Page 6 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Duncan narrowed his eyes, as if willing memory to present itself. “I recall hearing of a battle,” he said slowly. “Small but deadly. Few survivors on either side. Reports came with conflicting accounts of what had occurred.” He shook his head. “It did not strike me as noteworthy.”

“So it seemed to me as well,” Wolmer said. “I have no patience for lords who avoid my court, and even less for the petty clashes of minor houses.”

“Ah.” Duncan’s expression shifted. “The baron. Pietre. I saw him once at court with my father, before my years at the Citadel. Fifteen, perhaps twenty years ago.” His dark brows knit faintly. “Why the sudden interest?”

Wolmer leaned forward. “I have received a letter from King Oorlon of Norrelia. It seems our Pietre stumbled upon a vein of black diamonds in the lower Niverna Mountains—on Norrelian soil. For several years he mined the gems in secret, and the clash was, by Oorlon’s account, retaliation for the theft.” He tapped the letter. “This confirms part of what the reports suggested. Pietre was seized by Oorlon as spoils of his justice.”

Isander struggled to reconcile the words with the world he understood. He had been educated alongside Duncan and his brothers; he knew the fae were real enough. But they were reclusive, fiercely private. It was inconceivable that they would engage so directly with humans.

“Fae attacked Netherfen Hallows?” Duncan voiced the disbelief Isander had not.

“Well, no. And yes,” Wolmer said grimly. “The army itself was human. As you know, the Norrelian fae wield potent mind-magic, and the men who struck acted under compulsion. Where the men came from, I do not yet know. What matters is this: for the first time in generations, the fae have made contact.” His eyes darkened. “Oorlon demands parley.”

Silence settled over the room. Only the mantel clock spoke, its clicks echoing like hoofbeats. Isander felt a thin slick of sweat slip down his cheek.

“You mean to send me,” Duncan concluded at last.

“Yes.” A pause. “I do not suspect danger. Yet I cannot risk the Empire by going myself.”

“A baron hardly merits the time of a duke—” Firrigan slipped in, his voice carrying the open disdain of an eye rolled aloud.

“I must send an envoy to negotiate release,” Wolmer cut in sharply. “If I disregard a parley for one of my lords, minor or not, what will the others assume awaits them when misfortune finds them? That I am soft. That I will leave them to bargain alone.” He exhaled slowly. “I will not barter away the Empire’s spine for a man like Pietre the Plump, but neither will I teach my nobles that their emperor cannot be roused. Appearances matter, especially when the court watches for cracks.”

His eyes came to rest on Duncan again. “I trust no one else to bear this charge. It may even serve you that you were shaped more as a soldier than a courtier. Such qualities may find more favor with beings who have little patience for human ceremony.”

Duncan gave a single, solemn nod. “When am I to depart,” he asked, “and what would you have me do in Norrelia? Offer coin? Issue threats?”

“You leave at once. The parley is set for three weeks from today,” Wolmer said. “Offer nothing. Discern what Oorlon truly seeks. Return, and we will decide how the Empire answers.”

“The western kingdoms are treacherous ground,” Firrigan murmured, as if to the air. “The moons favor strength and”—the Moonwarden’s eyes slid to Isander—“beauty there.” A memory passed between them, cutting like an unexpected blade to the throat, jarring enough that Isander had to brace himself against it.

“You will walk where few men have dared since history was set to page. I will not send you blind.” Wolmer opened a drawer and withdrew a folded parchment sealed in imperial blue wax. “Before you present yourself in Norrelia, you will first go to Ardor, to a viscounty on the Bay of Ardor called Marrowgate. Its lord, Albrecht verStampebl, earned his fortune by venturing where other merchants feared to go, trading with the fae.”

He motioned around the room. “Many of the trinkets you see here are his doing. Sit at his table. Learn. He will prepare you better than I can.”

“Indeed,” Firrigan said. “Albrecht is… quite knowledgeable.”

Isander thought of the southern duchy. Sun-warmed limestone. Courtyards steeped in citrus. Harbors crowded with bright sails like festivals afloat. Any hope of a swift return to Emberglade dissolved like saffron smoke in Ardorri markets. This detour would delay their return by a month. Perhaps more.

Wolmer lifted the parchment and extended it toward Duncan. “Give this to Albrecht when you arrive. It is a formal writ under my hand, bidding him receive you as envoy of the crown and give his counsel as if to me.”

Duncan accepted the parchment with a smile that did not reach his eyes as Isander readied himself for dismissal.

Unexpectedly, Wolmer cleared his throat and leaned forward sharply. “There is another matter”—he grimaced as if the words were painful—“one I have left untouched, out of respect for your grief.”

Silence.

“House derWhitte stands with only you to bear it, and Lemierre cannot endure without an heir.” A sorrowful smile touched Wolmer’s mouth. “I know you never expected to take a wife, and I would have granted you more time to adjust. But greater pressures are at play, and I can no longer ignore them.” A pause. “I do not command whom you marry, only that you must.”

Isander swallowed. Duncan… with a wife?

As a third son, Duncan had been destined for a soldier’s life. He embraced it willingly, but such contentment was rare among nobility. Noble houses once rose and fell with such brutal regularity that the Empire’s traditions hardened against rival claims to succession. Only firstborn sons were permitted heirs. All sons who followed were forbidden marriage and legacy alike.

The prohibition did not extend to the pleasures of life. Isander had seen many lovers slip from Duncan’s chambers, and Duncan, blessed with infamous derWhitte looks, had never lacked for willing company. Yet in thirty years at his side, Isander had never seen him grow attached—never felt his place beside him threatened. A sharp despair cut through him. The emperor’s order would break that balance. Another unwelcome change to endure.

Duncan’s fingers flexed and curled inward, as though searching for escape and finding none. “At once?” he asked, with the slyness of a lad testing how far a boundary might bend.

“As soon as possible,” Wolmer said. “I would have offered you one of my daughters, but they are wed, and one already into Lemierre.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “I stand by my word that I will not command where your heart is not, but the Empire does require alliances. Albrecht has two daughters, both said to be fine girls.” His expression warmed. “The empress is Ardorri herself, but my marriage is long behind me. A new tie to Ardor would steady the duchy’s regard for my crown—and Lemierre. Consider it.”