Donovan started tracing circles on the table with his forefinger. “There’s nothing we can do about harbors like Wellingsford unless some of the southern barons side with us.” He shook his head. “There’s not a lot we can do about a good many things. We don’t have enough fighting men. That’s what it comes down to. If it was just the eastern barons, I think we’d win. But if the barons in Arktos and Wolfram send men to swell the eastern army…I envy Padrick’s ability to ask the Fae for help.”

From the comments Falco had made to him, Liam didn’t think help from the Fae was something they could hope for. And if they asked for help from the House of Gaian…He could tell by Donovan’s carefully neutral expression the other man was thinking the same thing. If they asked for help, and got it, would the price be more than they would want to pay? One storm created by one witch had made the roads impassable for days, which was why the barons were still staying with him at Willowsbrook. If one witch could do that much, what could a hundred witches do? A thousand? Could fear of a thousand witches change to hatred of a single witch? Would a village kill one witch or a family of witches to avoid having to live near that kind of power? Was that how it started in Arktos and Wolfram? Had the Inquisitors started out as protectors and defenders, only to become the next power to be feared?

He thought of Breanna and Gwenn and Fiona. Temper and laughter. Passion and compassion. And power balanced by a creed they’d been taught from the cradle.

“Liam?”

He smiled ruefully at Donovan. “Sorry. My mind wandered.” He was about to suggest that they adjourn from the dining room to let the servants set the table for the midday meal when Sloane opened the door after a brief knock.

“A messenger, Baron Liam,” Sloane said. “From Old Willowsbrook.”

The announcement was swiftly followed by one of Donovan’s guards, who had a firm grip on a flushed, excited boy.

“There’s men in the woods!” the boy said. “Armed men. On horses. Clay sent me to warn you.”

Liam leaped to his feet. His mother and little sister were still living at the Old Place with Breanna and her kin. And Donovan’s wife, Gwenn, was there as well, visiting.

“How many men?” Donovan demanded.

“Lots!” the boy replied.

That doesn’t help much, Liam thought, as he ran to the stables, shouting for the grooms to get the horses saddled. Donovan ran with him, followed by the other barons.

“Liam,” one of the barons said, puffing. “We”—he gestured to the other four barons—“aren’t fighters, but our guards are good men, skilled with weapons. They’ll go with you.”