Eiathan's Heir

Chapter 1

As the assembled court of Astarkand knelt at last in a rustle of costly fabrics at the feet of His Royal Highness, Bjorn Horsa, he contemplated their general appearance of good health. They looked so fat and well-fed compared to the Kandians he had encountered everywhere he journeyed north of the Limbler. Yet he knew he couldn't fix the starvation of the rest of his kingdom by depriving these men and women of the wealth that pampered them, nor did he really desire to.

If he was so foolish as to try, he would only alienate them into rebellion, and find himself deposed before he ever began.

What he wanted most to do now was to find ways to aid the northern duchies by enlisting the sympathy and charity of these men and women. Any aid they would offer willingly, he would accept while encouraging them to give still more: not to burden them, but because their charity benefited everyone, including those who were suffering. He had no doubt that they would find profit for themselves and their heirs in offering aid. He hoped that as the kingdom grew more prosperous, their fortunes would also increase due to the gratitude of those they now helped.

God always blessed the generous givers most, he believed. It was time to spur that generosity into action.

He met his cousin, Lord Trehan Horsa's questioning glance and nodded.

"All rise," Trehan said.

The courtiers clambered to their feet with discreet looks of relief. As Bjorn knew only too well, the gray-blue tiles could be painfully hard on the knees. He caught himself surreptitiously rubbing his right knee in sympathy as the very portly Lord Mayor of Hearthingham obtained assistance from his neighbors to stand. He rested his hand on the armrest of the throne instead.

The rustling and whispers quieted.

"Prince Horsa stands ready to hear your woes," Trehan intoned. "Let the first supplicant come."

"I! It is I!" A man attired from neck to toe in plain brown wool pushed boldly forward.

Hah! Here was no idle courtier. The—his—courtiers weren't prepared to appreciate the man's arrival, unfortunately. The group between the man and the throne tried to shove him back.

"Let me have my say," he insisted, as he fought past their elbows and shoulders. "I arrived four months ago. My news should, by rights, be first!"

Glad to see a man who seemed sensible among this crowd of over-dressed fops and snobbish ladies, the prince said, "Let him advance and be heard. What is your name, good fellow?"

"Jervais, Y-Your Highness." The man sank down on one knee and dipped his dishwater blond head. "Master of Heathdown in Muirre. Sire, I beg succor! Our folk are dying of plague, and..."

As the prince listened to Jervais's plea, his gut ached from rising tension. He doesn't know. Olaf didn't care enough to send him word. Bjorn still had nightmares about the mass graves, the abandoned farms and towns of Muirre. Heathdown's barnyard held an especially foul place in his memory because of the men now buried there; men sacrificed by Olaf in yet another vain attempt to appease Woden's wrath.

Descending the dais, Bjorn touched the man's shoulder. "I very much regret," he said, meeting Jervais's involuntary, upward glance, "That I can't heal your plague, nor can I aid men already sleeping in their graves."

"Sire!" Jervais gave Bjorn one horrified look before tears overran his ashen cheeks.

Bjorn glanced back at the dais to find Lord Nathon Plainsrider's worried face. He jerked his head in a gesture that meant, get down here. Nathon left the dais and joined them. So did Lord Christov Ormsby.

The prince met Jervais's grief with a sober expression that he hoped conveyed his own heartbreak as he raised the unhappy man to his feet. "Indeed, I know your woe will be great. Your harvest is ruined, Jervais. Your wife is likely dead. Even your desperation for firewood is futile now. I am deeply grieved for you, my man."