not only that.” Jordar smiled as he took in the room around him. “Can I not come to entertain family?” He asked innocently.

  “No.” Kyram replied sternly. “Since when do you visit? You only deal.”

  He’s smarter since last I saw him. Jordar mused.

  “Cutting to the chase, eh?” He asked.

  “Or I could cut you.” Kyram replied, leaning forward.

  “You certainly are no longer Kyram Klutz.” Jordar replied, and the reminder of his childhood nickname flared up an anger in Kyrams’ eyes.

  “No, not now, not ever again!” He growled. Subtly, Jordar could see Corbeck moving himself along the edge of the wall, placing himself behind Kyram and his guards. Corbek kept his focus on the walls, Kyrams' lazy guards not seeing any trouble in the mute. They probably assumed him a fool.

  “You may have forgotten your sins, cousin.” He spat the last word like a curse. “But I have not.” Kyram narrowed his eyes. “You remember when you knocked me out of that tree? I broke my damn leg! The Apothecary thought the infection would kill me! All the tripping and the jokes. You made me a joke!” Kyram slammed his fists into the table. His guards inched slowly for their swords. Kyram was near frothing at the mouth now, and though Jordar kept his nerve he was wondering if he had perhaps been foolish in coming here. He’d assumed time would heal the wounds, instead of festering.

  Use honey to draw in the fly. His ring whispered. Jordar put on his best sad face.

  “I’m sorry, cousin.” He pleaded. “I was a foolish, brash, child. A bully!” He said. Kyram nodded in agreement.

  Now, the ego. Jordar pressed. He shifted now, adding in a little quiver of shame to his voice.

  “I was jealous!” He said. “You were better ahorse, and better with the sword. You had the eye of Lady Beatyn, and I was a sickly boy, tenth in line.”

  Kyram was smiling, almost apologetic himself now.

  “Well, it has been a long time.” He said.

  “Stonley died, and he was a lad of only twenty-five summers!” Jordar pretended to be taken aghast, as if the sword that ended Stonley’s life wasn’t sitting on his very hip. It sent a tingle up his spine, he had to bite his cheeks to hide a grin.

  He drank from his own wine now.

  “It got me thinking, about family, and about how I treated them…I’d hate to die alone, cold and hated.” Jordar wiped a false tear from his eye, and that seemed to get Kyram. He’d always been the sentimental sort. Weak.

  “It also got me thinking about the men who lead this house.” He said. “Hectar, whos so greedy that he has not visited our own Lady Grandmother in near a decade. Karlos, who spends his days not with his children, but drowning in mistresses and wine? What happened to the honor of knights? Of Durendane?” Jordar asked, leaning back in his chair. The crackling of the braziers played a soothing tune as the guards shuffled near-silently.

  Kyram nodded in agreement.

  “King Lucen, taken by the wasting, what a shame- now THAT was a man.” He grinned. “Heard he cleaved a horse in half once, back when the Skull Cap rebelled. Heard he dropped their little Kingling right off his horse and into the mud, the boy was stupified.” He smiled, as if imagining the moment. But Kyram had not been there. He’d been in Corinthia, watching the walls for an attack that would never come, at Hectar’s bidding.

  Jordar nodded.

  “Seems all the men like him have passed.” Jordar shook his head sadly. “Well, almost all of them.” He gave Kyram a grin and the man returned it.

  “You flatter me!” Kyram raised an eyebrow as he took another drink of wine. “Perhaps you did grow up.”

  Jordar nodded solemnly.

  “Aye.” He said. “I had to.”

  He let them simmer in the silence for a moment as he heard his gladiators begin to quietly speak to the men near the door.

  “You know, before he passed, Stonley let me in on a little secret.” Jordar leaned in, and Kyram did the same.

  “He found the Riventomb.” He whispered, smiling.

  “You jest.”Kyram narrowed his eyes. “Surely he’d have done something with it.”

  “It’s why he gifted me his Riversteel.” Jordar motioned to the blade on his hip.

  “He gave you Torrent?” Kyram gasped. “Show me.” He leaned back, and Jordar obliged. Even the guards behind Kyram seemed focused on the blue blade, and how the reflection of flame rippled across its surface like waves on a calm, blue, ocean.

  Kyram leaned in, gently reaching towards the sword, almost reverently. Jordar drew the blade back, sheathing the weapon.

  “I suppose it was not long before he passed, he only gave me the blade recently.” Jordar explained. “But I know where the tomb lies.” Jordar tapped the side of his head.

  Kyram set his jaw.

  “And how do I play into this? Why tell me?” Kyram asked.

  “Because House Corinth needs strong men.” Jordar said, leaving the rest unsaid. Let Kyram make choices, and think they were his own.

  “Stonley gave me the Millstone, you know.” Jordar said. Kyram’s face reddened ever so slightly. Jordar had to fight to keep his smile hidden.

  “We should get drinks sometime, Kyram. Watch a fight.” Jordar stuck out his hand for a handshake.

  Kyram shook his hand hesitantly before Jordar stood, and excused himself, his men falling into line behind him as Jordar moved towards the exit. Once past the guards, he smiled freely.