Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  And somehow, Nilanis had the audacity to call the war trivial.

  He dunked himself under the warm water for a moment. When he raised his head, he let out a soft smile as a peaceful sound came to his ears; somewhere in the courtyard he could hear the cheerful and dramatic, yet soft, melody of the palace musicians, playing in the rain as though they hadn’t a care in all of Aersadore. He briefly recalled Ilsevel’s feeble attempts and a soft chuckle broke loose.

  Yes, there was yet time for marriage and heirs.

  He closed his eyes, tapping his fingers softly along the side of the tub.

  Sel’ari would design his fate. There was plenty of time.

  The music twisted its way upward, guided by the breeze to weave outside the window behind him. It was familiar by the first few notes and he found himself singing the lyrics quietly to himself, concerns washed away by sentimental familiarity.

  “Why count your blessings when men before

  Have lost what they thought they had?

  Or number your allies in times prewar,

  When loyalties are not yet bled?

  Know that the man who stands at your side,

  Costs more than the score to be,

  And the count of trials one man provides,

  Are more than the waves of a sea.

  Once, the ancient man walked with his kin,

  The owl from Noctem’s shore;

  The golden lion from the dreamer’s spin,

  The raven from Æntara’s core.

  The Earth, she gave her one elven son,

  Beside him did walk the moon,

  And behind them slithered the darker one,

  The serpent of forest’s ruin.

  With blood they fought the trials north,

  And with blood they fought to flee,

  ’Til all the dust had settled forth,

  And seven were left to be.

  “Onward!” Did beckon the ancient man

  And through mountains they did climb;

  After black waters from the raven’s clan,

  Toledoth did drown them in less time.

  In dark they fought Malranus’ pride,

  The light new allies did ring,

  But home had the head of lion’s love died,

  And the dreamer was made the king.

  With blood they fought the trials west,

  And with blood they fought to flee,

  ’Til meaning of their trial’s quest,

  The seven were left to see.

  “To the horsemen of the eastern shore!”

  The ancient man tried in vain,

  Though there Malranus cried defeat’s first roar,

  When the Pride’s mighty kin was slain.

  One by one the items, they were lost,

  Through the mountain, plain, and tree,

  While serpent paid a paradoxal cost,

  A clever wicked one was he.

  With blood they fought the trials east,

  And with blood they fought to flee,

  ’Til vanquished all bad man and beast,

  The seven victorious free.

  “Here comes the end,” the ancient man cried,

  “With this one last war to fight!”

  At dark, the serpent forced the moon to hide,

  And put the Earth’s elf son alight.

  The lion roared and owl took wing,

  The blind raven fought to see,

  But it was ancient man that took their place,

  And gave to them victory.

  With blood they fought the trials south,

  And with blood they fought to flee,

  ’Til silence came from every mouth,

  For but spared from death were three.”

  The ancient words were familiar from his youngest years—the great Ballad of the Seven. He chuckled to himself: Hadoream was always singing that tune, to the great annoyance of both of his older brothers: Darcarus, who was not particularly fond of history, and Sairel, who had never been particularly fond of “fun.”

  Yet, Hairem found its familiarity comforting. Heroes. A Golden Age. The thwarting of the revival of Malranus and his dragon horde…! ‘Sel’ari, the world sounded so much better back then…’ Or perhaps in the face of familiarity, the tale had lost some of its darker meaning.

  Yet Hairem smiled to himself. He liked to think that perhaps, in the ballad of Saebellus’ defeat one day, maybe he would get a mention or two. Certainly not like Eraydon, but an Ephraim or Riphath status would do.

  Additionally, he would prefer to take after the hero’s companions and live through the war.

  He chuckled to himself again, flicking a little mountain of bubbles over the side of the marble walls of his tub.

  It was perhaps childish and somewhat prideful to imagine such a notion, but already Silandrus had acquired a score of songs from his actions in the Royal Schism. If he could survive a few more dinners with Nilanis, even he would have the fortitude to accomplish anything. A Golden Age? After suffering Nilanis, that would be child’s play.

  Hairem felt his muscles loosen and he closed his eyes to the drifting sounds of the palace musicians.

  Chapter Four

  The wind howled through the frozen tundra of Darival, entrapping Jikun’s cloak in the thick white swirls of snow sweeping up from the earth around him. The general watched them with affection as they twisted into the air and then showered in small flurries back across the now-still earth. His fist tightened on the base of his hood, drawing the thick white fur closer about his face. His strides were long in the thick layer of icy snow, his feet leaving no trace of his passage; driftwalking, as the northerners called it, was the only reason they had been able to thrive on such difficult terrain.

  He smiled as he cast his eyes to the left where he could see a few faint, familiar, gentle slopes—so different from the towering hillsides of the south. His gaze trailed up into the sky behind them. When the sun emerged from her heavy blanket of clouds, the landscape would return the glare with brilliance, but for now, the shadows across the snow were a comfortable and familiar grey-white.

  He inhaled heavily, holding his breath to savor the scent of the frozen world.

  Still, as much as Jikun cherished the north, he was not entirely immune to its bite. His head turned down sharply as another wind swept viciously across the tundra, carrying with it the little frozen shards of snow from as far east as the Merktine Peaks. When it once more paused to rest, he raised his head to survey the landscape before him: the heavy gusts of snow had cleared somewhat, leaving the expanse before him crisp and clear.

  The world had not changed since he had been there last. Before him stood the Turmazel Mountains, so named for the blue, green, and purple crystals found in abundance throughout the region. During the millennia, the mountains themselves had become renowned for the size of the crystals they had birthed; in all his travels, Jikun had never encountered another place like it. Even the Kisacaela gemstones glittering from Elvorium’s canyon walls paled in comparison.

  And another, albeit less noted, positive was that the humans were far too cautious and weak to dare to mine the northern landscape.

  And so it was that only two races occupied the vast expanse of the north: the Lithri, who bore no noteworthy mention, and Jikun’s own kind: the Darivalians.

  The city of the Darivalians had once stood at the base of those mountains, but it had long since moved into the safety of their fold. Their city was Kaivervale, and it stood as a guardian to the mountain’s riches, unmatched in strength, abounding with the unique powers of the Darivalian people. He narrowed his eyes against the pockets of shadows spreading across the mountain’s surface, but the flurry of snow had hidden the city’s icy walls from view.

  However, even in the cloudy mid-afternoon, the vast chasm to the left of his gaze gleamed like a beacon in the night—even now, a blue glow emanated from its depths to color the face of the surrounding mountain. From the unseen heart of the fissure in the mountain stone, a s
teady stream of cerulean light flowed out, its rays fading and vanishing far into the sky. The birthplace of Darivalian magic, legend had it. He remembered being led out of the city and down the narrow, steep staircase by his parents, behind a train of priests and family. He had hardly lived past his seventh year of life when he had stood at the edge of that great chasm for the first time. His fist had clenched in anxiety and his stomach had dropped as he had gazed down into the endless blue abyss at his feet. He had stretched both hands out into the light as Lithriella’s priests chanted stridently.

  He had teetered on the edge of the supernatural.

  Days later, late at night when the elders had retired and the guards on watch had slumbered away at their posts, he had crept from the city and travelled once again to that otherworldly breach. He had stood there in that chilling presence, whispering into the dark, conversing with Lithriella as though he and she had formed an inseparable bond at that religious ritual days before. He had whispered his fears of failure, his dreams of glory, his aspirations of success—all the vague things a Darivalian child of his age would clutch deep within himself: the paths of the Darivalian elves were limited. Hunter? Weaponsmith? Miner?—Surely the gods had destined him for something much greater.

  And in the midst of his fervent prayers, just for a moment, he had thought he heard a keening sound deep below, a faint echo in that cerulean light. Perhaps that had been what had held his religious fervor for longer than rationality should have allowed.

  Even now, hundreds of years later, the significance of the moment had not left his mind—it was as crisp and fresh in his memory as the icy wind that, once more, buffeted his bare flesh. Tuserine, they called it: the Heart of the Goddess. And even with Kaivervale before him, he could not help but pause briefly in awe.

  He did not stop again until he had reached the base of the mountain and the slick sheet of ice that sloped steadily up its face. In the distance, the gate of the city, now visible, stood closed. Jikun raised his left hand and swept it upward, watching with satisfaction as the ice before him turned to water, cascading down the side of the stairs revealed underneath. With his right hand he raised the water upward, freezing it into a thin railing, which he then used to steady himself against the gusts of tundra wind as he climbed.

  Even this dangerous trek up the mountain face was infinitely preferable to the Sel’varian bridges that spanned Elvorium’s canyon.

  To his right was a mass of boulders and a small ridge of the mountain where an ancient watchtower stood as one with the stone underneath it—as though it had formed from the stone itself. Thin sheets of ice served as panels of glass in the windows, glowing a faint blue from the light emanating within. It was more stunning than any watchtower designed in the south—simplistic, sturdy, and yet breathtakingly beautiful. And it was not his sentiment forming this opinion: any objective elf would have to admit the same.

  What a stark contrast to Elvorium. In the city of the Sel’vi, the first building one could see from any direction was the palace—its elegance and comfort. Its assurance of safety—all the while glittering on the edge of a cliff. Here, in the north, the watchtower was a stark reminder of how his people had a far firmer grasp on reality.

  But the building he sought lay behind the tower. He strained his eyes, but his position below the ridge allowed him no glimpse of even its rooftop.

  He looked instead to the tower’s right, his eyes lingering on the massive, frozen waterfall pressed against the face of the mountain. Its icy falls twisted across the surface and split over a great stone. Both branches fell away on either side, one significantly smaller than the other, but both shimmered with equal intensity, gleaming with thick, white icicles. And they both vanished in stillness beneath the snow at the mountains’ base.

  At one time, it would have formed a river for Jikun’s ancestors of the valley. But he and his kin could only remember the frozen age of Darival.

  He ascended the first slope of the path and paused briefly to adjust the hood of his cloak before advancing once more. Ahead of him, the city walls stood in magnificent welcoming. The gate of the city was made of a solid sheet of thick ice, smooth and unmarred, simplistic compared to the elegant carvings and ornate work of the Sel’vi. There were no hinges, no handles or holes. The gate could not open, inward or outward, by any traditional means. On either side of the enormous door, the ice-made walls of the city flowed into the mountainside, colossal jagged spikes jutting from the spine in an unsystematic manner. Where the walls met the stone of the mountain on the right, the watchtower rose higher still. Jikun stopped before the doors, finding himself a small mark compared to the vast expanse of the city defenses. Perhaps others would see the cold simplicity as shunning, but to Jikun, three years away had only enhanced its allure and his breast swelled in respect at the unchanged grandeur.

  Only two ornate, towering statues broke the simplistic realism and sturdy design of the wall: on the right side off the gate was Koriun, founder of the Darivalian city; to his left was the goddess of the Darivalians, Lithriella. Their arms extended over Jikun high above, and where their hands clasped, blue-white flecks swirled like ice and snow, shimmering in an unseen source of light.

  He scoffed, reminded of his disappointment that even his people still clung to their mythic roots like the Sel’vi he had just shaken from his back.

  He tore his eyes away in aversion and approached the gate.

  “Hail, traveler,” one of two guards greeted in a voice struggling to rise above the howling wind. He raised his spear in a firm salute, though he made no attempt to open the gate. He was thin, lanky, and held a faintly chiseled face. He looked like an unfortunate ice-sculpture—one misshapen and battered by wind and ice.

  Jikun lowered his head, drawing his face so deep within the fur of the hood that he all but vanished. “Hail,” Jikun replied, tucking his arm against the general’s medallion on his chest. “I seek rest within Kaivervale for a few days.”

  He could see the feet of the second soldier shift, perhaps in thought. The boots were ill-kept—the kind that a southern soldier would berate the male harshly for. “What is your name and origin? What brings you to Kaivervale?” the second soldier inquired in a husky voice.

  Jikun glanced up slightly, enough to glimpse the soldier’s inquisitive gaze. “Elstirel from Elvorium. On business for the general.”

  Jikun heard the first soldier shift as well. The two males were silent a moment before the first soldier stepped forward, the heavy furs of his cloak dragging across the damp ground behind him. We don’t get many visitors, he expected him to carry on cautiously, but the male instead halted a short ways before Jikun and narrowed his eyes. He was searching within the darkness of his hood for some semblance of familiarity to ease his caution.

  And to Jikun’s dismay, even the shadows could not protect him at that proximity.

  “By Lithriella…! Captain Jikun—er that’s General Jikun now, is it not?! Rulan, it’s—!”

  Jikun lifted his head, raising a hand quickly. “Daiki, Rulan,” he cut the soldiers off as they exchanged broad smiles of recognition—almost a look of triumph as though they had solved a grand mystery. “I only have a short time to visit before I must return to Elvorium. No ruckus. No big celebration. I have been on the road for years and I only wish to—”

  “Oh, of course not,” Rulan piped up before Jikun could finish, his smile growing even broader. It was wide, crooked, and only mildly reassuring. “Let the tundra only hear my silence!”

  “Gods know any male who spends three years from home deserves a quiet family reunion,” Daiki continued in swift agreement, giving a brief flick of his silvery blue mane of hair; it only helped to emphasize the gangly-ness of the host below.

  Jikun drew his face back into his hood, giving each a firm and commanding glare. When they fashioned him only understanding smiles in return, he gestured at the gates. “…So may I?”

  “Of course, General,” Daiki spoke, spinning around and returning
to his position of watch. “Enter, our wayward Lord of the South.”

  Jikun ignored Daiki’s quip and strode between them to the doors, placing his hand against the smooth, cold surface. “Not a word,” he cautioned them as a small, door-sized hole formed in its surface. He stepped through, straightening as the refreezing crackle of ice sounded behind him and the excited murmurs of the two soldiers vanished behind the thick wall at his back.

  Before him, the wind had died away, unable to find its way from its low berth to climb over the rocks and ice that surrounded Kaivervale. Snow covered the rooftops and ground, nestling on the sills of windows and balancing on the edges of the petals of flowers.

  Here, everything was resilient. Here, everything had learned to survive.

  He stepped forward, his first footstep deliberately firm, forcing a mark into the icy snow at his feet.

  He was truly home.

  His eyes immediately swept across the city, hungry for the familiarity. The garrison rose up on his right—octagonal in shape—and the barracks opposite it towered on his left while its southwestern corner molded into the mountain wall itself. Behind the barracks he could hear the soft barks and howls of the winter wolves, the Darivalians’ primary hunting force.

  He passed between the military front of the city and advanced into the street. “Street” was a loose term, not at all meant to testify to the land where he walked, but rather the use of it. There was no cart-driven road, no cobbled path. The buildings of Kaivervale were not set in neat little rows with flowers sprouting between their walls and vast, tree-filled orchards for idleness; rather, the buildings were spotted across the snowy, sloping landscape in an unsystematic fashion, creating gaps and walkways between them. The widest of these led from the gate, curved right into the large expanse of a snowy field where Jikun had spent many a day training, and then back onto a narrow trail between houses. Its final stretch extended up the slope of the mountain to the open grounds before the palace.