The high king of old was no more than a clan lord himself, sitting on a pretty throne watching all his liege lords—the clan chiefs—gut each other. The clan chiefs had eminent control over their lands and all those who lived within their borders. Once a year, in the rare display of peace, the chiefs swore their fealty to crown and country, paid their taxes to the realm, and that was that. Although the chiefs of Mirwell were often the close confidants of the kings, and served as advisors.

Then King Agates Sealender, the last of his line with no heirs born to him, died of old age, and clan chief Smidhe Hillander, of Clan Hillander, ascended the throne. That’s when history went awry. Mirwell combed his fingers through his lank gray hair. Yes, everything changed with Clan Hillander.

King Smidhe tamed the lands with his own forces, created permanent boundaries, and decried bloodshed between clans. He proclaimed the clan chiefs brothers and sisters, and said that the country of Sacoridia could never survive if it did not stand as one. There were other ways, he said, than bloodshed, to find glory.

Indeed, the clans had never seen such unity since the Long War. King Smidhe said the founding clans of Sacoridia, when they created a high king, had never intended the chaos beset by the Sealender line. Mirwell snorted. King Smidhe pacified the clans. The chief of Clan Mirwell had fought the new way, but the king’s soldiers had come to him and Clan Mirwell was pacified, too. Mirwell’s soldiery had been decimated or run into the Teligmar Hills until they surrendered. The honor of the clan had never been clean since.

King Smidhe bestowed the clan chiefs with new titles—they became lord-governors, and new industry was encouraged. Commerce blossomed as timber was harvested and granite quarried. Eventually the paper-making process was discovered and the printing press invented. King Smidhe even encouraged good relations with neighboring Rhovanny and trade developed among lesser clans whose merchant fleets plied coastal waters, elevating Sacoridia’s reputation as one of the wealthiest countries on the continent.

The old high king was called the Great Peacemaker, and Province Day was established as a national holiday celebrated throughout the country in the summer to commemorate Sacoridia’s unity, and the man whose words were carved into his tomb in Sacor City. They read: There is greatness with unity. Only if we lift ourselves above our base and bestial natures shall we stand as one.

The fire hissed and steamed with rain that seeped down the chimney, and Mirwell shook his head. The raging blood of his clan had never been truly gentled. Tournaments and hunting diverted some of the blood lust, but there wasn’t the same glory to be had. Oh, there were occasional forays into the Under Kingdoms. Mirwell had been on a few himself. But even now ties had been forged with those savages, and there was nothing. Nothing until now.

The governor was determined to raise his clan to its former glory, to once again attain a place in concert with Sacoridia’s kings, to expand forth its boundaries that now felt too crowded. He would control commerce and the distribution of wealth. And he would do it the old way: by force.

Mirwell sighed, glancing at the crumpled letter on his lap sealed with the dean’s mark. Before shaking the very foundations of Sacoridia, he would first have to deal with his son, his only progeny despite a succession of wives and mistresses. Actually, he would deal with his son second. Someone was here to see him.

“Report.”

Captain Immerez stepped into the flickering light. It gleamed off his bald head. He had spent no small amount of time waiting for his lord’s notice. Mirwell was perfectly aware of this. Immerez’s face remained neutral, however, and his bow was deferential, despite the misery his wet, muddy uniform must have caused him.

Immerez was young yet. He could stand it. The youngsters could traipse through the wilderness in all weather conditions, none the worse for wear. Mirwell had paid his dues in that way. The bear head mounted on the wall attested to his strength in the old days, and he was now content to manage his province by his fireside and let the young ones do the work, just as his father had before him.

“My lord-governor,” the captain said. “We’ve killed the messenger.”

“Good.” The captain could always be depended on to carry out his directives. He had been hand picked from hundreds of young soldiers years ago to help in raising Mirwell Province back to glory. “And what did you find out about a spy?”

Immerez shifted uncomfortably. His one eye darted to and fro, and he licked his lips. Rain pattered against the window. “We were unable to extract that information before he died.”

“What? I don’t find that satisfactory.”

Immerez held his chin up. “The only way to stop him was to kill him.”

Mirwell drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, which was carved in the likeness of a catamount’s head, and rubbed smooth by the years. “Meanwhile, someone may be loose within my household, imparting information of my plans to the king. Where’s the message?”

Immerez swallowed.

“Well, man, what is it?”

“The message . . . it—it got away.”

“The message got away? What did it do? Sprout legs and run?”

“Yes, my lord. I mean, no, my lord.”

Mirwell rubbed his grizzled eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger. “Explain.”

“We chased Coblebay for days, and even more after we injured him. The day we thought we finally had him, he eluded us yet again. He rode like a demon, as if his horse had wings. Unnatural, if you take my meaning. He should’ve died days earlier. He rode off the trail and into the woods. We lost all trace of him, as if he’d disappeared completely.”