Spring brought little warmth to Blackcliff. The wind from the north remained sharp, carrying the breath of unmelted snow and ice, screaming through the valleys. But to William, the true chill came not from the weather, but from the piles of scrolls on the long table before him, and the cold, abstract numbers on the parchment.
He was no longer a lonely repairman, but a king. A hastily-crowned king, sitting in a remote fortress, ruling a kingdom riddled with crisis and fragmentation.
He awoke early. When the sky was still the color of iron, he was already seated in his study—not the refined room Elyse had remade, but a small, former armory deep in the keep, its stone walls bare, which he had converted into his seat of governance. No carpets, no tapestries, only a massive, scarred oak table, a few hard chairs, a peat fire in the hearth offering meager heat against the stone's chill, and a few tallow lamps smoking darkly.
Old Scribe Glenshaw—the silent, duty-bound man brought from the capital archives—was already waiting, a stack of last night's summaries before him. William dismissed the servant bringing hot water and coarse bread, leaving only Glenshaw.
"Read," he said hoarsely, his eyes fixed on the kingdom map spread on the table, his fingers unconsciously tracing the蜿蜒 line of the eastern border.
Glenshaw cleared his throat and began in his flat, uninflected voice:
"First, news of the Norsemen fleet. The six longships harassing Blackwater Bay last month confirmed as under 'Blood-Raven' Harald's command. Three villages raided, livestock and grain taken, approximately thirty persons captured. Coastal garrison reports: three of our patrol ships damaged, seventeen casualties. Harald's main force whereabouts unknown. Rumors of him gathering more ships at Mist Isle."
"Second, eastern border, Duke Ferdinand of Silver Vale replies to Your Majesty's previous letter. Courteous in phrasing, reaffirms loyalty, but declines, citing 'spring planting demands and internal unrest,' the invitation to send his eldest son to the capital for 'instruction in courtly manners.' Additionally, per intelligence (source requires verification), Ferdinand has met twice this past month with envoys from the Free City of Greyport to the east."
"Third, southern plague. The 'Red Cough' spreads in the Riverlands. The prefect of Riverton requests urgent aid: physicians, medicinal herbs, supplies for quarantine. Also reports citizen panic, attempts to storm the city gates to flee suppressed by guards, casualties unknown."
"Fourth, royal finances. Preliminary report from Lord Tavelin: last year's revenue, due to war, plague, and disrupted trade, approximately thirty percent less than the previous year. The treasury is currently... depleted. Funds for maintaining the Crown, military, and essential relief will last only three months at present rates. Autumn tax collection is distant."
"Fifth, capital movements. Yesterday, Duke Daerlon 'hosted a gathering' at his residence for several representatives of western lords. Count Maurice prayed at the Great Cathedral for the third consecutive day. Neither has left their assigned quarters, but servants and visitors come and go frequently."
Glenshaw's voice ceased. The study held only the crackle of burning peat in the hearth and the eternal wind outside the window.
William closed his eyes. The abstract numbers and place names churned in his mind: six longships, thirty captured commoners, seventeen casualties, thirty percent revenue shortfall, three months of supplies, a refused hostage, a spreading plague, and the two old foxes under soft confinement in the capital, still maneuvering.
He opened his eyes and looked at Glenshaw. "The Norsemen. Tell the coastal commander: contract the defense line, abandon remote outposts, concentrate forces to hold the two main ports, Blackwater Town and Eagle's Beak. Send fast ships—not to engage, but to watch the periphery of Mist Isle, ascertain exactly how many men Harald is gathering. Also, have the commander find a few veterans or merchants familiar with Norse ways, bold ones, take... take some of our surplus wool and furs here, try to make contact with some of Harald's less central captains, find out what they lack, what they might trade for besides raiding."
Glenshaw's quill scratched rapidly across the paper.
"Ferdinand..." William's fingers tapped the location of Silver Vale. "He doesn't want to send his son. Let it be for now. Reply, tone mild, express understanding. Also, in my name, gift him... gift him a batch of fine Blackcliff hunting hound pups, say we heard the Duke enjoys the hunt. Additionally, secret order to our people in Silver Vale: ascertain exactly what the Greyport envoys promised. Weapons? Grain? Or just empty promises."
"The plague..." William frowned; this felt more powerless than the Norsemen or rebellious nobles. "Tell Tavelin to squeeze what medicinal herbs he can from the... from the Crown reserves, especially for fever and cough, send them to the Riverlands immediately. Have Bishop John mobilize churches everywhere to establish quarantine houses; expenses... draw from parish tithes first, promise Crown compensation later. Order the Riverton prefect: strictly forbid anyone from leaving the city without permission, but he must ensure stable grain prices within. Anyone caught hoarding or price-gouging, regardless of status, hanged on the spot, property confiscated for relief."
"Finances..." He paused, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety in his gut. "Reply to Tavelin, have him list all Crown expenditures that can be temporarily mortgaged or deferred. Also, draft an order in my name: a 'loan' request to all lords and wealthy merchants across the kingdom. State it's an emergency measure against the Norse threat and plague, pledge future tariffs or mining revenue from one or two years as collateral. Those willing to lend will receive corresponding honorary titles or trade privileges based on amount. Start by testing... Daerlon's and Maurice's allies. They have money, don't they? Want to show loyalty? Give them the chance."
"As for those two in the capital," William's lips twisted in a humorless line. "They enjoy gatherings and prayer? Let them continue. But tell the guards: record names and items carried for all entering and exiting personnel. Also, spread some rumors... say the Norsemen may invade in force, the King is gathering armies at Blackcliff and needs capable commanders. See which of them grows restless first, offers to 'serve the kingdom.'"
Instructions, clear, calm, even cold, issued from his lips. No, no moralizing, only the most pragmatic choices based on limited intelligence and resources: contract defense, probe, stabilize potential rebels, exchange honor for money, use fear and interest to move men.
Glenshaw finished recording and looked up, hesitating. "Your Majesty, regarding the Norsemen... contacting their captains, would that not... diminish the kingdom's dignity? And if other lords learn of it..."
William looked at him, his ice-blue eyes showing no ripple. "Glenshaw, dignity doesn't feed people or scare off pirates. Why does Harald raid? His lands are poor, he needs supplies for his men, raiding is the fastest way. If we can offer a less bloody path to some of those supplies, even if only some captains are tempted, cracks may appear in his alliance, and fewer of our coastal villagers die. As for what other lords think..." He picked up a piece of cold, dark bread and took a hard bite. "Let them sit in this seat, facing an empty treasury and fires on every border, before they judge my methods."
Glenshaw bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"And one more thing," William stopped the old man as he prepared to leave. "All these matters, the summaries and my orders, you will as usual and read them aloud at noon in the castle yard. Word for word. Let the smiths, stablehands, soldiers, and all those 'servants' Daerlon and Maurice left here hear it. I want them to know what is happening in the kingdom, and what their King intends to do about it."
A flicker of surprise crossed Glenshaw's eyes, but he bowed again. "As you command, Your Majesty."
The old man left,in arms. The study returned to silence. William sat alone behind the massive table, his thin, figure cast by the dim lamplight and hearth fire onto the rough stone wall.
He pushed aside the scrolls marked with Norsemen, rebellious lords, and plague, and took out his worn old ledger from beneath the table. Opening to a new page, he dipped his quill and wrote the day's date, then began to record:
Norsemen raid coast. Contract defense. Send scouts to probe and attempt contact with some captains, use trade to divide them.
Silver Vale's Ferdinand unstable.Send gifts to soothe, secretly investigate his external dealings.
Southern plague.Dispatch herbs, order churches to set up quarantine, control grain prices strictly, punish profiteers.
Treasury empty.Order Tavelin to raise funds, mortgage future revenue, borrow from lords/merchants, offer honors.
Two nobles in capital.Allow their, monitor closely, spread rumors of military need to gauge reaction.
Finished, he set down the quill and rubbed his tired eyes. The writing in the ledger was as hard and cold as stone, recording not achievements, but one trouble after another and the not-altogether-honorable means to them.
Outside, dawn lightened, a gray-white seepage into the room bringing little warmth. William stood and walked to the narrow window. From here he could see Blackcliff's vast shadow covering the sleeping valley below, and beyond, the layered mountains in morning mist, silent, eternal, indifferent.
He had been these mountains' climber, conqueror, later their lonely guardian and repairman. Now, he was the king sitting in this stone fortress, trying to glue together the cracks of a vast kingdom with calculation and decision. The crown was heavy, but the burden on his shoulders weighed far more than that cold metal.
He knew the Norsemen would not abandon raiding for a few contacts, Ferdinand might already harbor, the plague would not easily recede, borrowing money would invite endless criticism and, and the two old foxes in the capital could slip their leash and bite back at any moment.
But he had no choice. Just as when facing his father's heavy sword, Blackcliff's unclimbable cliff, the king's judgment, and Elyse's departure, he could only face it, calculate, and act.
The climber had become king, but the climb had never stopped. Only the path underfoot had shifted from steep rock faces to the more complex, treacherous of human hearts and power. And the only gear he carried was still that ledger recording cold arithmetic, and a heart tempered by and suffering to the hardness of mountain stone.
The wind grew fiercer, rattling the window frame like distant Norse war drums, or like the kingdom's low moan in crisis. William turned and walked back to the table. A new day had begun. More scrolls and thornier problems awaited the old wolf on the stone throne, waiting for his teeth and wit to tear and, bit by bit.
His reign began on a starkly realistic morning, with a pile of bad news and several inglorious orders. Legend and epic were distant. For now, there was only the arithmetic of survival, proceeding silently in the cold stone room.