Chapter 5: Court Of The Stag

The man in green velvet who had spoken in the Hall was Espen Rathmell.

He was the only one of her nine who looked as though he had slept.

He wore a grey cord at his left wrist, tucked half under a velvet cuff.

He walked her up the steps to the throne at noon, one pace behind her left shoulder.

"The Council cannot unseat you while you sit in judgment," he murmured. "Hold court, Majesty, and make them watch you do it well."

"I've never judged anything bigger than a fight over a ferry fare."

"Then you are overqualified," said Espen.

He smiled, and she realized it was the first time any of the nine had made her laugh in front of strangers.

The Hall filled.

At the foot of the throne stood a bent crowd of farmers, soot-faced and half frozen.

They had walked all night from the village of Corrow.

The Blight had eaten their barns.

Beside them stood the Lord of Eastmarch, a fat man in furs, who owned the grain stores that could feed them.

"Your Majesty," the lord said, smiling, "my stores are my own. A ferry girl will understand that, I think. Property is property."

Several lords chuckled.

Bracken sat in the carved chair at the right hand of the throne.

Chancellors had sat there for two hundred years, and he did not smile at all.

Linnea looked at the farmers.

A boy of nine was holding his mother's skirt, and his hands were wrapped in rags.

"Lord of Eastmarch," she said. "How many sacks do you hold?"

"Perhaps four thousand."

"And the farmers of Corrow need how many to last the winter?"

"Eight hundred," a farmer called out, and shrank back.

Linnea looked at the lord.

"Then you will send eight hundred by dusk."

"I will not."

"Majesty," said Espen, quietly, "Article Nine of the Hearth Charter."

He lifted his voice to fill the Hall.

"When the Blight stands within a day's march, the Stone's queen may requisition any grain, steel or shelter in the realm."

"Any lord who refuses forfeits his seat."

The Hall went very still.

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