No. She needed to be there for the queen. Especially now, given what she knew.
Carefully, Amarysia wove her way through the army of attendants as they rushed from one table to the next, making sure the king’s guests were afforded every available comfort. Some bowed as she passed; most just tried to keep from knocking her over.
She made her way up the steps to the platform at the front of the room and took the empty seat next to the queen.
“I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to make it,” Ellise said, having to lean in to be heard over the noise. “Were you able to finish your errand in town?”
Amarysia glanced at Dakaran to see if he was listening, but he seemed to be otherwise engaged with his counselor. “I was,” she said, lifting her goblet and taking a small sip of the wine, enough to coat her dry throat and help calm her nerves.
Ellise looked her over. “Are you feeling well?”
“I am, Your Majesty,” Amarysia said, attempting a smile. “I’ve received some troubling news, and I’m not sure what I need to do with it.”
“Oh? Is it of a personal nature?”
Too personal, she thought. “It is, Your Majesty. To more than just myself.”
Ellise laid her hand on top of Amarysia’s and squeezed. “I’m sure you will do the right thing.” The simple act was meant to be comforting, but Amarysia was already dreading what “the right thing” would mean for her.
“You look beautiful this evening,” Dakaran said from his seat on the other side of his mother. He leaned forward to see her better, and his crown slid slightly to the side, forcing him to readjust it.
Beside him, Archchancellor Valtor offered a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgement.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. You’re most kind.”
“Not at all,” he said, raising his goblet in salute and taking a deep swallow.
Thankfully, Dakaran’s attention shifted back to the entertainment and away from her. There was plenty to be distracted with—musicians and dancers, troupes of acrobats, jugglers, fire blowers, and bards singing dramatic ballads. It seemed there would even be a contest of martial skill at some point, judging by the targets that had been set up on the far side of the room. The place was a circus, a dissonance of noise and movement meant to stimulate the digestion for the mountain of food the kitchens had been slaving over for the last four or five days.
Once the main course was cleared, Dakaran motioned the chamberlain over to his seat and whispered something in his ear. The short, pudgy man raised his staff and smacked it three times on the marble tile. “Hear ye! Hear ye! His Excellency, the High King of Elondria and ruler of the Provincial Authority, makes ready to speak.”
The performers were quickly ushered out of the chamber as the servants continued their rounds, clearing the next set of half-empty dishes and ensuring the guests’ wineglasses were filled to the brim.
Dakaran didn’t bother to rise. “My dear friends.” The slur in his voice was barely recognizable, but Amarysia was used to listening for it. “I trust the food and entertainment have been to your liking.”
A chorus of hearty agreements echoed through the great room, accompanied by raised glasses, exuberant clapping, and a round of cheers.
“I have called you here this evening to discuss a rising concern of state.”
Amarysia clenched a wad of dress under the table, fighting not to show the anger she was feeling. She could think of quite a few rising concerns. Chiefly, that Dakaran had killed his father and Ayrion in cold blood.
“It has come to my attention that our coffers are not what they once were. Gold is disappearing all over the place.”
Gasps could be heard across the hall.
“Not to mention what was wasted in our recent and, if you ask me, unnecessary war with Cylmar.”
A few raised their glasses at his sentiment, but most turned and looked at the queen, scandalized by this brazen slight against her husband’s actions.
Ellise’s hands tightened around the stem of her glass. Most wouldn’t have noticed. But having spent every day for the last three years with the queen, Amarysia had learned to spot those subtle reactions.
The war effort had not been popular with the ruling class, considering the amount of revenue required to conduct the campaign, but a single glance at the epicurean excess that covered the tables in front of her, and one could easily see why the treasury had diminished.
“Our borders are expanding,” Dakaran said, “and each day, more and more citizens are coming into Elondria, seeking a better way of life. We need to show them how benevolent we can be.”
Claps of agreement filled the room.
“But it won’t be cheap.”
The praise quickly withered.
“And how does Your Majesty propose this happen?” one of the senators near the front asked.
“I have discussed this matter at length with my council.” At that, every eye turned to the king’s left, where Valtor sat watching their reactions. Amarysia noted the slight smirk on the Archchancellor’s face. “We have decided to establish a new citizenry tax to be levied on all who live and work within the borders of Elondria.”
Murmurs spread around the hall. There was more than one troubled face in the crowd.
“Son,” the queen said softly, leaning forward to catch his eye, “your father spent his entire life fighting to lower the taxes on the people. Laying such an unexpected burden on them might cause an uprising.”
Dakaran glanced briefly at Amarysia. He looked almost embarrassed, the same way any child did when reprimanded by their parents in front of their friends. He bit down on his lip and turned back to his guests. “Our people have grown soft and lazy. If they want to live off what we provide, then just compensation is in order. Protection isn’t cheap, after all. I believe the tax should be levied by quantity. Those with more should pay more.” He paused to judge the crowd’s response.
It was all too apparent to Amarysia what the senators’ sentiments were, as faces reddened and muffled whispers soon turned to angry shouts. But considering these were some of the wealthiest citizens in Aramoor, it was understandable.
“Perhaps we should consider cutting back on the amount of funding directed to the White Tower,” one senator suggested, glaring at the Archchancellor. “Do we really need all these Black Watch? Why not reestablish the High Guard?”
Dakaran struck the top of the table with his goblet. “We are surrounded by potential enemies on three sides. Cylmar has shown us that already. And the High Guard already demonstrated their lack of usefulness when they let my father die.”
Once more, Amarysia grabbed a thick wad of her dress under the table and squeezed, wanting to do the same to Dakaran’s throat.
Dakaran leaned forward, the slur in his speech no longer present. “The High Guard is a thing of the past; the Black Watch is our future, and that future is looking bright.” He raised his glass with a smile.
Valtor leaned forward in his seat. “Of course, the king is not suggesting that this burden should fall on the members of our illustrious senate.”
Dakaran looked confused, but after a quick word with Valtor, his face brightened, and he addressed the room. “The Archchancellor is correct. You have enough to worry about keeping the kingdom running smoothly. There will be a waiver set in place for the senate.”
The members quietly conversed amongst themselves, their earlier anger at the possibility of lost revenue quickly diminishing.
Dakaran, clearly not wanting to give them another chance to voice any further disagreements, turned to the chamberlain. “Bring in the next round of entertainment.”
The chamberlain bowed and smacked his official staff against the floor. “Bring in the dancers!”
Amarysia watched the Archchancellor for a moment. He sat stiffly in his seat, his fingers tapping the top of the table in succession as he studied the senators. Eventually, he turned and whispered something in Dakaran’s ear before rising from the tab
le and leaving with a small contingent of white-robed guards.
She shuddered at the thought of how the citizens of Elondria would respond to this news. It almost appeared that Dakaran wanted some kind of open rebellion. Surely, he wasn’t naïve enough to think that raising the taxes on the people was going to put him in good standing.
She needed to set up that meeting between Kira and Tolin soon.
Chapter 53 | Valtor
AFTER WATCHING THE overstuffed senators squirm, Valtor was content to leave the king to his sycophants. Pampering the senators was a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean he had to sit around and watch them gloat.
There were times he wondered why he let this charade continue. But killing Dakaran now would only succeed in uniting the other kingdoms against him. For now, it was best to keep Dakaran on the throne and under his thumb.
He entered his chambers and uncovered the traveling mirror at the back. He spoke the name it was inscribed with, followed by that of its counterpart in the White Tower. “Galaerion Sugethru. Nothleen Filaurel.”
The glass rippled. Valtor waited for it to stop moving before he stepped through. On the other side, he made his way down through the White Tower’s inner network of winding stairwells and empty corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. He was seldom left alone to his own thoughts these days.
It was a respite from the chaos. His thoughts drifted to the future he saw for Aldor.
He dreamed of a day when wielders would reclaim their rightful place, no longer hiding on the fringes but instead holding power. The Creator had bequeathed that power to the ven’ae. That they had to fear the jun’ri just showed how completely upside down this world had become. He longed for the day when those with abilities would no longer have to hide. When people like his parents would no longer be able to cast their own aside. When the jun’ri would bend the knee to them.
But so many of the ven’ae were still unwilling to accept his vision. He didn’t like killing wielders, but if they stood in the way of bringing this new era to pass, he didn’t have much choice.
He realized he was hitting his staff against the floor harder than strictly necessary, so he slowed, making a conscious effort to control his anger. He was doing all of this for them. Why couldn’t they see that?
He was close. Each day was another step in the right direction. Each day brought him closer to his vision of how the world should be. He paused at the bottom landing of a particularly long flight of steps to catch his breath.
Sure, he had suffered some setbacks. The faeling child and his protectors in Easthaven were proving to be more troublesome than expected, but he would be rid of them soon enough.
He reached the scrying room and raised his hand. “Tares’ayden.”
The deadly wall of mist protecting the chamber dropped into the ground and disappeared. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and made his way between the pyres and up the steps to the center of the dais.
Aerodyne had promised him this. He knew the great wizard was the only one with enough power to bring his dream to pass, and because of this, Valtor worked night and day to put the pieces in play that would lead to the Dark Wizard’s return.
The stone in his pocket warmed at his touch, and a single pyre burst to life with pale-green flame. A stocky, barrel-chested man appeared inside. He was much less formally attired than normal, wearing little more than a rumpled nightshirt.
“This had better be important, Valtor,” the man snapped, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was napping.”
Valtor assumed that was the reason for the man’s state of undress. “I am merely checking on your progress, Overlord.”
“Progress? There is no progress. We don’t meet until next week, you oaf.” The man glanced down at the stone in his right hand and gave it a repulsed look. “You woke me to ask that?”
“I apologize for the interruption,” Valtor said, realizing he needed to smooth the man’s ruffled feathers. “I wanted you to be the first to know that the king has just announced a new source of revenue that will guarantee you payment for services rendered.”
“And what of the other part of our arrangement?”
“As long as you continue to provide the throne with credible information, then the Crown will have no reason to operate within the boundaries of your kingdom.” Valtor smiled. “Good allies are hard to find these days.”
“Allies? Allies in what? You talk as though you are expecting a war.”
“You can never be too careful. Just look at what happened with Cylmar. Nasty business, that was. Overlord Saryn should have known better than to test his might against Elondria.”
The overlord lifted his hand to his neck. “Yes, nasty business indeed. Tell Dakaran he’ll get his information.” The overlord turned to walk away, then stopped. “Why is the throne so interested in Sidara? Not much there but woods.”
“Let’s just say, when three of the four remaining kingdoms hold a conclave where the throne is not in attendance, we tend to worry that the outcome will not be to Elondria’s benefit. I would hate to think that the other overlords were conspiring against the High King. Those kinds of actions could have dire consequences.”
The overlord was silent for a moment. “Just make sure your white riders stay clear of my kingdom.”
“You uphold your end of the bargain, and I can guarantee it.”
“Good.” The man stifled another yawn. “If that’s all, then I’m going back to bed. And judging by those dark circles,” he said, pointing at Valtor, “you should do the same.” With that, the green flames were snuffed out, and the pyre went dark once again.
“Insufferable fool.” Valtor released the stone and started for the steps. He hated placating these buffoons. As much fun as it might have been, Valtor didn’t have time to waste dreaming up new and creative ways to deal with the arrogant overlord. There would be plenty of time for that later. At the bottom of the steps, Valtor took a moment to stretch, fighting back the urge to yawn. He desperately wanted to crawl into bed, but there was still much that needed to be done.
Valtor shut the door to the scrying chamber and lifted the protection spell. He turned and yelped, startled to discover his apprentice standing behind him. The grotesque deformity on the side of Rowen’s face made the young man look just short of evil.
“Rowen, what have I told you about sneaking up on me?”
Rowen smiled as if he had won some small victory. “Where are you headed?”
Valtor started back toward the staircase leading to the lower levels. “To check in on our recruits, if you must know.”
Rowen grunted, then followed silently in Valtor’s shadow.
After an unfortunate accident buckled the main support wall in one of the upper towers a few years back, causing the entire top three floors to collapse on those inside, they had decided to continue their training in a more structurally safe environment. The back half of the White Tower had been built straight into the side of the Razor Spine Mountains, creating an array of large vaulted chambers perfect for the use of educating new recruits in the art of magic without having to worry about their doing any serious damage to the main structures.
It would take considerably more than a few loose bolts of air to bring down the mountain.
Everywhere Valtor went, men in white uniforms snapped to attention. He passed a few of the black-robed bulradoer as they scurried down the halls. Their ranks were steadily increasing as well, which pleased him.
The Inquisition, with the help of the Black Watch, was doing a remarkable job in gathering information on new wielders. Given the choice between purging—which was normally a death sentence to the wielder—and joining, joining seemed to be the preferred option.
The new recruits wore the grey robes of a novice, which made them easy to spot. They were not allowed the black robes of the bulradoer until their training had been completed.
Valtor stopped beneath the archway leading out of the main keep and in
to the inner mountain chambers. Beyond lay an enormous room carved completely out of stone. Fluted pillars had been left scattered throughout as the main support for the mountain. Their size was incredible, each side measuring the span of two men standing side by side with arms outstretched. They had doubtless been built by wizard engineers during the Second Age. Braziers filled with flaming coals hung around each pillar, flooding the cavernous room with light.
A staircase wide enough to fit an entire company of lancers led from the arch down to the main floor of the cavern, where the wielders trained. Valtor descended slowly, Rowen remaining at least two steps behind.
One of the bulradoer spotted Valtor on the steps and rushed up to greet him.
“Your Eminence,” the man bowed, trying to catch his breath. “How may I be of assistance?”
“I’m here to inspect your work. How goes the training?”
“Very well, Your Eminence. New recruits are being shipped in every month.” The bulradoer turned and gestured to the open chamber beyond. “As you can see, they are receiving a full course of instruction. If you’ll follow me, I’ll be happy to show you around.”
Valtor followed the bulradoer down the steps, trying not to visibly lean on his staff. His legs were stiff, and his back ached from all the climbing.
The cavern had been divided into six stations, a single bulradoer overseeing a cluster of grey-robed novices at each. They stopped at the first station, which consisted of three rows of tables lined with recruits sitting on long benches, studying runes and incantations. Most stopped what they were doing when they saw him approach. After nodding his approval, the bulradoer continued on.
The second station was a series of desks covered with glass beakers, pewter mixing bowls, half-filled decanters, and cauldrons, as well as a variety of instruments used for teaching natural elements and the fundamentals of potion-making. This particular type of magic was one of Valtor’s favorites. It required a healthy dose of patience, as the brewer had to determine not only the right ingredients but also the correct dosage and application. It was one of the reasons he spent so much time in his laboratory in the dungeons under the palace.
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