Chaol crossed his arms, not bothering to
look placating. “I can, and I will.”
His father shot to his feet and braced his
hands on his desk. “You would spit on the
lives of all the men of Anielle who fought and
died to keep this territory from their filthy
hands?”
“If offering them a small piece of land will
mean that future generations of Anielle men
and women won’t have to fight or die, then I’d
think our ancestors would be pleased.”
“They are beasts, barely fit to be their own
masters.”
Chaol sighed, slumping back in his chair. A
lifetime of this—that’s what Dorian had laid
upon him. As Hand, he’d have to deal with
lords and rulers just like his father. If they
survived. If Dorian survived, too. The thought
was enough for Chaol to say, “Everyone in
this war is making sacrifices. Most far, far
lily
(lily)
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