“And your father?” asked Gregoria archly, in a reminder of Astora’s dubious parentage. Fenrir shivered, unbidden, even though he knew his face was hidden.
Astora did not miss a beat. “Sadly, killed during the war, fighting for our country.”
Did she believe that? Did she know who he was, what he had done? What had Darian told her? What had her mother told her? What did she remember?
So many fucking questions, and here he was, unable or unwilling to answer them. Instead, he stood stiff as a board, sweating beneath his blue leathers.
“Yes, but on which side? I’ve heard he was a traitor.”
Perhaps his slaying of the little duke had been kept quieter than he’d thought.
“He fought on the same side as Lord Aser. Have you or your husband heard of him? I hear he is quite dashing.” Gregoria paled, huffed, and walked away. Astora had the grace not to appear overly pleased before gliding off to cause havoc elsewhere. Fenrir had to bite his lip to keep from grinning.
Not long after, though, Darian abruptly excused himself as some rich merchant groveled for attention from the merchant king. Fenrir flanked him, along with Mel and Kenpin.
They convened in the Great Hall, now strangely bare compared to what Fenrir remembered of it. Never a bright room, it at least had the benefit of a huge Yetranian Ascension mural, which added a bit of color and a near-naked picture of a goddess. When standing guard, one could use their imagination to fill in the details. Now, though, the walls were completely and utterly empty—just cold, hard stone stained by the shadows of what once had been.
The attendees, at least, added some color, garish though it might be. The entire Rostanian Council—all ten of them, including Darian—was present around an oval, oaken table. Lord Faris, of course, was at the head of the table, a calm pillar of stability. Aron Witton, a count from northern Florens, lazed in a chair, his chubby cheeks poorly concealed by a patchy beard. Pereway de Ingus, Fenrir remembered well from his youth. The merchant had seemed to be an inattentive and doting old man, even thirty years ago when Fenrir had been a child. But, he was canny and sly, creating an empire to rival that of the de Trentons. He was an enemy of the family, and Fenrir wanted to clap him on the shoulder with a thankful hand, though he feared he’d break the skeletal old bastard if he tried it.
Then there was Baronness Farah Erlins, her raven-black hair standing in stark contrast to her pale skin, betraying at least a hint of Domain blood. She sat solemnly next to Faris, inspecting her folded hands. She was probably little more than a figurehead, used to incite the masses after her husband had been tortured and killed at the hands of the Florensians when they’d invaded Rostane unprovoked. In reality, Fenrir knew that he’d been tortured by the little duke and locked beneath the Plateau, tormented by someone before falling victim to madness and those monsters. Theran Erlins had even seemed like a fairly decent man; it was a shame, really.
“Good of you to finally join us, Darian,” Witton said around a gulp of wine as Darian took a seat opposite Faris.
“I care not for your petty politics and little maneuvers, Witton. The time for that has passed,” Darian said dismissively. Surprisingly, de Ingus and another one of the council members, a merchant by his clothing and bearing, nodded their assent. Cliques in the council, apparently.
“Let’s get this over with,” de Ingus suggested, his voice distracted as always, as if he had somewhere else to be. “You already know my answer.”
“Pah, your answer is always no,” mumbled Count Pentis, a man Fenrir could barely recognize, so much had he aged in the past year. He coughed into his kerchief.
“Your wife can’t say the same,” retorted the merchant councilman.
“Gentlemen, please. We are better than this,” Lord Faris said, his calming voice cutting through the rising racket. “I believe we should hear what our potential allies have to say.”
“Aye, let’s hear them,” Witton said, pretending as if it had been his idea. Fenrir got the impression of a bootlicker.
“Call them in,” Faris said, beckoning to one of the dozen Wolf Knights ringing the room. Fenrir didn’t see any familiar faces, but it was difficult to see what lay beneath the helmets.
The knight obliged, ducking into a small adjoining chamber which was most often used for visiting dignitaries. He emerged two minutes later, two people in tow. He cleared his throat.
“Lord Proctor Finn Lo’Argeen and Lady Immis Si’Abrill of the Menogan Empire,” announced the knight, chosen as the herald thanks to his booming voice. Fenrir remembered the knight, after all. Reman always had a driving baritone, and was known for starting rousing ballads at Yetra’s Arms during his off time.
The visitors were unusual, to say the least. Finn Lo’Argeen seemed fairly normal, though sickly looking. Maybe he was some bastardized Alganian mongrel, though that name was unfamiliar—nothing like any family names Fenrir had heard of. He was pale, too, and it wasn’t clear if he was ill like Lord Pentis, had never seen the sun, or just had a strange pigment. It certainly wasn’t the ruddy white of the Domain. What really made the man stand out, though, was the fact that he wore black, opaque spectacles that seemed to suck up the nearby light. There was no way this Lo’Argeen could see through them, but he seemed to be aware of the room, glancing about. His teeth were gritted together in a vice of a smile. `
The Lady Si’Abrill, though, was unlike anyone Fenrir had ever seen. She was also pale, again not like his mother or others of Domain blood. They were a dirty snow whereas she was like a field of ice. Pure, unsullied…. Perfect. Her eyes were a stark contrast, a piercing green brighter than those of anyone from Jecusta’s Eastern Sweeps, where such eyes were common. They were almost alien emeralds shining in her face. Her lips were small, and either painted a light blue or colorless. Her hair was a deep, soft brown, and cut just above her shoulders and her plainly adorned black dress.
“My lords, I am honored to again be given the gift of your time,” said Lo’Argeen, his voice sounding like his nose had been oft broken. Other than that, there was nothing odd about his way of speaking; he could have been born in the shadow of the Plateau. And yet, he was a lord of the Menogan empire?
“You are always welcome to our time, if not our yets,” Witton said. There was a forced chuckle from the gathered council members. Faris sat back down after a brief bow.
“My apologies, esteemed guests. It has been a trying day, and the evening’s festivities can be draining.”
“We are not without humor, my lords,” said Lady Si’Abrill, with one raised, perfectly manicured eyebrow. “It appears, however, that Lord Witton is.” More authentic laugher from around the room.
“Perhaps we will get to the point, then,” said Lo’Argeen. He seemed like an impatient man—a coiled spring just barely restrained by the bonds of decorum.
“Let’s hear it, then. I’ve ladies demanding my attention,” said de Ingus, the moldy old man being self-aware of his rotting state. Darian shot him a glare, betraying their old rivalry.
“Yes, give your speech,” Darian said, his voice tinged with disdain.
Lo’Argeen stepped forward and took a breath, a sneer on his mouth. Si’Abrill, though, put an arm on his shoulder and began to speak. She spoke near perfect Ardian, but pronounced each word so precisely that she almost sounded like a translator, speaking without processing the words being emitted from her mouth.
“Lords and ladies of Rostane, of Ardia. Again, and for the last time, we come before you to propose the alliance between our two great nations. Menoga, as you know, stretches nearly across a continent, west of the Great Barrier.” Fenrir had not known that; he’d never heard of Menoga, and had had no idea it was possible to cross the Great Barrier. A sailor acquaintance of his had described it as an endless wall of towering waves caused by a convergence of tides over thousands of miles of shallows and reefs. The sailor had been well-spoken for a man with fewer teeth than fingers.
“We have sought contact with Saiwen for hund
reds of years, our sailors either coming back unable to pass the barrier or not at all. But, now that we have established a consistent passage, we seek to ally with you. We have the military might that can aid you in consolidating your grip on Ardia and expanding beyond. We simply seek our own footholds, some coastal cities, to…”
“We do not seek to expand beyond Ardia,” Darian interrupted. “And we certainly do not lack the might needed to consolidate our own country.”
Lo’Argeen cracked his knuckles and spoke through gritted teeth. “You have farmers and laborers, half of them holding their spears the wrong way, as likely to stab themselves as others. You have dissidents raising the population against you, or have you already forgotten your riots earlier today? And you have the ire of the underground, which is slowly eroding your authority.”
“Nonetheless, we can handle our own affairs in this small matter of civil war, as we have over these past months,” said Darian, his manner as calm as in any negotiation.
“Right, and what will you do when your farmers are killed and your lands grow sallow? When you have no laborers left to haul ore from the Tulanaques, or to unload your ships and carry your goods? What will you do when one of your neighbors—Jecusta, perhaps, or Algania—senses your weakness and comes knocking on your doors with armies of their own? We have thousands of trained Menogan killers…”
“That sounds distinctly like a threat to me, and why would we welcome thousands of trained killers into our lands?” This from de Ingus, suddenly as savvy as a horse salesman. “In my experience, it would be difficult to expel those who do not want to leave.”
“Come now, de Ingus; Darian. Our Menogan friends have already shared quite a bit of wealth, not to mention other gestures of goodwill to show their intent,” Lord Faris commented.
“Aye, we’ve already some marriages on the books,” said Witton with a grin.
“Your Menogan whore means nothing to me,” Darian said, to the gasps of half of those present.
“Darian, you overstep,” Faris warned.
“I overstep? You, Faris, overstepped by allowing these persons here, allowing them insight into our internal strife. We will not subdue Hunesa with thousands of foreign invaders and further fracture our country.” Darian’s hands were balled and white, and Faris, usually unflappable, seemed ready to spit in his face.
“Ha!” Lo’Argeen barked, his sneer morphing into a real smile. “I love those who speak their minds! Lord de Trenton, I will do the same. Without us, you will fail. Already, armies are forming over the borders, ready to strike at you where you are weak. You have made many enemies across Saiwen, some of which you do not even know of. You need us, Ardians, like it or…”
Lady Si’Abrill put her hand on the man’s shoulder and stepped forward, her alien eyes entrancing Fenrir’s. He wouldn’t have minded seeing himself reflected in those gems. “My apologies. Finn can become… passionate. Know that he speaks true in all things, however. Jecusta is on the verge of being swayed to stage an attack, and they will not allow any of your freedoms to persist. We simply seek to help and establish our own profitable strongholds outside of Ardia proper. We do believe it will come to war, and we desire to assist.”
“My sources concur with that,” Lord Faris said. “The Jecustans know of our strife…”
“Probably because your friend Iolen defected…” mumbled de Ingus, only half under his breath. Faris gave him a hard look.
“…and the remnants of Escamilla’s army is still sheltered in Farrow’s Hold. A combined force, even with half of Jecusta’s standing army committed, could pose a true threat to a newly united Ardia,” Faris finished.
“This alliance makes good sense if we want to continue to rule Ardia as a council,” said Witton, with some solemnity.
“I second that. It will save the needless death of our own people,” said another council member, one Fenrir didn’t recognize. Judging from his pudgy cheeks and fine clothes, he’d probably never met any of his own people, or ever even had to wash his own cock. Likely, he had a servant for that.
It was quiet in the Great Hall—the sort of quiet that fills a room when a decision is about to be made. When the conclusion is foregone, and when those who disagree finally cease their protests and give in to the inevitable. The quiet that is marked by self-satisfied smiles and grim jaws being set as wishes are fulfilled and snuffed. As some men make piles of coin while others lose more. As life is decided for some, and death for others. Fenrir had seen it all before, standing in rooms like this. Which was why he felt surprised by what came next.
“This isn’t happening. I won’t allow it,” Darian said, his voice the hardest steel. He refused to bend, apparently.
“You don’t get to decide!” Witton spat. “Your money only goes so far.”
“Fine, let us have a vote. That is why we have a council, is it not? So that the man with the biggest army doesn’t get to make the call,” Darian commented.
Faris nodded grimly, rising to his feet. He wasn’t a particularly large man, and his looks were middling. But, his calm and his confidence controlled the room.
“My fellow council members, it has come to a vote. Our alliance with the Menogan empire, for the duration of our internal conflict, is up for final consideration. As is our standard, each person among us casts one vote, and the majority rules the day. White, yes. Black, no.”
This process seemed to be well-practiced for this group. Each council member was given two pebbles—one black, one white—from a servant decked out in the green and gold livery of Rostane. Darian didn’t hesitate before casting his black stone into the center of the table. De Ingus, crotchety to the core, had to huff at Darian before doing the same. Witton tossed his white stone into the center, as did Faris and two other nobles, including an older woman with sharp features. She vaguely reminded Fenrir of Escamilla, though Escamilla never would have supported a foreign force stepping onto Ardian soil.
Darian glanced at the other merchant council member impatiently, and the man took the cue to add his vote to the ‘no’ pile. Darian’s pitiless gaze next fell onto a noble—Count Torin, Fenrir remembered, from years ago, was an asshole. He was a stick of a man with a penchant for being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wouldn’t take much for Darian to buy him out, and that played out as a black stone rolled into the center of the table.
Four to four.
Baron Pentis, with a wheezing, wet cough, tossed his white pebble into the mix. He had seemed hesitant until Witton had cracked his knuckles audibly. A fair, balanced council indeed. Five to four, but Faris needed the majority to win the day.
Darian shifted his gaze to Baroness Erlins, the final, unspoken voice in the room, her pale complexion somehow seeming whiter beneath his scrutiny. She clutched both stones in tight fists as if she was trying to squeeze water out of them. Darian tapped his fingers on the table—the sound of heavy expectations weighing down the room.
She peered up at him from under long eyelashes, and her lips twisted in a sudden, definitive smirk. Her white stone rolled into the center of the table like a human skull grinning up at Darian. Fenrir’s father stiffened, and the son heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Sorry, my lord principal. You won’t be getting your way today.” Erlins’ voice was soft, but intense. Witton wore a wide grin. “Don’t think I do this for you, either, your corpulence.” Witton rose to his feet, knocking back his chair.
“You overstep, you plumped-up whore!”
“Stop this! Be gracious in victory, Witton,” Faris said. “The votes have been cast, and we are bound to the story of the stones. Lord Lo’Argeen. Lady Si’Abrill. We welcome the alliance with the Menogan empire.”
“Superb!” Lady Si’Abrill pronounced. “We will immediately inform our proximal, seaborn forces and send for the others, and if you would be so gracious as to arrange for the lodging that we discussed, we can…”
“You fucking bitch!”
Fenrir started at the commotion,
which had not been directed at Si’Abrill. From one of the staging rooms, there echoed the sounds of an argument and another shouted curse. And an angry woman’s voice. A man rushed into the room, with Wolf Knights, retainers, and even Fenrir finding their hands on their blades.
“My lord principal. There is a matter that requires your attention,” Sigmund Fitra said, his voice vitriolic. Fenrir noticed that he was no longer wearing the silver Wolf emblem signaling his generalship. Perhaps it was just a wardrobe omission, but the fact that he was back in de Trenton blues instead of the Rostanian green and golds spoke volumes.
“What?” Darian’s voice was a snarl, that of a wild animal barely restrained.
“I’m more than just a matter,” came a voice, slightly wobbly. Fenrir shivered and smiled simultaneously. Astora pushed her way into the room, flanked by a helpless-looking Blue Adder. Evidently, it only took a slender teen girl to disarm a weapon’s master.
Sigmund spoke through gritted teeth, and Fenrir noticed that he had three lines of blood across his right cheek. That was his girl, right there. “Lady de Trenton struck Count Mern Seenly across the face with a stone chalice. And, when Lady Gregoria tried to intervene, she yanked down her dress, exposing her…”
“I know what woman keep under their dresses,” Darian growled. Witton barked a laugh while Faris frowned at the whole affair. Lady Si’Abrill, to her credit, was unaffected, though her fellow Menogan grinned a sly grin. “We are done here.”
Darian stood abruptly, motioning for Fenrir, Mel, and Kapin—the other Adders—to follow him. He roughly grabbed Astora’s wrist as he went, and she grimaced in obvious pain.
“Principal, let me explain!” She yanked her arm back to no effect. There was tempered steel in Darian, Fenrir knew, of the type that was nearly immovable. “The count grabbed me; he…”
Darian backhanded Astora without releasing her wrist. She reeled back, but he did not let her fall.
Wisdom Lost Page 43
