Free The Plains of Kallanash by Pauline M. Ross Page B

crowns was a recreation of the Petty Kingdom wars of old. At least they enforced the necessary skills and fitness, and encouraged a degree of strategic thinking.
    Autumn was not the best time to be manning the lines, but the grey skies and shortened days suited his mood. He had never been one to direct his men from a distance, and he ended each day as wet and muddy and chilled as anyone. He would tend his horse, just like the rest, rinse his clothes in the same bog, and eat the same half raw, half burned meat. Then he would wrap himself, fully dressed, in cloak and blanket to sleep under a thin skin tent like any other Skirmisher.
    Not that he did sleep. Exhaustion would give him two or three hours of oblivion, and then he would wake and lie half dozing until he heard the first movements of the camp and could stop pretending. And when he did manage to sleep, he dreamt of her. Of Mia. Or rather, he dreamt of Jonnor with her, touching her, inside her, his face livid with hatred or crying because she wasn’t Tella, wasn’t the woman he loved, while she gazed at him with rapture. And then he would wake, shaking and anguished, only to find even then his mind filled with her beloved image. It was unbearable.
    ~~~
    The skirmishes came to an end, the final prisoners were exchanged, and he had no option but to return to the Karninghold. One glance at Jonnor’s face told him nothing had changed. And there waiting for him were the messages from the Ring; the travel arrangements and appointments for interviews. The winter quiet was upon them and all at once they were out of time. Mia was away, dealing with one village or another, so he determined to resolve matters once and for all.
    Tonight, the roast came up in the lifter from the kitchens below with all the other dishes, and their own oven was cold. Maybe it was his imagination, but the meat from the lower kitchen never tasted as good as it did when Mia cooked it. Today it was stringy and flavourless. Jonnor carved and ate in silence, while Hurst gave him all the details of the last few days on the lines. It always took a while to draw Jonnor out of his abstracted state, but wine and some amusing anecdotes had their effect. Hurst was diplomatic about his skirmish successes, ascribing whatever he could to Jonnor’s advice or the idiocy of the opposition, while minimising his own role as best he could. By the time he had exhausted his stock of tales, Jonnor was relaxed and smiling.
    Collecting the plates, Hurst reached for his most casual tones. “So how are you getting along with Mia?”
    In an instant, Jonnor’s face was wiped of all good humour. “If you are going to offer to help out again, cousin…”
    “No,” Hurst said quietly, hoping he didn’t sound too regretful. “But nothing’s changed, has it? We have to talk about it, brother.”
    While Jonnor scowled, Hurst moved round the table in silence, carrying dishes to the lifter and sending them down to the servants below. Then he went into the pantry and brought out a full decanter of wine and two of the glasses they kept for celebrations. Sitting down opposite Jonnor he filled the glasses, pushed one across the table, and drank a little from his own.
    “Let us put all our crowns on the board.”
    For a moment Jonnor just stared at him, then he nodded and took a deep gulp of wine.
    “I am thirty -six years old,” Hurst began, “and I’m running out of time to reach the border. My father made it, my younger brothers are well on their way, and I want to get there too. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, my whole life.”
    Jonnor was watching him, his face suspicious, not sure where this was going. It was clear that he hadn’t expected this approach.
    “I had other marriage possibilities,” Hurst went on. “But this one – I felt straight away that you were my best hope. We’re a good match in the skirmishes, you and I. You’re terrific at defence, and you’ve always managed the negotiations well too. Whereas