up the river Mendanaria. Keep them close to our shores, but have them ready. They may need to ferry troops at a moments notice. Have a second group at the mouth of the river prepared in reserve. Keep the rest of the Armada at normal stations.”
“As you say, my liege,” replied Admiral Kol Trem-Sharron.
King Varlock-Sharron turned finally to Lord Mika Forkuln, who seemed to have shrunk in his seat. He spoke in a low tone. “Lord Mika, I am very disappointed, to say the least. As my Foreign Minister, I expect you to recognize and identify a potentially embarrassing situation immediately. You failed me here. You should have brought this up when you heard it, or tried to confirm it if possible. This is not your first mistake, Lord Mika. You were appointed to this position because your father served my father and myself well before he retired, and he spoke highly of you.”
The King paused a moment, letting that sink in. “I am a patient man, but this is your last mistake. You will send diplomats to Cordianlott directly, your best, and find out what Juron is up to. You will then, in two weeks, go to Medaelia yourself, and press my interests there. I want the Council and the Order called together, to meet at Penlorka. Work with the Chivalry and Nobility if you can. Do not fail me again, Lord Mika. I expect you understand?”
“But, your Majesty? One of my chief diplomats, perhaps a high ambassador, would be better suited to...”
“Are you contradicting my orders, Lord Mika?” King Varlock-Sharron asked menacingly. He looked at the man across the table from him. Medium height, curly hair, fancy doublet, and oversized paunch. Lord Mika Forkuln was a loudmouthed fop. He was also a coward. “I certainly hope not. This is your last chance to redeem yourself. Try not to fail once more. Are we clear on this matter?”
“Uh, yes, yes my liege. Perfectly clear.”
“Very well. Your diplomats will depart tomorrow. You will proceed in exactly two weeks. Make all the necessary preparations.” The King stood. “We all have work to do. We will meet again tomorrow night to further our discussion on this situation. For now, though, we have a search to commence. Does everyone know what has to be done?”
The question was met with silence, but the looks Varlock-Sharron received told him they did.
“This Council is dismissed. Carry out my directions. It is time to restore order to Sharron, and make certain our enemies know that we are not a fruit ripe for the picking.”
The King turned, and faced out the window. Yet he knew their attention remained on him. “Sharron has always been, and will always be, the strongest nation in the world. I have sworn to keep it that way. So shall it be.”
Chapter 8
Lyrra-Sharron tossed about on the hard pallet. She could not get comfortable. Dak was across the room, seated at the table, sharpening a knife by a single candle. Cam Murtallan was asleep, as far as she could tell.
Things had not gone as planned. She had intended for them to get out of the Capital in the ensuing chaos. But her father had proven too prepared even when surprised so.
Lyrra-Sharron had additional doubts about the Sorcerer, and her plans for him. She’d studied forbidden books, and learned many things about a power she could not possess. But now she wondered if she knew enough to help make this man a Sorcerer again. The beginnings of his reclamation of that lost power caught her up short as well, though she was loathe to admit that even to herself.
It was very late now. She knew the primary reason why she couldn’t sleep - it was difficult to get over the feeling of being a caged rat. She hoped Dak was right about Max. If he panicked now, they had nowhere to hide. She was also certain her father no longer wanted her returned strictly alive.
This came as no surprise. Death had long shadowed her
“As you say, my liege,” replied Admiral Kol Trem-Sharron.
King Varlock-Sharron turned finally to Lord Mika Forkuln, who seemed to have shrunk in his seat. He spoke in a low tone. “Lord Mika, I am very disappointed, to say the least. As my Foreign Minister, I expect you to recognize and identify a potentially embarrassing situation immediately. You failed me here. You should have brought this up when you heard it, or tried to confirm it if possible. This is not your first mistake, Lord Mika. You were appointed to this position because your father served my father and myself well before he retired, and he spoke highly of you.”
The King paused a moment, letting that sink in. “I am a patient man, but this is your last mistake. You will send diplomats to Cordianlott directly, your best, and find out what Juron is up to. You will then, in two weeks, go to Medaelia yourself, and press my interests there. I want the Council and the Order called together, to meet at Penlorka. Work with the Chivalry and Nobility if you can. Do not fail me again, Lord Mika. I expect you understand?”
“But, your Majesty? One of my chief diplomats, perhaps a high ambassador, would be better suited to...”
“Are you contradicting my orders, Lord Mika?” King Varlock-Sharron asked menacingly. He looked at the man across the table from him. Medium height, curly hair, fancy doublet, and oversized paunch. Lord Mika Forkuln was a loudmouthed fop. He was also a coward. “I certainly hope not. This is your last chance to redeem yourself. Try not to fail once more. Are we clear on this matter?”
“Uh, yes, yes my liege. Perfectly clear.”
“Very well. Your diplomats will depart tomorrow. You will proceed in exactly two weeks. Make all the necessary preparations.” The King stood. “We all have work to do. We will meet again tomorrow night to further our discussion on this situation. For now, though, we have a search to commence. Does everyone know what has to be done?”
The question was met with silence, but the looks Varlock-Sharron received told him they did.
“This Council is dismissed. Carry out my directions. It is time to restore order to Sharron, and make certain our enemies know that we are not a fruit ripe for the picking.”
The King turned, and faced out the window. Yet he knew their attention remained on him. “Sharron has always been, and will always be, the strongest nation in the world. I have sworn to keep it that way. So shall it be.”
Chapter 8
Lyrra-Sharron tossed about on the hard pallet. She could not get comfortable. Dak was across the room, seated at the table, sharpening a knife by a single candle. Cam Murtallan was asleep, as far as she could tell.
Things had not gone as planned. She had intended for them to get out of the Capital in the ensuing chaos. But her father had proven too prepared even when surprised so.
Lyrra-Sharron had additional doubts about the Sorcerer, and her plans for him. She’d studied forbidden books, and learned many things about a power she could not possess. But now she wondered if she knew enough to help make this man a Sorcerer again. The beginnings of his reclamation of that lost power caught her up short as well, though she was loathe to admit that even to herself.
It was very late now. She knew the primary reason why she couldn’t sleep - it was difficult to get over the feeling of being a caged rat. She hoped Dak was right about Max. If he panicked now, they had nowhere to hide. She was also certain her father no longer wanted her returned strictly alive.
This came as no surprise. Death had long shadowed her
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