Before he could stand up to take it, Noerelle jumped up and snatched it from the King and pushed it into his hands.
Mordan prepared himself with a sigh, and started reading.
A few seconds later he looked up, utterly stunned.
“You make an official statement that you are my father.
You adopt me and award me the title of Prince.
My name henceforth is Prince Mordan Stinger…”
He looked at them, feeling mentally exhausted already.
“You’re supposed to be my father? And you want me to believe this?”
“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous, dear. We have no idea who your father is, but who cares?” Noerelle laughed.
Mordan was confused; he hated how she could always make him feel this way.
“There’s more; we found you a sister,” she proudly announced.
“I don’t have a sister.”
“I didn’t say we found your sister, I said we found you a sister,” she corrected.
Mordan looked at her blankly.
“My King, let this be our main rehearsal. Would you please do us the pleasure to share your family’s history with us?” she put on the special syrupy smile she reserved for him. Although Mordan thought it was less sickening than at their first meetings.
“Fine, here goes…” Scypian recounted the same story that Rica had a floor above them, a few minutes ago.
Mordan was listening with mounting astonishment.
“… My beloved Arpya told me she could see me no more. I had to say my farewells to her and agreed to my parents’ request to marry Empress Sidonia, but I never ceased to take an interest in my son and tried my best to further his advance,” he concluded his story.
Noerelle looked at Mordan expectantly.
“What do you think?” she asked with honest curiosity.
Mordan was dumbfounded.
“I’m amazed… Simply amazed… This must be the stupidest story I’ve ever heard. Just who do you think will buy this piece of rubbish?”
“The adoring masses of Pyonians who can’t wait to meet their new Prince and his fiancée, Empress Gloria,” Noerelle beamed at him.
He was speechless.
“You must know, Pyonians are awaiting your arrival in your Academy Break.
You will be very busy during your trip. We’ve arranged quite a few meetings with your supporters.
You cannot imagine the euphoria about Prince Mordan, who will bring the Stinger crown back to Pyonians by marrying Empress Gloria.”
Mordan raised his arms in despair.
“You are out of your minds. What do you think she’ll say if people call her my fiancée? Besides, who says she will be Empress at all?”
“Mordan darling, there are some things you don’t need to know, and some that you just have to figure out yourself. As it seems, you will have to propose,” Noerelle replied, taking a seat on the couch and pouring herself a cup of tea.
“Besides; what’s the point? Even if I married her, she would be the one with the vote and the title.”
Noerelle smiled enigmatically.
“Who’s to stop you from making her appoint you as the Representative of Pyonia?”
The statement hung in the air.
Noerelle looked at both men.
She got a wave of outraged thoughts radiating towards her.
Mordan stood up.
“That’s it. Farewell to both of you,” he said slamming the door behind him.
Noerelle hurried after him.
“Just how stupidly suicidal d’you think I am?” he roared, not caring a bit who overheard them.
“You don’t understand…” she tried to explain.
“Oh, but I do understand.
I will be King and the Representative, and all of Pyonia will rejoice.
What a bright future.
Except for the mysterious terminal illness that will befall me, or the unfortunate fatal accident that will end my life.
Gloria, as the new Empress who had won over her new countrymen by marrying a Stinger, will be forced to quickly take another Pyonian Royal husband in order to avoid a revolution.
I guess that would be the moment when my father would step in to save the day.
How convenient.
Find another puppet for your games,” he tore himself from her grip and stormed towards the gate.
She caught up with him at a surprising speed.
“He’s disposable,” she hissed at him.
He couldn’t believe his ears.
He stopped and looked at her incredulously.
“What on Earth are you talking about? Aren’t you his little helper?”
“Oh, Mordan, I wish you trusted me…”
“Spare your talents for that worm. You have one last shot at this.”
“Just think about it; if anything happened to you, don’t you think the Sunflares would take the throne back?
Anybody who wishes to be a Stinger King will be it, as long as they are the husband of Empress Gloria. Now, how slim do you think the chances are she would agree to marry Scypian?
I can do many things, but this one is something even I wouldn’t succeed in achieving.”
“I think you’re wildly overestimating my appeal. It’s one thing she let me in her bed, marrying me is a whole different matter.”
“Again… think…
Firstly. As much as you loathe hearing it; she had been jilted by young Prince Sunflare. What better way to prove she’s over him than to wed his new arch-enemy?
Secondly. By how much do you think your appeal will increase, once she finds out you’re a Royal yourself? Even she would never deny the fact that she’s an utter snob. Could you?
And last, but not least; her loathing for Scypian would sweeten the deal of denying him any chances for the throne… again adding to your appeal.
You better do it as soon as possible.”
Mordan gave it a thought; it sounded plausible. Even though trusting Noerelle seemed like a bad idea, but the possibility of Gloria marrying him seemed almost real.
He couldn’t refuse.
“Fine, I’m in,” he said.
“Wait here, I have to explain to Scypian why you changed your mind,” Noerelle said.
“Oh, go on then,” he sighed.
Noerelle stormed back into the study.
Scypian stood at the window. When he heard her enter, he turned around with an accusatory look in his eyes.
“What do you mean he will be King?”
“Scypian, my love, why don’t you trust me?”
Repressing her repulsion, she wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed him on the lips.
“I do, I do… I never doubted you,” he breathed in the scent of her hair, attempting to push up her skirt.
“Not now, my love,” she said wiggling out of his embrace.
“He’ll be back in an instant.”
“How did you do that?” he asked, trying to calm down.
“I told him that he will receive a substantial amount of money that will ensure a life of luxury for the rest of his life on another continent, if he lets us fake his death and arrange a funeral for him. The grieving widow will need a Stinger husband as soon as possible. Gloria will be begging you to marry her. Once you’re wed, we will make sure that she appoints you as the Representative of Pyonia. Then, it will be up to you whether you want to keep her or have me as your wife.
I also outlined to Mordan the much more painful options if he chose to decline my offer.
Unsurprisingly, he agreed to all our terms.”
Scypian pressed his body against hers.
“You will be my wife. You will be my Empress. Fine, bring him back.”
Noerelle replied with a sweet smile and took her leave.
A few seconds later, she returned with Mordan.
“I’m ready to meet my sister now,” he announced.
“Wonderful,” Noe
relle beamed, and hurried towards the door.
Shortly, she ushered Rica into the room.
Month of the Peacock, Mid-autumn
Fegilovíxit, Areshadia
The Warchief took a seat in a plush arm-chair in front of the roaring fire, opposite Vipra. His vibrantly red beard and plaits were emphasised by his black and silver armour. The heat radiating from the fireplace was most welcome; autumns were rather harsh so far up north.
Warchief Redbeard, Son of Gingerlash wasn’t one to complain, but he hadn’t been able to shake the chill from his bones for days; lighting fires at night wasn’t an option since they had entered Areshadia. He had been riding for days with his troops to get here on time. He was rather impressed with himself that they had made it.
Not for lack of trying; the Five Tribes had tried to mess up their plans by attempting to brutally murder them in their sleep. The further up north they advanced, the more frequent the ambushes had grown. He hated those sneaky bastards; they weren’t men enough for open warfare.
They always came at night, stealthed and equipped with cowards’ weapons; wires for strangulation, poisoned darts and stupid little daggers they stuck in their enemies’ kidneys from behind. He had lost quite a few of his men. He couldn’t do anything but put the casualties down to calculated risks.
On arrival at Fegilovíxit, the Warchief and his men had to undergo the thankfully short welcome ceremonies, after which they had been shown to their quarters. Most of his troops were happy to stay in one of the modern topside buildings, but he had requested something underground; progress or not, he felt more comfortable in traditional housings.
He took in his surroundings.
“I would have expected an audience in a throne room, with me kneeling on the floor and looking up at you on some kind of bone chair, Matriarch.”
Vipra shrugged her shoulders.
“We are equals and allies. I signed up for progress, and apparently etiquette is a part of it, annoying as it might be. Instead of seeing you sitting on my bone chair, I’ve been advised to receive you in my office”.
They rolled their eyes simultaneously at the last word.
“How very Kronurian of you,” he grinned.
“I also expected you to be less… dressed,” he winked, taking in her attire that was a full-length robe. Although it had covered her from neck to toe, the sheer black spider-silk left very little to imagination.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Who would have thought it? Northerners and Southerners allied, thanks to some stuck-up Kronurians. Yet here we are,” he pondered.
“Have you noticed they manage to put a price-tag on everything they see? Hell, twenty years ago, we didn’t even know what a price tag was… or a price for that matter,” he added.
She couldn’t suppress a little smile.
“Do you usually descend to one of your tombs to smile so others can’t see?” he grinned.
“So. Warchief Redbeard,” Vipra put an end to pointless small-talk.
‘How original,’ she thought, immediately beginning to wonder whether the Warchief’s radiant red litch-light also meant he was also an apt mind-seer.
His hearty laugh answered her question.
“What can I say, Matriarch, we are a simple people.
I was a ginger baby; my father had been exceptionally hairy, so they reckoned I would sooner or later live up to my name. Or toughen up because of the mocking, if I didn’t manage to sprout appropriate facial hair.”
“Is there much mocking around you?” she asked matter-of-factly, glancing briefly at his bulging muscles.
“No,” he chortled.
“Anyway. I’m glad you continue with your predecessor’s policies and hold up to South Sarea’s commitment to our Alliance. Which reminds me; what happened to him?”
“Sad story, but not unheard of. His pride in his manly prowess grew in reverse proportion to his age. He knew he shouldn’t use his forces during carnal activities, but he did it anyway when his flesh wasn’t as willing as required. At least he died with a smile on his face.”
“I see.”
Redbeard laughed again.
“I can’t help noticing you’re somewhat surprised about the way I express myself.”
‘Doxxuzturx! Damn it,’ Vipra thought, reminding herself he could see her last thought as well. She was not used to conversing with other mind-seers.
“Eh, don’t worry, Matriarch, I’m used to that old stereotype; warriors lack intelligence.”
“Your… or our kind don’t feel the need to be concealed in the South?” Vipra asked, nodding towards his radiant red litch-light.
He shook his head.
“What do you call yourselves? Battle-shamans? War-mages?”
“I’m no bloody mage!” He spat on the floor.
“We call ourselves exceptionally good warriors,” he said, trying to wipe away the spittle on the floor with his foot.
“Excuse the rudeness, I’m still not used to the fineries of diplomacy,” he added with a sheepish smile.
“Very bothersome, I agree. Nevertheless, it can’t be helped.”
“Answering your question; no, we don’t see any reason to hide our powers.
The ones who possess them, are regarded to be blessed by the Warrior. In fact, there hasn’t been a single Warchief who didn’t have them.
What can be more effective than brute force and weapon-skills paired with the power of your abilities? It earns the respect of your people.”
“Fear you mean,” she corrected.
“Meh, respect, fear… what’s the difference? They obey, and that’s what it comes down to. As the Kronurians pointed out, our nation is an army. Warchiefs issue orders, the rest carry them out. Becoming a Warchief isn’t about popularity; you earn it by winning competitions. None of which involve poetry or embroidery.”
“What do you do with the ones who rebel?”
“Oh, I think you know,” he smiled.
“How many of yours possess your force?” she asked drumming her fingers.
“Maybe one in a thousand.”
“Have you tried to unlock them in the ones who don’t show the signs?”
“It has been attempted, but the ones, who are not naturally blessed, need twice the time and effort to use their mediocre power than it would take them to beat their enemies to a pulp with their bare hands. Why? Are you willing to share your abilities with the untalented? Or anybody at all?”
“I have no doubt you know the answer.”
She thought for a second.
“Show me what you can do, Warchief.”
He was taken aback for a moment.
“I can see your mind, you can see mine. I know that I can trust you; I know that you have no intentions to harm me. I simply want to experience your abilities.”
“You have Fire too; I cannot imagine you never used it on yourself.”
“Not to the extent that you must possess; you have twice the Fire I have.”
“Fine, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he winked before he could stop himself.
Yet again he earned himself a raised eyebrow.
“Khm,” he cleared his throat to conceal his slight embarrassment. She was far more complicated than the women he was used to.
Vipra nodded.
He looked her in the eyes.
She saw a ray of brilliant red light streaming towards him from her. She gasped for air and immediately sank to the floor. She was sure her life would end there and then. She felt her life-force evaporating by the second.
Then, she saw Redbeard leaning over her with a focused look in his eyes, red light channelled onto her.
Suddenly, she was filled with an energy she had never experienced before. She jumped up, feeling invincible. Her heart was racing. She looked around for the heaviest object in the room to try her newly found power on, but the next instant she had returned to her former self. The enthusiasm remained.
“I c
ould have lifted that,” she nodded towards the solid, cast iron table.
“You shouldn’t have stopped me,” she added, confused by the uplifting experience.
“Undoubtedly you would have tried and got yourself some serious injuries. That’s what Double-Fire does to you. It gives you so much energy in the form of rage, that you lose every other aspect. If you don’t have the necessary physical condition, it could kill you.”
He laughed again, seeing her thoughts.
“Yes, that’s it. For a nation of warriors that’s all we need. Disable your enemy, and give yourself as much power and momentum as you can.”
Vipra sat down, her hands still shaking from the overdose of adrenaline added and sapped from her within a matter of seconds.
“My turn,” Redbeard demanded.
“I won’t bother with Fire, as you’re apparently the master of that,” she said dryly.
“Fine, just tell me what you do when you do it.”
“Water taken,” she said, while her purple litch-light briefly flashed.
It was Redbeard’s turn to sink to the floor, while a blue ray connected them. It wasn’t his body that had been affected, but he felt such sense of loss and despair, that he felt his will to live vanish in an instant. He was crumpled on the floor in an embryotic pose, sobbing so hard, that he thought he could never stop.
“Water given,” he heard Vipra’s voice. He felt his mood rising as the blue light pulsated towards him; he stood up and wanted nothing more than to embrace the whole of humanity. He looked at the Matriarch and suddenly realised, he could kill for her. He had never felt so much in love before.
“Fire added to Water,” Vipra announced. Passion enveloped Redbeard, as the purple light hit him; he knew he had to have her, right there on the spot.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned him, releasing him.
“Whoa,” was all he could utter, taking a swig from the closest bottle he could lay his hand on.
“Another second of that and I would have fallen on my knees to propose to you,” he laughed, filling a tankard from the bottle in his hand.
“Do you think it would be beneficial? For our Alliance…” he pondered.
“We’ll never know. I couldn’t stand a man constantly being around.”
“I can still feel it,” Redbeard mumbled.
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