Tobbar regarded him silently for several moments, until Marston began to wonder if he had somehow angered the duke. “You thought of all this on your own?” the older man asked at last.

“Yes.”

His father gave a small laugh and shook his head. “Your grandfather would be very proud. Many nobles go an entire lifetime without mastering the finer points of statecraft. And here you are, younger than I was when I became thane, and you’re already a better duke than I’ve ever been.”

“That’s not true, Father. I merely-”

“It’s all right. I’m pleased.” He rubbed his hands together, as if chilled. “Send your messages. Invite the dukes here. With the snows falling, I doubt many of them will make the journey, but we can address that when the time comes.”

Marston stood, unable to keep the smile from his face. “Yes, Father.”

“We can’t expect the king to make the journey, nor should we even presume to ask him. So you should send a separate message to him, telling him just what’s happened. Give that message to our best horseman, and send eight guards with him.”

“It will be done, my lord,” Marston said, bowing to the duke.

Tobbar frowned. “Don’t call me that.”

Returning to his quarters, Marston sat at the small table by the hearth and began writing his missives. Confronted now with the task, he found that the words did not come nearly as easily as he had hoped they would. He wished to tell the dukes enough to convey his sense of urgency, without revealing so much that he risked the reputation of his father and their house. In the end, he decided it was better to be too vague than too specific.

My dear dukes,

I write to you at the request of the duke of Thorald. Information has come to us recently that sheds new light on the tragedies that occurred in Kentigern during the growing turns. As the conflict between Curgh and Kentigern still threatens to sunder our kingdom, we wish to discuss these tidings with you as soon as possible.

To that end, Tobbar, duke of Thorald, invites you to be his guest in Thorald Castle at your earliest convenience.

May Ean guard you and guide you safely to our gates.

Marston, thane of Shanstead Marston dispatched the messengers later that day and spent the rest of the waxing waiting impatiently for the other houses to reply. He should have known better than to expect to hear from any of them quickly. Even Eardley Castle, which was closest to Thorald, stood twenty-five leagues to the east. Pushing his mount to its limits, the messenger sent to the coast of the Narrows would have to ride three days in each direction. Still, only a few mornings after his conversation with the duke, Marston was already pacing the battlements of the castle, watching for Thorald’s riders to return.

It was not until the ninth day of the waxing, just before the ringing of the twilight bells, that the first rider returned. As it happened, the first reply came not from Eardley, but from Galdasten, the nearest of the major houses.

Seeing the rider approach, Marston bolted down the stairs of the nearest tower and across all three of the castle wards, so that he might meet the man by the west gate.

The messenger looked haggard, his face an angry shade of red from the cold and wind.

Dismounting, he could barely stand without the help of two guards.

Marston should have given him a chance to rest and eat and warm himself by a fire, but his impatience overmastered all other considerations.

“Well?” he demanded, approaching the man.

The rider shook his head. “The duke of Galdasten instructed me to tell you he has no interest in being a guest of Thorald’s duke. He said as well that he doubted Thorald had any more information than Galdasten, and he had heard nothing to change his mind about Lord Tavis’s guilt.”

Marston closed his eyes briefly, cursing himself for not saying more in his message.

“That’s all?” he asked, looking at the man again. “He wrote no reply?”

The rider gave a thin smile. “He didn’t even allow me into his castle, my lord. He kept me waiting at the gate, and sent his Qirsi to convey his response.”

The thane wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Very well,” he said. He glanced at the nearer of the two guards. “Get him some food and some hot tea. Make certain he’s made comfortable.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The rider bowed to him. “Thank you, my lord.”

The three men walked slowly toward the kitchen tower, leaving Marston alone by the gate to struggle with his rage and frustration.

Domnall’s answer came the following morning. Shamus, the duke there, showed Thorald’s messenger far more courtesy than had the duke of Galdasten, but his answer was no different.

“The nobles of Domnall have the highest regard for the duke of Thorald,” he wrote in his reply. “But we have little doubt that Lord Tavis of Curgh killed Lady Brienne, and if there is to be war between those two houses, we cannot in good conscience offer Aindreas of Kentigern anything less than our full support.”

Sitting with his father a short time after the messenger’s return, Marston could not mask his bitterness. “It’s almost as if they want a civil war,” he said. “Don’t they understand what it would do to the kingdom?”

“Shamus might not have thought it through so carefully,” the duke said from his bed. “But I have no doubt that Renald knows precisely what he’s doing and where it might lead.”

“You think Galdasten wants war?”

“I believe he wants to see Kearney driven from the throne, and if war comes, undermining the Rules of Ascension, all the better.”

“So he covets the crown.”

Tobbar gave a grim smile. “Would that surprise you? The lords of Galdasten have been removed from the Order of Ascension for eight years now, and their exclusion will continue for four generations, all because a madman brought the pestilence to their castle. It’s true that we have no claim to the throne until your sons reach Fating age, and even then, Glyndwr will retain the crown. Kearney is a young man, and he has a son. But at some point Glyndwr’s line will fail, and when it does, the crown will revert to Thorald. Galdasten must wait decades longer, and still, Renald has no guarantee that his grandson’s grandson will rule.

“The other houses have always resented Thorald’s supremacy in the Order of Ascension, Galdasten most of all, perhaps because it ranks second only to our house. Such resentments have lain at the root of nearly every civil war fought in Eibithar’s history. And though hostility to the rules can’t be said to have caused this one, if it comes to war, they will fuel its fury. No doubt Renald sees this as an opportunity to end our supremacy, and Aindreas may feel the same way.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Marston said. “But doesn’t that mean that we should cast our lot with Kearney and Javan? So long as we uphold the Rules of Ascension, we preserve our status as the kingdom’s preeminent house.”

“That may be so. But none of us benefits from a civil war. As long as our neutrality continues to keep the peace we shouldn’t take sides.”

Later that day, the riders sent to Eardley and Labruinn returned bearing the first hopeful word Marston had received. Neither Elam, the duke of Eardley, nor Caius, Labruinn’s duke, wrote a formal reply, but both men told their messengers that they would be riding to Thorald in the next few days.

Even more surprising, two days after hearing from the minor houses, Marston received word from Javan of Curgh. He was leaving immediately for Thorald, riding with his first minister and a small company of soldiers. Barring a storm, he hoped to reach the castle before the Night of Two Moons.

“Don’t go thinking you’ve saved the land just yet,” Tobbar warned, no doubt sensing how much Curgh’s reply had pleased Marston.

“He’s riding more than fifty leagues to come here, Father. That must mean something.”