A Kingdom Besieged. Raymond E. Feist

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      ‘I can see to those villages on my way home, your grace,’ said Earl Robert.

      ‘Linger a few days more,’ said Harry. With a warm smile he glanced to where his wife sat in animated conversation with the Countess and added, ‘They do so miss one another.’

      ‘True,’ said the Earl. ‘We do seem to have less time for visits.’

      Leaning over, Harry asked, ‘You have closer ties with kin in the east. What do you hear?’

      The Earl knew exactly what the Duke referred to. ‘Little. It is as if people are suddenly cautious to the point of silence.’

      Almost since the creation of the Western Realm of the Kingdom there had been rivalry between West and East. Everything east of the small city of Malac’s Cross was viewed as ‘the real Kingdom of the Isles’ to the majority of citizens and the ruling Congress of Lords. The West was often seen as a drain on national resources, since much of it was empty and mountainous or, worse, inhabited by non-humans, dwarves, elves, trolls, goblins, and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. Administration costs were high relative to the amount of revenue generated for the Crown, and there was almost no political advantage to be had from serving in the West. Real military and political advancement came from serving in the Eastern Realm. Hunting down raiding bands of goblins or trolls was not a path to promotion; fighting against Keshian raiders or border skirmishes against the Eastern Kingdoms was.

      ‘I count on you for something more dependable than what comes through Krondor,’ said the Duke. ‘Your family is new to the Far Coast, while my house …’ He let the sentence trail off.

      The history of House conDoin in Crydee was well known. A brother to the King had conquered the Far Coast, once Great Kesh’s most far-flung frontier, and annexed it to the Kingdom, almost doubling the breadth of the nation in less than five years. Liking the area where he had ended up after his struggles, he had persuaded his brother to give him the Far Coast and built the very keep in which they now dined, Crydee.

      Carse, the Earl’s home, was actually the more critical trading and commerce centre, being blessed with a far better harbour and sitting squarely at the heart of the coast, with all farming, mining, and foresting materials bound for export eventually finding their way to Carse’s docks.

      Earl Robert’s father had been given the office of earl by Henry’s grandfather, with the King’s blessing, when the previous earl had died without issue. As no estate on the Far Coast was considered desirable enough for any Eastern noble, the award went unchallenged. More than once Lord Henry had considered that he, Earl Robert, and Morris, Earl of Tulan, were almost an autonomous little kingdom unto themselves. The taxes paid to the Crown were modest, reduced by half by what the Prince in Krondor took, but the requirements were meagre as well, so for the most part the Far Coast was ignored.

      ‘One hears rumours,’ said Robert, leaning over. ‘The King’s health is poor, according to one cousin I consider reliable. It’s said that healing priests are required frequently for maladies that would be counted mild in most men his age.’

      Henry sighed as he sat back, lifted his goblet of wine and took a sip. ‘Patrick was the last true conDoin king, in my judgment. Those who have come after are like his wife, vindictive and manipulative, always plotting: true Eastern rulers.’ He set down his wine. ‘Mark you well, if the King dies without male issue, we may be sucked into conflict.’

      Robert’s expression clouded. ‘Civil war, Harry?’

      Henry shook his head. ‘No, but a political struggle in the Congress which could keep the throne vacant for a long time. And if that happens …’ He shrugged.

      ‘A regent. Who do you think the Congress would be likely to appoint?’

      ‘There’s the rub,’ said Henry. ‘You’d have to ask your Eastern kin. I haven’t the foggiest.’

      The Duke retrieved his freshly-filled cup and drank slowly as he reflected. What he had said about the last ‘true’ king was a dangerous remark should any but the most trusted of friends, like Robert of Carse, overhear it.

      The conDoins were the longest line of rulers in the history of the Kingdom of the Isles. There had been petty kings on the Island of Rillanon before the rise of this dynasty, but it had been a conDoin who had first planted the banner of the Isles on the mainland and conquered Bas-Tyra. It had been conDoin kings who had forged a nation to rival Great Kesh to the south and kept the pesky Eastern Kingdoms in control and forged a close relationship with the island kingdom of Roldem.

      Robert noticed his friend’s thoughtful expression. ‘What?’

      ‘Roldem.’

      ‘What of Roldem?

      Henry leaned over, as if cautious of being overheard, even here in the heart of his own demesne. ‘Without an acknowledged heir, there are many claimants to the throne.’

      Robert waved aside the remark. ‘Your family has more distant cousins than a hive has bees, but there are only a few of royal blood.’

      ‘There are three princes—’

      ‘Seven,’ interrupted Robert. ‘You and your three sons are of the blood royal.’

      Henry grimaced. ‘By grace of our ancestor, we’ve renounced claim to the inheritance of anything but Crydee.’

      ‘Martin Longbow may have, to avoid a civil war with his brothers, but that was then. This is now. There are many in the Congress who would consider you a worthy claimant to the throne should the need arise. They would rally to you.’

      ‘You speak boldly, Robert. Many might say you tread the edge of treason, but I have no interest, for myself or my sons. Back to the truths of the moment: there are three nephews who would vie for the crown: Oliver, the King’s nephew is closest in blood, but from the King’s sister’s marriage to Prince Michael of Semrick, and that makes him a foreigner in the eyes of many. Montgomery, Earl of Rillanon, and Duke Chadwick of Ran are both cousins to the King, though distant.’

      Robert sat back and let out a long sigh. ‘It’s a shame King Gregory wasn’t the lady’s man his father was. Patrick left a litter of bastards along the way before he married. Still, he has managed to sire one son.’ The Earl paused, then added, ‘Prince Oliver’s a good lad, and you’re right, he has as much conDoin blood in him as any, and he’s betrothed to the Duke of Bas-Tyra’s second daughter, Grace. Since the Tsurani war the houses of Bas-Tyra and conDoin have stood close, more than a hundred years as one.’

      ‘That’s a powerful faction,’ agreed the Duke. ‘But Gregory has yet to name Oliver as his heir. The lad is approaching his twentieth year and Gregory is not likely to produce another son, no matter how hard he and that girl he married try.’ Both men chuckled. After the unexpected death of the Queen, the King had chosen to marry a girl barely a year older than his son. She was the daughter of a minor court noble, who had been raised up in rank by the auspicious marriage. The girl’s only grace was her stunning beauty, and it was reported she kept the king very happy, but other than that, she seemed a simple soul.

      Rumours abounded that the King’s health was not as it should be. Given his age, barely fifty years, and his short rule, only five years since the death of his father, the potential for instability in the Kingdom was higher than it had been in a century.

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