“Then you ask for them, gently, graciously, but firmly,” Gwen told me. “You’ve always had a talent for contriving exchanges of favor, and ensuring the final result it is to your advantage. That was how you built your precious Council, wasn’t it, and how you convinced them to create their proud alliance with all your beloved kingdoms of men?”

“The other lords of the marches, though?” I wondered. “They are all strong minded men, as difficult as the lands they rule. And I will not have the strength of my fellowship behind me this time. I dare not call upon them for this, not in this day and age.”

She, however, was not dissuaded. I wondered, did she want to be rid of me so soon? Or was this another game of hers, to charm me again, and then let me go to enact a plan of her devising. Did it matter? It was not the worst plan that could have been devised.

“I think they will be willing to help you, should they be prodded a little. None of them want to lose their lands to the curses again, do they?. It is the hardest of lands men cling to the strongest. And you can remind them as I reminded you. Any of them might be next. Any.”

“Even so,” I still wasn’t enamored with the thought. And the Margraves wouldn’t be either. “They are the most resentful our kind. And it is not as if I will be able to rely on my magic to bend them, given the stones, their lands and who they are, and my current state.”

Her smiled widened, despite my recalcitrance. Then she poked me in the chest.

“You do still have allies who are not beholden to Council, do you not? Ones which could nudge a March Lord whose livelihood relies on say, ironwool sheep?”

I knew very well what she was proposing. It was appalling, though clever. Oh, I was getting old to not have seen the direction of her thoughts.

“You propose trickery, then?” I wanted to know. And was I above such acts? My personal chronicles would, unfortunately, say no. Not in the least.

“Well, I suppose you are still somewhat bound to those scaly and winged creatures you always professed an unnatural devotion to.” She poked my ribs with her elbow. ”You were always such a doting foster mother, from egg to hatchling, to mountains and sky.”

I raised an eyebrow at her smirk. I sighed, allowed a smile to touch my lips..

“You're proposing I call for my rock wyvern,” I replied. Yet another close bond I had let go over the years. Would the beasts once raised still come? Would Red Belly still remember me? I had my doubts. It had been decades.

“If you are going to work this on your own, you will have to call on your old bonds, old favors” she told me. “It has worked for you so far.”

That it had. I kissed her.

“Oh I don't need to mention anything else, do I?” she told me once we had sated each other. “I'm sure that is already working their way into your mind. Who do you have in mind as you're supplicant who will need to be protected from such ravenous beasts? I’m sure you already have a supplicant in your mind already.”

I did. She had sent my mind to work, and the state of the Buerland Marches were a topic I had always kept abreast of.

“Margrave Watterkrek,” I stated. “His wealth is dependent on the wool from his flocks of rock hill grazing sheep. Ironwool, yes. All the lords of the Buerland Marches are dependent on them.”

“He passed away some years ago,” she told me. “His son is a new count. You remember that boy. Poorest archer to ever become Margrave.”

I rose onto my elbow, turned to her.

“You are oddly well versed in such matters,” I replied.

“The count’s son has spread his flock’s pastures into one of my sister’s domains.” She explained. “He has engaged a Council arbiter to allow this incursion. It would be helpful to me for this behavior to be discouraged.”

“Without your active hand in matters,” I added.

“No favor comes without a price,” she reminded me with a cocked eyebrow. No, no favor ever did.

I reached back into my memory of the siege of the black cliffs. Watterkrek did have two sons. But I didn’t remember which was the elder or which was the worse archer. Still, Gwyn’s suggestion would provide an expedient nudge to quickly encourage the younger margrave into trading favor for favor. Ironwool sheep had been Red Belly’s favorite prey.

“Was it the fat one or the angry one who inherited?” I asked.

“The angry one,” Gwyn reminded me. “It should be an interesting challenge for you. I do believe he still bears a grudge against your kind, you in particular. But what’s a grudge that you can’t charm your way out of? Eh, my wizard?”

The passion we fell into then answered that question entirely. Or so I thought at the time.