"The raven... has delivered messages to you as well?"
Erlingâs question hung in the air between the two men like a startled bird, uncertain which way it should dart now that it was out in the open.
"Not a raven, no," Loghlan said quietly. "But the person behind the messenger has other methods of reaching people who are willing to listen. Different birds for different windows, you might say."
"And what does this message ask of me?" Erling asked as his thumb traced the rim of his wine cup in slow, measured circles.
"Nothing yet," Loghlan said. "For now, put your trust in me and follow my lead. Keep your men close to mine in the days to come," he said, glancing briefly in Owainâs direction as if to imply that this had something to do with Owainâs intention to call up the barons against the demons this winter.
"When the time comes for more," Loghlan said. "Youâll understand whatâs being asked."
"Thatâs remarkably vague, my lord," Erling said, furrowing his brows at the older lord. He was accustomed to men treating him like he was too young to understand what was happening around him but coming from Loghlan, he wasnât certain if he was being underestimated or if something else was at play.
"It is vague," Loghlan agreed. "But vagueness is a kindness in this case. The less you know tonight, the easier it will be to survive what comes next."
Erling studied him for a long moment, and Loghlan could see the younger man weighing the risks, the danger of trusting a message delivered by a baron he barely knew, against the greater danger of ignoring a summons from someone who knew about the raven.
In the end, the raven won. It always would. That childhood visitation had kept Fayle barony safe for much of Erlingâs life. If the raven had simply been a messenger, and the people who sent it had reached out to Loghlan too... He owed them at least this much trust in exchange for more than a decade of peace to rebuild his barony.
"I understand," Erling said at last. "Was there anything else?"
"There is, actually," Loghlan said, and his voice shifted into something warmer, more personal. "Tomorrowâs funeral for Marquis Bors. I know that the Marquis took something of an interest in you when you first came into your title. Guided you through those early years."
"He did," Erling replied, sounding genuinely surprised at the comment. "My mother leaned on his counsel more than once when the baronyâs debts were at their worst. He wasnât always kind about it, but he was honest, and he didnât let the other barons push us out of our seat when they had the chance."
"Then I think you should speak about that tomorrow," Loghlan said. "During the eulogy. A Marquis is like a father to the whole of the March, and with Lord Loman missing, it would mean a great deal to the people to hear how Bors was more than just a lord to the families he watched over."
"I wasnât planning to speak very much tomorrow," Erling said, frowning at Loghlan as he tried to figure out what the other baron had to gain from such a strange request. "Sir Gillander laid out a schedule for the ceremonies tomorrow that doesnât leave much time for speaking if weâre going to return to Lothian Manor in time for the wedding, the coronation, and the evening feast."
"Schedules can be adjusted," Loghlan said mildly. "And a man who knew Lord Bors as you did shouldnât let a busy schedule stop him from saying the things that ought to be said. Speak from the heart, Baron Fayle," he said, placing a hand lightly on the younger manâs shoulder.
"It may be your last chance to honor what Bors did for your family," Loghlan said sincerely. "And Iâd hate for you to leave that unsaid because Owainâs timetable didnât have room for it."
The implication settled between them that Loghlan was asking him to speak at length, and that the length itself mattered for reasons Erling didnât yet fully understand. But the younger baron was sharp enough to hear what wasnât being said, and after a moment, he nodded.
"Iâll consider what I should say," Erling said carefully. "I wouldnât want to dishonor the Marquisâs memory by being too brief."
"Nor would I," Loghlan said with a slight smile. "Thank you, Baron Fayle. Iâll look forward to hearing what you have to say."
He excused himself with a nod and moved through the crowded hallway toward the cluster of eastern lords gathered near the entrance to the Great Hall. The doors were still closed, but servants could be heard moving behind them, making the final preparations for the feast, and the sound of chairs being arranged and platters being set carried through the heavy oak like distant thunder.
Loghlan found Baron Wes Iriso standing beside a pillar, looking like heâd rather be anywhere else after spending multiple evenings attending feasts that Owain barred women from attending. His son was absent, too young for the high table, and Wes had the faintly lost air of a man who found it difficult to endure social functions without the company of his wife.
"Wes," Loghlan said, falling in beside him with the easy familiarity of two men who had attended too many of these gatherings over the years. "Are you prepared for tomorrow? The funeral?"
"As prepared as Iâll ever be," Iriso said, glancing at the heavy oak doors with a look that failed to hide his impatience. "Though I confess I havenât given much thought to what Iâll say. Lord Owainâs people sent a schedule that seems to leave precious little time for anything beyond the procession and the pyre."
"Thatâs actually why I wanted to speak with you," Loghlan said with a light smile. "Iâm not comfortable with all this haste. Bors and I might not have seen eye to eye on several things, but he was still a good man who did his best for the march and his vassals. I want to remind the people of what weâve lost before we get caught up in following Owain and his newest bride into the next war heâs chosen to wage... in winter," Loghlan said flatly.
"Baron Dunn," Wes said sharply in a hushed tone, his eyes going wide at the other manâs bluntness. "Some things shouldnât be spoken of so... directly," he said carefully. "Besides, tomorrowâs schedule..."
"The schedule will accommodate whatever the barons of the March need to say about their fallen Marquis," Loghlan said firmly. "This is a funeral, Wes, not a tournament. The man ruled this march for thirty years. If we canât take the time to honor that properly, then what kind of lords are we?"
It was, Loghlan reflected, not entirely a manipulation. Bors Lothian had been a complicated man. At times, he was ruthless in his ambitions, calculating in his alliances, and heâd ultimately been murdered by his own son.
But he had also been the lord who held the March together through wars and famines and the slow, grinding pressure of a kingdom that viewed the frontier as little more than a buffer against the wilderness and a treasure trove of resources to be exploited and shipped back to the duchies and the royal capital.
The barons who had served under him owed him something, even if the debt was tangled with resentment and fear.
And if honoring that debt happened to buy Ashlynn an extra quarter-hour of daylight before Ignatious could emerge from his box, then so be it. Bors would have appreciated the efficiency of it, if nothing else.
"Youâre right," Iriso said, straightening slightly with a renewed sense of purpose. "Without Lord Bors conquest of the Shattered Hills, weâd still be a humble barony struggling to make ends meet on the barley and rye we grow in the valleys. And without the quarry in the Shattered Hills, Iâd never have met my Sorcha... I owe Lord Bors more than a few words of thanks for what heâs given my family and me."
"Thatâs the spirit," Loghlan said, clapping the man on the arm. "Take as much time as you need. This is our last chance to say these things, and we shouldnât waste it," he said firmly before turning away at the sound of the opening doors.
Done, and not a moment too soon.
Heâd been asked to deliver a message and stretch his own eulogy. Instead, heâd planted seeds in three different fields. Erling Fayle would speak from the heart about a man who had helped his family survive. Wes Iriso would speak about Borsâ conquest of the Shattered Hills and the way that victory had reshaped Iriso Barony. And Loghlan himself would speak about the western frontier and the sacrifices of the baronies who held the line... with Borsâ support, of course.
Every word they spoke would be genuine. Every memory they shared would be true. And every minute they spent honoring the dead Marquis was another minute of fading daylight that brought Ignatious closer to waking and Ashlynn closer to the moment when the mask would come off and the real event of the evening would begin...