Servants bustled to and fro, poured wine, took away stoneware, and replenished tankards of mead and ale. Across the chamber, minstrels played stringed instruments, their melodies odd and twangy yet pleasing to the ear. Long, wide swaths of red and black fabrics hung draped from the rafters. Tapestries of beasts among tall trees with needle-like leaves hung on the mud-brick walls. The table, chairs, and all surrounding furniture gleamed with a ruby hue beneath the chandeliers heavily laden with thick, fat white candles.
The king looked first at one man next to him and then the other. Both nodded as if they knew what he was about to say.
“The city of Hellembr is newly formed,” King Zeadren began once they’d feasted for a while. He sat with a wooden chalice in his hand. He sipped from it and then added, “My spies have estimated their numbers upward of fifty thousand now. Galen has lost hundreds to the allure of their new government.” His dark gaze moved from Ember’s face to each of his other guests. He pulled at his goatee with his free hand.
“What is Hellembr’s odd allure?” Sir Hestbone asked. He tore a piece of meat from a length of boar ribs on the trencher in front of him. “Surely the king of Hellembr is offering some wonderful enticement.”
“Power,” Zeadren replied.
“And what power is that?” Ember reached for her tankard of mead.
“Whatever dark force they are drawing upon.” The king sat back in his chair. He removed his crown and set it on the table; it clunked heavily upon the shiny surface. With two fingers, he massaged his left temple. “They keep threatening us with the Ebon Weapon. If we remain quiet and allow them to come and go as they please, spiriting away those who convert to their beliefs, then they spare the rest of us from their weapon.
“Then this thing truly is a weapon?” asked Sir Greensleeve, surprise thick in his voice. “All this time I have thought it a rumor, propaganda to control others.” He met the king’s gaze. “It is not merely a name to make men fear what is not there? It is real?”
“Aye.” Zeadren replied.
Putting her tankard down, Ember looked sharply at the king. “What sort of weapon?”
“We know only that its power is fire.”
“Fire?” she echoed as her friends turned worried gazes on her. Something cold wiggled around in her guts, and the sweetness of her mead turned sour upon her tongue.
The man on the king’s right spoke first. “I am Cal, good princess, King Zeadren’s adviser.”
The one on Zeadren’s left raised his tankard in greeting to her. “I am Fazohn, his majesty’s captain of war. And aye, you heard correctly, Princess. The weapon we fear is fire.” He set his ale down with a thump. “It has been used to contain us, to threaten us, but we have yet to discover its origin.”
“The weapon has been used to terrify your city, yet you have never seen it?” Sir Greensleeve looked from Ember to Fazohn and then to the king. Sarenkesh shook his head, and heavy locks of white-blond hair fell over one shoulder. “I do not understand.”
“Magic is used to camouflage the Ebon Weapon,” Zeadron replied wearily and then sighed. “The fire comes from the ground or the sky. Regardless, it always burns everything in its path. The city has lost two of the outer lying villages to this weapon. That is when many began converting to Hellembr citizens, but they did it out of fear. But now”—he looked around the table, his coal-like eyes glimmering with worry—“many are leaving because they believe being a citizen of Hellembr, and thus strengthening its numbers, is better than taking their chances as a Galenite. However, Hellembr’s king insists they will all share in the power of the Ebon Weapon.”
“Do you not have sorcerers to fight this weapon or who can protect Galen from it?” asked Beron.
Ember smiled over at her brother, pleased with the wisdom that sprang from his lips.
“Aye, lad,” Zeadren replied. “I have two powerful sorcerers, but they are at a loss at how to guard against a god’s power, let alone defeat it.”
“What say you?” asked Sarenkesh. “A god?”
Within Ember’s mind, something fell into place. Its crash reverberated throughout her brain and sent tremors into her body. It can’t be possible…can it? Has Raya…? No, the goddess wouldn’t be so bold or so reckless.
“Wh-which god do you worship, dear king?” the princess asked hesitantly.
Her abrupt question startled him. A curious look crossed his rugged face. “We worship only the male gods Oshin and Torr.”
Only the male gods? She gulped and placed both her hands in her lap to hide their tremors. “Have you gone beyond Hellembr to see what lies there?” The crash of suspicion in her mind continued to push aftershocks throughout her entire form.
The king studied her hard for a moment. “What are you asking exactly?”
“What lies beyond Hellembr?”
“Flame Mountain,” he replied.
She pressed onward. “And beyond that?”
“I…I know not,” said the king. “Flame Mountain is so treacherous no one goes there. No Galenite or any of the surrounding peoples has ever come from its other side. Flame Mountain is full of hot, liquid rock and spews fire and foul-smelling odors into the air. I wager no one can live beyond the mountain. It is rumored a barren land of poison lies south of it.”
“You are aware there is a society of assassins who live on the mountain’s fertile lower regions, aye?” Kaedric asked, speaking up for the first time since they sat to eat with the king.
Zeadren nodded. “The assassins of Flame Mountain are like the spirits. We know they are there, but we do not see them or think on their presence unless somebody is murdered by one. The assassins have only killed the stray citizen of Galen. They are hired by those with power, and power is what the assassins want, so they murder whom they believe will give them their magic or energy.”
“That explains why one tried to kill you, good princess,” said Sir Greensleeve.
“There was an assassination attempt on the princess’s life?” Shock clothed Fazohn’s voice.
“Aye,” said Sir Hestbone. “He tried to strangle the princess in her sleep, and when we captured and questioned him, the man killed himself.”
Fazohn’s dark blue gaze settled on Ember. “You must be powerful indeed.”
A flurry of servants appeared and set platters of sugary pastries, puddings, and candied fruits upon the table. Once they had gone back to the kitchen or stood in dim corners waiting a summoning, King Zeadren reached for a bowl of purple pudding. He took a bite, swallowed, and then asked, “What is a Daughter of Trinity supposed to do for us?”
“Solve the enigma of the Ebon Weapon,” Ember answered. Even to her ears, the simple answer sounded ridiculous. She met the king’s eyes and tried to convey her determination. “And fight it, if need be.”
“And how shall you solve the riddle of the weapon?” Cal asked, his words rife with skepticism. “Or fight it?”
She lowered her gaze to her trencher and stared at it, the enjoyment of its food suddenly forgotten. “I know not how I will discover the truth of the weapon, but I shall fight fire with fire.”
King Zeadren dropped his spoon. It bounced from the table and clattered on the brick floor. Instantly, a female servant appeared with a clean spoon and set it in the king’s bowl. He waited until the woman stepped away and asked, “What exactly is your gift, Daughter of Trinity?”
“Ach, she is a weapon of mass destruction,” said Sir Hestbone. Quickly he and Sarenkesh described Ember’s battle with the rogue Southlanders.
“Now it is obvious to us,” the dwarf finished, “that those men were from Hellembr.”
Quiet reigned over the meal chamber. The twangy tune played by the minstrels turned into something soft and soothing, but the overall plink and ping of the base melody still reminded Ember they were in a foreign land.
“And how does a Fae woman of the Green People find herself with such a destructive power?” asked the king.
The princess gulped and tried to st
eady the erratic beat of her heart. Slowly, she raised her head and looked directly at the king. He leaned forward on his elbows, his attention boring into her.
“From Raya.” For some reason unbeknown to Ember, the goddess’s name left a foul taste upon her tongue. “She negotiated my power through Lochri, and Lochri asked Hyrrokkin to add some of her strength to my magic.”
Pandemonium erupted at the table. Everyone talked at once, their chatter blending with Dikartha’s tears.
“Ach! Hush thy wailing, woman,” Sir Hestbone commanded. “The princess has enough on her young shoulders without your tears.”
“Be still, you callus oaf,” Dikartha shot back angrily. “My niece is more to me than life itself.”
“Ach!”
“Enough,” Zeadren roared, startling everyone into silence. He looked at Ember. “Tell me what you know.”
Hesitantly, Ember relayed her conversation with Raya and Hyrrokkin. She finished her story and stared back at all the gazes focused on her, each pair of eyes full of concern, speculation, or doubt.
“The wiles of a female are exactly why we worship male gods,” said Zeadren as if it was common knowledge. “What is Raya’s goal in all of this?”
“She says all races are in jeopardy and to save them we must defeat the Ebon Weapon,” Ember replied.
“Somehow,” said the king, “I highly doubt that.”
“What shall we do?” asked Dikartha.
“We must discover the truth about the Ebon Weapon,” Ember replied, “and cross Flame Mountain.”
“Are you mad?” asked Cal, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Crossing Flame Mountain will invite death.”
“If no one has gone beyond the mountain,” the princess countered, “then how do you know it invites death?” She looked from the king to his advocate and then the captain of war. “All you have to go on are legends and speculation.”
Cal snorted derisively. “I have heard the tales since I was a wee one—”
King Zeadren thumped his fist on the tabletop. “The good princess is correct! We fear only what we do not know. Perhaps there are those on the other side of the mountain who will join forces with us once they know they are in danger too.”
“Perhaps there is nothing but death there,” Cal replied, his voice growing louder.
“What do you think will inevitably happen to us if we continue to go on as we are now?” the king asked. He turned slightly in his chair, his gaze wandering over Cal’s face. “When all who have converted to Hellembr’s ways and have join their city, what then, Cal? Do you think Hellembr will continue to allow us to exist in peace? I think not, good counselor. Those who choose to remain a Galenite will be slaughtered. If that is to happen, then I choose to die fighting. I am not a king who trembles in the shadows, praying to remain undetected.”
“You may advise the king,” Fazohn stated with authority, “but I am the captain of war. Let me worry about how to battle Hellembr should it come to it.”
Ember understood how the adviser felt, but they couldn’t just sit and wait for the inevitable. Fighting frightened her too, but it was better than waiting to be murdered.
Cal drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “But Zeadren—”
The king held his hand up, silencing Cal. “We will resume this conversation tomorrow morning when we will plan our method of action. Right now, our guests are weary. Let us relax and enjoy amiable company, wine, and soothing music.” He rose and waved two servants over. “Take the princess and her aunt to the finest rooms in my dwelling. Provide them with nice gowns to wear to tonight’s festivities.” He called two more servants over to him. “Escort my new male friends to their rooms and find them fine clothes too. Give them whatever they need or desire.”
He turned and strode in the opposite direction. “We will meet here again when the gloaming returns. Let us dance and enjoy the night for tomorrow brings great change upon us all.”
Ember watched the king exit through a great wooden door. His black robes trimmed in gold swirled around the threshold. The door banged shut behind him, and the sound echoed the dread in her heart.
Chapter Eleven
That evening as the festivities drew to a close in the great hall, Ember threaded her arm through Dikartha’s and bid good night to everyone. She found the dark-skinned men attractive in their robes of various deep colors trimmed in vibrant piping, and the women bright, chatty, and highly entertaining with their grand stories of Southland legends and lilting singing voices. The excitement of a foreign culture, new stories, exotic foods, unique music, and something unusual to constantly catch her eye tired both Ember’s mind and her body. Her aunt began hiding her yawns behind her hand, her eyes glassy with tiredness.
“We bid you good night, King Zeadren,” said Ember. “I am afraid between the long journey and the amazing entertainment, my aunt and I are both exhausted.”
“May I talk you into sharing a glass of shavobot before you retire, dear princess?” he asked.
“Shavobot?” Ember frowned.
He nodded. “It is customary liquor my people drink before retiring. It helps the body relax without dulling the mind.” A glimmer of hope shone in the king’s eyes. “I will not take no for an answer, and I promise I will not keep you long.”
“I do not want to seem rude, good king, so I shall meet you in your chambers for a quick drink.”
“Thank you.” His gaze shifted to Dikartha, and a soft smile played upon his full lips. “Would you care to join us, Lady Dikartha?”
“Oh, no,” Dikartha replied, her hands in the air in front of her. “I am so tired I fear the princess may have to carry me up the staircase.”
The king roared with laughter. “I have enjoyed the Fae’s company so much this night.” He sobered slightly. “Alas, I hate to see you leave on the morrow.”
“We have enjoyed our stay as well, good king,” Ember replied.
He dipped his head politely. “I shall meet you in my chambers in…?”
“Shall we say by the end of the new song,” Ember supplied since each of the Southlander’s tunes seemed to last at least one chunk of candle wax.
“Aye, that will give me time to bid good night to the stragglers who have had too much mead and wine,” Zeadron said, chuckling.
Ember and her aunt leaned upon one another as they made their way across the great chamber. She helped Dikartha through one of the many ruby-colored doors leading to the main staircase and to the two upper levels of the king’s lavish abode. Chandelier after chandelier of tall, fat candles lined the main hall. Formal weaponry, many foreign to Ember, hung on the brick walls. Thick rugs of goat hair and sheep’s wool, stained in patterns of black, gold, and red, covered the cold mud-brick floors. They reached the door to their double bedchamber, and Ember ushered her aunt inside.
“Suvrete,” said Ember as she shut the door behind her. “May I ask you a very intimate question?”
“Child, you are as much a part of my heart as my own children,” her aunt replied. She pulled the hair pins from her veil and placed everything on a bedside table. “Ask me anything you wish.”
“I have noticed you do not move as quickly as you once did, that you grow tired more often, and that you groan some mornings when you lift your body from your bedroll.” Ember tried to choose her words with care. Her aunt unhooked the buttons of the sparkly apron-like garment that covered her borrowed gown. Each button seemed to cause her trouble, but her aunt merely sighed patiently and continued to work each one loose. Finally, Ember crossed the room and unhooked the ones that crossed her aunt’s shoulders. “Suvrete,” she pressed, “how old are you?”
Dikartha laughed. “Ah, so you have noticed I am not as spry as I once was.” She threw a wan smile over her shoulder as Ember unbuttoned the back of her gown. “Think on it, child. My youngest is your age, but how old is my eldest.”
Eyes widening, Ember gasped. “I do not like the idea my suvrete is in her fourth century. You are beautiful, so
how can you be of such an age?”
“Oh, dear princess, your words hug my heart.” Dikartha turned and embraced her. “Beron fears for me too.”
“Beron? Did he see something in your future?”
“In a way he did, but you know how vague your brother’s visions are.”
“Tell me, please.”
“Nay, you have enough on your mind.”
“Suvrete, holding thy tongue worries me more.”
Laughing, Dikartha turned away from her and crossed the room to her travel bag. She knelt, rummaged in the bag for a few seconds, made a soft sound of satisfaction, and rose to her feet again. She returned with a beaded head dress in her hands.
“I made this for you. I have had it for quite some time. I have no clue why I made something so ornate. It is like a war helmet, is it not?”
Taking the beaded headdress from her, Ember stared at it in wonder. Adorned in red, black, yellow, orange… She gasped.
“What? Do you not like it?” asked Dikartha.
“I love it, suvrete. It is just that, well, look at the colors, the patterns.”
Frowning, Dikartha studied the headdress. A cry flew from her lips like a soft wind. “Fire,” she said. “The colors represent fire, and the patterns look like swirling flames.”
Ember nodded.
“It was not my intention to—”
“The gods have used your talent for beading and making caps to create a war bonnet for me,” said Ember. “I know not when to wear it, but I am sure something will whisper when the time is right. It is truly the most beautiful of all your creations, dear suvrete.”
Tears trickled down Dikartha’s high, pink cheeks.
“Why do you cry?”
Her aunt shook her head. “I feel as though something has come to an end, but I know not what it is.”
A servant brought Dikartha a cup the size of a thimble. The young woman insisted that shavobot wouldn’t hurt her and her mind would remain clear, but most of all, she would sleep much better.
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