Chapter 642 — The Situation
Blade of Dawn · Page 3 of 4
The griffin knight had seen astonishing sights and brought back the latest intelligence. The knight exhausted his vocabulary trying to describe what he had witnessed—thundering war machines, soldiers spewing flame, incomprehensible engines of war, and their dreadful power.
Wales listened to the whole report on the wall without uttering a single word.
The Cecil Legion already effectively controlled the entire region; their strength could level this battlefield…
Perhaps it was time to face the hardest choice of his life.
Wales left the wall.
For the first time in the seven days since his coronation, the king returned to the Silver Keep.
The noble assembly was convened once again in the Hall of Golden Oak.
Reinforcements had arrived, the crisis had been lifted. Though small bands of the enemy still prowled beyond the walls, the gloom that had shrouded the great city for days was gradually dispersing. Apart from the Chapel of Radiance, whose doors remained shut tight, the inner city of the capital was all but wrapped in a light and cheerful atmosphere—and as the masters of high society, the capital's nobles reacted to this mood with particular conspicuousness.
Many faces that a few days ago had been sick with dread now beamed with delight; many who not long before had been plotting to flee with their households now stood in fine clothes and sashes—these former flight-faction men, these opportunists who had changed with the wind only when the king was crowned, now gathered in the Hall of Golden Oak with smiling faces, cheerfully discussing the bright future.
Now they were all men of merit in the defense of Saint-Sunil.
When Wales entered the Hall of Golden Oak, this was the light, joyous atmosphere that greeted him.
"Your Majesty, history will remember this day," said a nobleman in a white wig, rising and bowing to the king. "It proves that a great bloodline will reveal itself."
Wales gave no reply, only a faint nod, and walked slowly toward his throne.
The nobleman who had spoken had, seven days earlier, loaded all his valuables onto carts and even had them hauled to the western gate—but he had sharply noted the change within the Silver Keep, and so had urgently summoned back his carriages and servants.
The men seated on the west side of the long table were the fence-sitters, the waverers—the ones who had been preparing to flee before the king's coronation, yet who had sworn their loyalty first and fastest on the very day he took the throne.
For centuries the nobles had lived in just this clever fashion: cleverly weighing their gains and losses, cleverly guarding their own interests, cleverly choosing their sides, cleverly shifting their allegiances—and the direction of their investments.
The kingdom had passed through repeated upheavals, society had risen and fallen, and even the king's own bloodline could not escape catastrophe on the scale of the Fogmoon Rebellion—yet only the clever nobles, forever reading the winds of this tossing, unstable world with perfect accuracy, remained eternal beneficiaries, all but the few who stumbled and fell.
Just like today.
Wales settled onto the throne, and his bloodstained armor gave out a cold, hollow clatter.
Many gazes fell upon him at once.
"The Cecil Legion has already established its position south of the city," Wales said slowly. "It is only a day's march from the capital."
A murmur of low discussion rose in the hall; some faces turned grave, while the eyes some turned upon Wales grew complicated.
The nobility was rotten, but not stupid.
Almost every man present grasped in an instant the danger of this situation—the danger to the royal house.
The capital lay in ruins; the royal faction existed in name only; the knightly orders had suffered grievous losses in the defense of the city; and more than half of the southern crown demesne had fallen.
And now a mighty ducal legion was encamped just outside the walls.
Its master was no friend of the royal faction.