* * *

This was the two earls’ moment. They worked so well together that it was hard to understand why their houses had been enemies all this time.

Æthelred, Earl of Winslow, secured Torvik Citadel and its surroundings, while Æthelwulf, Earl of Windale, took control of the city and its outskirts. Concentrating too many troops in one place would make it difficult to respond to unexpected developments outside. The two earls met frequently to discuss what came next.

It was not a rebellion, but it was close. One wrong move could ruin both houses—or, conversely, they might seize power.

What must they guard against, and how much should they reach for? These were no ordinary circumstances, and sound judgment was essential. It was no different from walking along a blade’s edge.

“Surely executing him would be going too far?”

The Earl of Revi broached the subject cautiously. Winslow and Windale were directing affairs, but as an earl himself, he had been given a seat as a formality.

Æthelred and Æthelwulf said nothing, so Revi continued.

“After all, Young Lord Gunnar is none other than the heir. As a rule, when a lord dies, his titles and property pass automatically to his successor...”

That was the problem. Had anyone else killed the duke, they could simply have torn the culprit apart. But what happened when the murderer was his heir?

Of course, sons sometimes rose against their fathers and seized power. But this could hardly be called such a case. Launching a rebellion with forces gathered on a solid foundation was very different from suddenly killing a man out of nowhere.

“Is there not another legitimate son besides Young Lord Gunnar? And a Valkyrie’s son at that. Would His Majesty not look favorably upon our installing him?”

The Earl of Windale spoke. He seemed inclined to support Knut, the third young lord.

“Besides, he is not yet of age and will need a regent. That means we could continue directing affairs for another year or two.”

“But were we not fighting him with swords drawn until recently? Even while His Grace was alive, he was never favored as the heir...”

“His Grace is no longer with us.”

Windale held Revi’s gaze, almost glaring. What use was there in considering the wishes of a dead man? It would only add to the confusion, without doing them any good.

“... What do you think, Earl of Winslow?”

Revi turned to Æthelred, who had remained silent throughout.

“Should we not first provide assistance to the families of the fallen? Let us raise the funds by selling off the ducal house’s assets.”

“And afterward? Whom do you support?”

Caring for the bereaved was naturally something they should—and could—do, but the succession was the fundamental issue. They had not done all this merely to clean up after the war.

“Let us form a committee, consisting of His Grace’s retainers, the former members of his council, and the knights. Let it choose a successor, and discuss punishment afterward. That would have the proper appearance. Removing Young Lord Gunnar on our own authority might cause no immediate trouble, but we could find ourselves answering for it later.”

“A committee...”

Windale muttered, plainly displeased. The three of them—or, strictly speaking, the two of them—could decide this themselves. He disliked the very idea of bringing others into it unnecessarily.

“If we lead them well, will they not follow? If we cannot manage even that, perhaps this was never something we could handle ourselves.”

“Hmm... Very well. But let us proceed slowly with forming this committee.”

“It might also be useful to let word slip. We could at least distinguish those who wish to join it from those content to stand by and watch.”

Æthelred was not acting out of wholly pure goodwill either. He simply meant to install the next duke cautiously, observing as much procedure and propriety as possible, so there would be no trouble later.

“By the way, what was that?”

Windale posed the question almost to himself. Æthelred understood, but Revi, who had not been there, did not.

“What do you mean?”

“Should we call it a manifestation of a dead god, or was it an Einheri...? If it was an Einheri, why did he suddenly appear there? Did His Majesty intervene in secret? And if so, why?”

“Surely you do not mean what Young Lord Gunnar said was true?”

“He may be somewhat lacking, but he is not a liar.”

“Then why not simply ask His Majesty’s wishes?”

“It would take a long time to send a messenger and receive a reply. Besides, if we meant to ask His Majesty what he wanted, why would we be doing any of this?”

“True. His Grace did make things difficult in all sorts of ways while he was alive...”

Winslow was not the only one Duke Sven had harassed under the pretext of keeping his vassals in check or governing them. The earls of Windale and Revi had suffered considerably as well. They meant to take this opportunity to install a duke to their liking—or put measures in place to prevent such interference in the future before installing him.

If they consulted the king or left the decision to him, those difficulties might arise again. Once a duke was installed, it would not be a matter of enduring him for a day or two.

“But what happens if we choose a successor ourselves and the king refuses to ratify him?”

“It is an ancient tradition for powerful chieftains to gather and elect the next king. These are exceptional circumstances; His Majesty will surely understand. If he refuses to ratify our choice, it will merely give us more time to deliberate among ourselves. That would be preferable.”

Windale answered Revi’s question.

In principle, only a superior liege lord could confer a title. In other words, only the king could appoint a duke.

Once appointed, however, even the king could not arbitrarily revoke or strip him of that title unless he rebelled. Authority over governance, inheritance, defense, finances, and everything else belonged to the duke and his house.

That was how feudalism worked. Power was more centralized than in tribal times, but a king still could not do whatever he pleased. Local affairs were for the local people to manage, and they had the right to do so.

Above all, the earls had one fact in their favor: the duke’s killer was his own eldest son. They themselves had certainly not rebelled.

“Then let us begin with the families of the fallen. We will provide enough money and food to see them through the year, and arrange remarriages where a husband or father who supported them has died in battle. I shall handle the sale of the ducal house’s assets.”

Æthelred spoke. The other two earls divided the remaining tasks between them, including maintaining order and forming the committee.

That concluded the day’s meeting. Nothing was certain yet, but the balance seemed to be tipping toward Knut, the third young lord, as the next duke.

The duke’s death threw the entire duchy into turmoil. Some trembled with anxiety, some suffered losses, and others profited.

The greatest beneficiary was clearly the city of Gringen. The embargo had been imposed while the duke was alive, so upon his death, Torvik’s merchants traded with Gringen without a second thought.

The two earls now controlling Torvik could have maintained the embargo, but they felt no need to carry on his policies in the name of honoring his wishes. Besides, the war had consumed so much money and material that trade needed encouragement. Instead, they replenished their finances by collecting customs duties.

They might have been at war only days before, but earning a living took precedence over everything.

They had not started the war in the first place, had they? Above all, the merchants had not even fought in it. If anything, the duke had squeezed money and supplies out of them.

Like a blocked blood vessel opening again, Gringen’s southern wharf teemed with merchant vessels, and the newly built warehouses filled to bursting with trade goods. The citizens of Gringen now had money to spend as well, and eagerly bought necessities and luxuries alike.

All of it was possible because of Valeri. Or, more precisely, because of the dwarf Regin’s gold.

The wharf was the busiest place in the city. Valeri and his friends, however, were not there. They were building a dike along the edge of the marsh.

To build a dike in the wetlands, they first had to dig out the mud, much like that of a tidal flat. Then they laid large stones and gravel, applying mortar and building it up little by little.

Doing this damned work had left Valeri, his friends, and everyone else covered in mud nearly to their chests. The toil was beyond description.

“Oww, my back. Let’s take a break.”

Skard was the first to thrust his shovel into the mud. His clothes were already ruined and his face filthy, which perhaps explained why he simply flopped down wherever he stood.

Valeri, Arne, Yorik, and Knut stopped work for a while too. Knut, after all, was not working for payment.

The five naturally gathered together and sat down. The other workers were already resting, since the women had brought refreshments.

The women came over and lifted the cloths covering their baskets, revealing a bounty of appetizing food and drink: freshly baked bread, fresh ham, ale, cheese, and more.

Their mouths watered at once. The five poured water from their flasks to wash their hands, then immediately began wolfing down the food. Nothing in the world tasted better than a meal after hard labor.

Once they had eaten their fill, Arne asked Valeri a question.

“Why did you suddenly decide to reclaim land? Trade’s thriving now, and everyone seems to be doing fine on their own.”

“We can’t rely on trade alone. We need farmland so we can feed ourselves.”

“But won’t this take a long time?” Skard asked.

“Yes. Decades at least, perhaps centuries. We’re not doing it on a large scale just yet.”

“I’ve wondered this for a while, but do you really need to go this far?”

“Well, seeing people stand on their own somehow makes me happy. I’m not doing it out of kindness. I just like how it feels.”

Valeri answered calmly.

Yet his friends felt an inexplicable distance from him. It was not only the divine might he had displayed in the last battle, but the way his thoughts reached beyond the ordinary.

Greatness, or perhaps grandeur. Just how far did their friend’s gaze reach? He seemed to see far beyond the worldly dreams of other people.

“By the way, have you heard? About the eldest young lord. They say he was detained after the war.”

At Yorik’s words, Knut’s hand faltered as he ate.

“He killed the duke. Just like that. Apparently the duke was giving him hell over losing, and he suddenly smashed him with a shield and killed him.”

“... Who detained him?” Skard asked.

“The earls. I don’t know what they intend to do, but I hear they’re the ones ruling Torvik now.”

“But what does that have to do... with us?”

Skard glanced at Knut as he spoke. As far as he knew, the brothers of the ducal house had little affection for one another.

“I don’t know much about it, but His Grace could be pretty harsh. In how he treated his sons. I wouldn’t say he deserved to die... I don’t know.”

Arne left the rest unsaid as well. The duke had been their enemy until recently, but he was still Knut’s father.

Still, had not all of this begun because the duke locked Knut in a cage and they rescued him? Arne felt no particular sorrow over his death.

Knut chewed the food in his mouth, though it was less like eating than simply moving his jaw. His eyes showed that his thoughts were elsewhere.

After a while, he put down the bread in his hand.

“I don’t want my brother punished. Is that selfish of me?”

“Never mind selfish, but wouldn’t you become duke if Young Lord Gunnar were punished, young master?”

At Yorik’s question, Arne jabbed him in the ribs and shook his head.

Knut did not seem particularly bothered. His friends were free to say whatever they liked to him.

Valeri sliced some ham with his dagger, topped it with cheese, and ate it. After a sip of ale, he spoke.

“The earls will probably support you, Knut. They could serve as your regents. What do you think?”

Knut considered in silence before answering.

“Didn’t I tell you before? The north stifles me. I couldn’t be a duke. I don’t want to, either.”

“But even so, can the eldest young lord inherit after killing the duke? Even if he isn’t punished, wouldn’t he lose his right to succeed?”

Arne raised the practical issue. Valeri answered in Knut’s stead.

“Stripping him of his succession rights is not something the earls would dare decide. To keep up appearances, they would need to install the next duke, then have that duke pass sentence.”

In short, it would be more proper, both procedurally and in appearance, for Knut to become duke and punish his brother for the murder.

Valeri believed that was how the earls would steer things. The Earl of Winslow was a reasonably sensible man. With future consequences in mind, he would conclude that vassals could not take it upon themselves to punish the heir of the ducal house. And he would be right.

If the earls punished the eldest young lord themselves, it might cause no immediate trouble, but discontented factions could eventually emerge and rebel, or the king could take issue with it. That would be beyond their ability to handle.

“So they mean to back the young master, then...”

“Probably.”

“But he doesn’t want it.”

“I’m lost,” Skard put in resignedly.

Once, he had thought a great noble had nothing in the world to envy. But after all his experiences following Valeri, he understood at least that matters were not so simple.

The same was true of Arne and Yorik. Their days as ignorant bumpkins who knew nothing were behind them now.

“I’ll go alone this time. I’ll tell them I’m giving up my right to succeed, and ask them to release my brother.”

“... Will they release him? He did kill His Grace, after all... I’m not trying to put a damper on things.”

Arne voiced his opposition because he was worried about Knut.

Would the two earls truly be well disposed toward him? Even if they backed him as the next duke, Arne thought they would make a puppet of him. Genuine loyalty was too much to expect.

“Someone told me that if you’re going to regret something either way, it’s better to regret doing it than not doing it. I’m trying to find my own courage. I don’t want to trouble you anymore. So I’ll go alone.”

By ‘someone,’ he meant Valeri.

Valeri considered for a moment, then decided it was time to reveal the truth. A prince’s authority should be enough to settle this.

He had received approval from the rune mage Sigrún, so revealing his identity now would bring no harm to House Winslow.

Once his princely status became known, however, one of two things awaited him: gathering forces to prepare for the succession war in advance, or facing threats to his life.

As was usually the way in life, solving one problem brought another.

But had he ever hesitated in fear simply because a problem existed? Certainly not. Once his mind was made up, that was enough.

“Let’s go together.”

Valeri’s words were simple, but carried weight.

Knut was about to object and insist on going alone when Skard beat him to it.

“Three of us charged five hundred men. What can’t we do?”

His courage and boldness were certainly different now. People grew after surviving a great crisis.

Arne was not enthusiastic, but with things settled, he nodded his agreement.

“Then let’s start with a toast.”

Yorik raised his bottle. When everyone looked at him as if wondering why he was suddenly proposing a toast, he smiled.

“To the young master’s freedom, to friendship among friends, to love between brothers, to peace in Gringen—and finally, to everything.”

Perhaps Yorik really had become a man of letters by now. Every so often, he came out with something splendid.

Valeri raised his bottle and held it out. It lightly clinked against Yorik’s, crossing it, and the other three bottles joined them. It was like five swords crossing in an oath.

By the end, they were all smiling.

“To everything.”