Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  “How is the kingship treating you, Your Majesty?” Nilanis inquired as he reached for a thin slice of venison. “I can only imagine your father’s sudden death thrust upon you quite the burden.”

  Hairem’s expression remained resolute as his eyes met with the El’adorium’s. “Indeed it has been quite the change,” he agreed. “But I watched my father closely for years. And I had my close associations with the True Blood princes to learn from… No male was better suited than my father and so I had no better male to learn from.”

  The left corner of Nilanis’ thin lips raised slightly before he replied, with some form of a twisted and almost unsettling smile, “Only three centuries to learn the politics of kings, but your father was a brilliant male.”

  “Yes, he was. I have had both his triumphs… and his mistakes… to learn from.” Hairem looked up and smiled in return—a slow, pointed smile.

  Nilanis’ ease faltered. Hairem liked the way the El’adorium pondered the possibility of a personal touch in the response. “And what mistakes might those be, Your Majesty?”

  Hairem raised his wine glass in a dismissive manner. “I don’t believe that this is a topic worthy of such lovely company.” He nodded his head toward Ilsevel with a faint, apologetic twitch of his lips that he hoped resembled a smile. “I would certainly not wish to depart on such a weighty topic without the proper time to fully defend my late father’s decisions. Perhaps another time?”

  Nilanis smoothed over his tensed jaw line in a swift, broad smile. He seemed to operate on a standard of shifting and carefully controlled expressions. “Why of course, Your Majesty.” He paused a moment to take a sip of his wine and to allow a proper break in the conversation before changing topics. “You had your first meeting with the general the other day, did you not? How did you take to him?”

  As much as Hairem had liked to see Nilanis momentarily discomforted, he groaned inwardly at the change. ‘I suppose the general is not technically politics…’ He slid his fork across his plate absentmindedly as he recalled the Darivalian male’s rigid composure and apathetic mannerisms. “He was… very difficult to connect with. A bit abrasive and distant. Cold, I suppose I’d describe him as.” He shrugged offhandedly. “Honest, at least.” He had truly not given the general much thought since their meeting. In a way, Jikun Taemrin still seemed like his late father’s business, even after his passing: a Darivalian male with whom he had artificial authority over and even less in common. And furthermore, with the general’s stoic and cold approach, he had been remarkably easy to forget.

  A self-satisfied smile spread across Nilanis’ lips and Hairem felt his mood sour further. No doubt the El’adorium would savor displaying the knowledge he possessed—the knowledge of a topic that extended long before Hairem’s reign. Indeed, Nilanis seemed to relish in his superiority for a moment, drawing out a long pause before he responded with all the airs of familiarity on the matter, “Ah, I expected as much,” he breathed with a faint tsk. “It’s the Darivalians in general. They are such a difficult people to find amicable. Entirely unambiguous, really. They say exactly what it is they are thinking and possess not a bit of character or depth below the surface. Emotionally, I’d say, what you see is exactly how they feel. It is, of course, why they make such excellent soldiers. They couldn’t engage in subterfuge if their lives were entirely dependent on it. It is why we appointed him, especially after that unspeakable mess with Saebellus. Get a dog to do a dog’s work.”

  Hairem pursed his lips in distaste. “Surely the general has a commanding mind of his own.”

  Nilanis laughed once. “I certainly hope not!” He raised his glass and took a sip, chuckling to himself again as he set it down. “But let us speak no more of the general or the war. The council meetings are a more appropriate time for such trivialities.” He continued even as Hairem’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I have something of, no doubt, far more interest to your exquisite tastes. Ilsevel was the most accomplished student of her tutor in art and poetry,” Nilanis offered as he cut the remainder of his meat.

  Ilsevel pushed her food across her plate and laughed. “Oh, Father.”

  ‘…Far more interest to my exquisite tastes…? Gods, if ever there was a stretch for a topical transition.’ It was difficult for Hairem to even feign interest in this political game. “That is… wonderful. You must be proud.” He could hear his voice coming out flat, but he was past the point of bothering to change it now.

  Nilanis gave a nod. He didn’t seem to notice. “And Ilsevel plays the lyre most beautifully, a talent she no doubt received from her mother. If Your Majesty wishes to hear her play…” he added, trailing off as he scraped the last contents from his plate.

  Ilsevel smiled and looked down, her cheeks growing pink. “I am certain King Hairem has heard far better from his palace musicians.”

  Hairem gave an internal sigh. Every part of him fled inwardly toward the door, but he smiled nonetheless and politely requested, “Why, I must hear you play, Ilsevel.” This, at least, came out with a little more tonal variety.

  She nodded sheepishly and stood, as though his words had been a direct command, and left her chair behind for the servant to push in. “My lyre is in the Great Room, if you will just follow me.” She gave no emotion behind her words, but merely glanced back once to see if he was following. Then she turned her pretty face away and vanished into the hallway.

  Hairem regrettably left his wine and paused at the edge of the room. He sent Nilanis a quizzical glance when the lord made no attempt to pursue. “Will you be joining us…?”

  “Oh, go on ahead,” the lord encouraged in a tone fit for the reply to a merely rhetorical question. “I have some dessert preparations to discuss with the servants.”

  With resignation, Hairem contemplated the situation as Ilsevel glided on ahead of him.

  “I suppose you have many Great Rooms,” Ilsevel began slowly as she led him into a vast, marble-tiled room. The wall directly ahead of them was made of painted glass, but the night was too dark to allow more than the faintest colors through. The lady moved to a round seat beside the fireplace and picked up the gold-plated lyre, stroking it once as color fell across her fair skin from the windows behind her. She waited patiently for Hairem to sit across from her.

  Whether Nilanis had ever heard his daughter play was doubtful. Much like a sword on stone, she grated through two pieces of musical genius that at once became barely recognizable. Her redeeming quality, however, was her voice. Enchantingly soft, she wove the lyrics over the music until the king almost forgot where he was—and what he was listening to.

  “Truly, you are quite gifted,” Hairem complimented her as she finished. He could not deny that her voice had impressed him far more than any musicians at court. Her body language while playing had been quite enticing as well—fluid and elegant, despite her inability to pluck a single tune.

  Yet for that reason alone, he’d have strongly recommended she never pick up the instrument again.

  Ilsevel set the lyre beside her and brushed her golden hair behind her shoulders. “Surely you jest, My Lord,” she blushed timidly.

  Hairem stood, returning no further comment on the matter. Lying, even politely, did not sit overly well with him. “Your father has probably finished. Let us rejoin him.” He held out his arm and the lady took it in her small, fragile hand.

  The absence of Nilanis was immediately noted as Hairem reentered the dining hall. Before he could speak, a servant bowed low before him. “Nilanis has been called away on urgent business. He understands how greatly this disrupts your evening. He sends his deepest apologies and hopes you will forgive him.”

  Hairem forced a thin smile. He should have expected as much. “Of course.”

  “He wishes that you do not leave without enjoying the dessert he had prepared for you.”

  The king glanced toward the mahogany doors, praying inwardly that some “urgent” business would arise for him as well and he could escape back to the comfort of
his rooms.

  “I am certain that His Majesty has more pressing matters to attend to than to stay here,” came Ilsevel’s voice suddenly from beside him. “I apologize for my father’s absence.” She bowed her head and stepped aside, folding her hands before her abdomen.

  After a brief moment of surprise, Hairem quickly donned a smile, partially genuine this time. He was relieved that she avoided her father’s games. “Since your father is no longer here, I am afraid that there are other matters that warrant my attention. Good evening, my lady. I wish your father well, in whatever business matters have arisen. I hope that he and I shall soon be able to meet again under such agreeable circumstances.”

  *****

  Hairem returned to the palace scarcely a few short hours after his departure. Alvena was surprised to see such a quick return—his late father had spent many an hour deep into the evening on political matters, especially with figures as wealthy and notable as Nilanis. ‘I wonder if things went poorly…’

  She leaned against the railing of the wide marble staircase as the king shook the rain from his strong shoulders. She forgot her duty for a moment, simply captivated by watching the sheen of the candlelight dancing off his golden hair. Hairem had taken after his mother in appearance, she had long since determined. His father’s sharp and harsh features were captured in his eyes, but the gentle curve of his cheekbones and jaw—those were his late mother’s. ‘So handsome…’ She ogled him shamelessly.

  “You are drenched, Your Majesty. Let me get you something to drink,” Delaewen was saying, fussing over the way the king’s shirt had plastered to his chest.

  ‘And so strong…’ The girl watched the older elf unfasten the cloak from his shoulders and drape it over one of her spindly arms.

  She quickly snapped to. ‘The king is wet! Pay attention, Alvena!’ She hurried down the stairs, noting for the first time the distant rolls of thunder.

  “Oh, I will be fine. It is just a little rain,” the king insisted, waving the fussing servant away. “If you do not mind drying the floor so someone does not—”

  And quite to her embarrassment, Alvena caught the edge of the puddle forming at his feet and went sailing past him to land hard on her rump.

  “…slip…” Hairem finished slowly. “You just wanted to capture the moment, didn’t you?” he chuckled as he extended his hand toward her. “Are you alright?”

  The handmaid subconsciously took his hand, letting the king pull her to her feet. Then she quickly recoiled, shaking her head in speechless apology.

  “What? Oh, come now,” Hairem rebuked. “Let me tease you.”

  Alvena gave a quick curtsy and tiptoed carefully around the water before dashing up the stairs in horror.

  ‘How embarrassing!’ Gods! And then she had let the king help her? She sighed, reprimanding herself. ‘Oh well! Hairem won’t really remember it. He has been so absentminded as of late.’ She felt a little bad even as she thought it. No doubt the war and his father’s death were taking their toll. At least she would make certain he had some dry clothes set out and a hot bath going. She knocked on Lardol’s door and shifted impatiently from foot to foot as she heard the male inside scurrying for the door.

  “Oh. It is just you,” the male frowned, crossing his arms. He eyed her reproachfully. “This had better be about His Grace and not another thing like the sap in your hair.”

  She glared at him. That had been important! She couldn’t walk about the castle with her hair all clumped together with sap! And if he had just put the bird back in the nest like she had asked, she would not have had to get all—

  “Well? Get on with it,” he barked.

  The girl pointed out his window, gesturing to the rain, and then gestured to her head and shivered.

  “The king is wet and cold? I will get a hot bath going for him,” Lardol replied, beckoning for her to leave. “And I will find him warm clothes. You should just stay out of his way. Go retrieve something for him to eat and leave it outside the door.”

  The girl glared and hurried off. Stay out of his way. She scowled at the wall statue outside the kitchen for good measure. ‘Boot-licking Lardol always having to do everything himself!’

  “Oh, Sel’ari bless you,” Madorana, the nicest of the palace’s cooks, sighed in greeting as soon as the girl entered the room. “You would think the king is on his death bed with the way we are all running this way and that to tend to him. His Majesty does so hate being fussed over.” She raised the spoon from his soup to her lips and gave it a noisy sip. “Prince Hadoream was the same way. Whenever he would come in late—and gods know if he came in late he was with his brother—Darcarus it was, not Sairel—Sairel was ever the studious one and he was never late. Darcarus was the trouble maker. Oh gods he was a trouble maker. You would think he had a streak of gnome in him. Ever getting into our hair and causing mischief. But oh, he was such a charmer…” She blushed and paused briefly, as though she had forgotten where her thoughts had been leading her. “Oh yes, Prince Hadoream was just like Hairem: we would all gather around him and he would try his best to escape.” She laughed. “Oh, Lardol remembers those days. He used to curse the old princes off, you know. The mouth on that male!” She pushed a tray into the girl’s arms, and she was relieved that Madorana’s tangent was significantly shorter than usual. “Take this to His Grace. I certainly do not want to be the one responsible for him catching ill!”

  The girl sighed and turned right back around. Madorana was right—Hairem did hate being fussed over and that was exactly what everyone was doing. No doubt he would go lock himself up in his room to cease their constant worrying. Perhaps it was because of the recent death of his well-beloved father that endeared the servants, at least partially, to the male. And yet, she had heard many stories, even as a youth, of Hairem’s kindness toward them. Just a few years ago he had been caught sneaking off with a handful of servants. She always wondered what sort of mischief the young prince had been up to, but she had long been told he had acquired his cavalier ways from his close association with the True Blood princes. But they were across the ocean now. It was just Hairem left.

  The girl stopped outside the king’s door and set the tray to the right. She could hear Lardol’s muffled speech from inside and she leaned a little closer in an attempt to catch what he was saying.

  “Well, I am certainly in no hurry, Lardol. But thank you for your concern,” she caught Hairem’s reply.

  “I simply do not wish to see the kingdom without an heir should—and gods forbid—anything happen to you, My Lord,” the male servant replied reproachfully. The girl was surprised with the frankness with which he spoke with the king, but then, Lardol had been serving Hairem’s family line for three hundred years and the True Bloods before that. She supposed there was a certain familiarity that came to breed such candor with that length of service. “Marriage to Lady Ilsevel would ensure you the loyalty of her father and his substantial financial support. The crown will soon bend beneath the weight of Saebellus’ war and the recent schism. When Silandrus left with his sons, he took thirty thousand subjects and enough wealth to pay for a full transition to Ryekarayn. Now his eldest son rules his thirty thousand elves with more wealth and control than you do yours, I’m afraid. Your enemies know this. They also know of King Sairel’s influence, even from a continent away. You have neither his wealth nor power.”

  She heard only silence for a minute. When Hairem replied, his voice sounded heavy. “I know you mean well, Lardol, but I do not want to follow in the footsteps of the kings before me. I would like to marry a lady for more reasons than the gold that lines her father’s pockets. Maybe that is half the reason our kingdom is the way it is.”

  “And what way is that, My Lord?”

  “Corrupt… Manipulative… Using others for wealth and control…”

  “I believe that the reason the kingdom is in its current state is due to rich and powerful males like Nilanis not being under the control of good males like you. And if his daugh
ter is the key to political stability, then perhaps—”

  “I know… I just… You are probably right, Lardol,” she heard Hairem interrupt the old elf. “You have been around for many centuries. You have seen what has gone on in these halls far longer than I have. I suppose it is wishful thinking to imagine that I might genuinely love the lady I marry.”

  Alvena could sense a level of bitterness in the king’s last words, and imagined Lardol had caught on to the same resentment. “You have every right to wish it as well as demand it, Your Grace. You are the king, after all. I simply ask that you consider the political weight of your decisions. No doubt if Silandrus had remained on Sevrigel with his sons, Sairel would have been betrothed to Ilsevel instead. You will not find a better political position than with Ilsevel by your side.” There was a brief silence before Lardol continued. “Enjoy your bath. If there is anything else you need, do not hesitate to call for me.”

  The girl leapt back, surprised with how quickly Lardol had reached the door. She scurried off down the hallway before he could catch her eavesdropping. Hairem might not punish her, but that foul-tempered boot-licker certainly would!

  *****

  Hairem sank into the warm water as his door closed, exhaling in a long, deep sigh. He could still hear the servants bustling about outside his door as though he would—as though he had ever—summon them while he was trying to relax. Lardol’s insistent approach toward marriage had not helped to unwind him, either. He rubbed his face, leaning his head against the rim of the tub. All this fuss for an heir! But then… if the line broke a second time…

  He had heard stories of the chaos that had ensued after The Royal Schism, but he had not understood the full weight of what had happened politically those centuries before. A great deal of this was owed to his father, who had swiftly shielded him from the questions and anger aimed at him due to his friendship with the princes. If the line ended with him merely three centuries after the True Bloods’ departure, he imagined that the elven nation would once again struggle through a significant political upheaval and, inwardly, he felt the darker tug of a greater concern: if Saebellus was not defeated by then, perhaps their government would not survive.