In Which Lorn Is Called a Mouse

February 4, 1171

"Really? I had to come all the way from Dovia to deal with this?" Searle's mouth was a line of emotional ambiguity, but his eyes were pure exasperation. Lorn swallowed; there was something about Leara's stepbrother that he found more than a little unnerving. "You people are idiots--it should have been obvious from the beginning that all you could do was follow this creature's instructions."

Beside him, Lord Severin sighed. "With all due respect, Searle, I never asked Oswald to send aid; I only wished to inform him of the situation. We know what we have to do, but you must understand that it's a difficult decision."

He'd said in a few sentences what Lorn had failed to express in a speech. Yes, they'd had a month to decide and yes, they were running out of time--but how could they choose? Countless times they'd tried to reach an agreement now, but every time, what was intended as a rational discussion turned into a vicious cycle of insults and accusations; no one even dared make a suggestion, and Lorn couldn't say that he wouldn't judge if someone did.

Searle sniffed; Lorn had known his fair share of condescending people in his day, but never before had he come across one who actually had enough of an air of competency about him to pull it off. "Draw names, then."

"You think we haven't tried that?" The baron pulled himself out of his slouch, driving the heel of his boot into the hardwood. "Every name gets a veto until there are none left."

"Then just agree not to allow such nonsense. The first name drawn is the sacrifice--end of story."

Lorn exchanged a series of tense glances with the baron and Lord Severin. As if they hadn't agreed to that a thousand times over--and as if they hadn't consistently broken it. "Searle, it isn't as if Deian wants one of the four of us," Lord Severin spoke up at last. "He specifically asked for a woman of the Dovian noble bloodline; you must understand that we'd be reluctant to give up our wives and daughters, even if it is for the greater good of the kingdom."

"Of course, your wife is exempt," the king hissed, his voice so low that only Lorn seemed to have heard him.

"Yes, I can see that--and likewise, I don't want to have to give up my little sister now that I've finally met her." Searle coughed into his hand, then raised his head, his eyes flitting back and forth between the sides of their sockets. "But the fact of the matter is that the survival of the kingdom and its people is far more important than that of one individual, regardless of her status or connections."

"And we're not arguing with you there," the baron insisted. "It's just easier said than done."

Not sure what he else he could do, Lorn looked to the king, who had scarcely said a word all afternoon--as strange as that was for him. "Your majesty?"

The king put down the stylus he'd been fidgeting with and straightened his posture. Odd; the king never fidgeted. "Perhaps Searle might draw the name for us. I trust he'll hold us all to our word when we agree that this draw will be final?"

Searle's lip curled; from what Lorn could tell, he disliked the king even more than he disliked the rest of them, but fondness was not always so crucial a factor when people had similar needs. "That I shall. We'll have your steward write down the names, and I'll draw one--and I'll personally make sure that none of you go back on this."

Beside Lorn, the baron pulled himself to his feet, a defeated stillness in the way he held himself. "If you don't mind, Roderick, I'll be leaving now. Frankly, if I know the identity of the unfortunate victim, I'm not sure I can trust myself not to interfere--greater good or not. For the sake of the kingdom, I don't care to hear the results of this draw."

And with that, he'd crossed the study and stepped into the hallway, making a sharp left out of Lorn's vision. The king hadn't even had a chance to reply.

Shaking his head, Lord Severin followed suit. "You know what? Count me out too. I don't think I could spend the next couple of weeks walking on eggshells and feeling powerless about it all." He hurried out the door and pulled it shut behind him.

Searle sent a quick glance over his shoulder, then turned to Lorn. "Well, it seems we've at least separated the mice from the men. What about you, kid? Care to be party to this decision? Or would you rather wallow in anxious oblivion like a coward?"

Lorn felt no more certain of anything than he had all month. He thought of his mother, his sisters, his Leara... no. He didn't think he could bear it if anything happened to any of them--but at the same time, he wouldn't forgive himself if anything happened to his people.

He rose from the couch and made his way toward the door. If being a man meant taking such blows lying down, then he wasn't sure he wouldn't rather be a mouse.

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