Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  Jikun looked about the small dining room. The shelves in the stone were still cluttered with neat rows of little knickknacks Jikun had made for his parents as a child, and the rug beneath the table was still faintly stained with the blood of Jikun’s first military training injury. Like the ice and snow of Darival, the people of the city never changed. Not even his parents. And yet he wondered if, by leaving Kaivervale, he had.

  The affection for the simplicity about him had dimmed somewhat beneath the wealth and grandeur of Elvorium. The loving grasp his parents had on his youth seemed unprofitable and rather puerile.

  Internally, he started at the thought—he had never had reason to complain about Darival in the past—let alone his own blood. Indeed, the status of general had weakened his character and he attempted to shake such corruption violently from his head. “I just do not want to see you uncomfortable,” he drew his focus back to the loving couple before him.

  He paused, his previous thoughts of his solitary walk through the city returning to him. “Where, by the way, is everyone…?”

  His father placed a hand on Jikun’s shoulder as he sat down beside him. “Jikun, may I give you some advice?” He paused, meeting his eyes steadily. “Pull out the stick the Sel’vi have shoved up your ass, and relax.”

  Jikun reclined in his chair and inhaled deeply. His father was right. He had changed. He stood, walking stiffly to the pot of stew simmering above the fire. Lingering there for a moment, he inhaled the rich smells of the soup until they had drawn him in and his shoulders relaxed. He attempted to lift a floating piece from its surface. “Is that rabbit?”

  “Yes,” his mother replied, smacking his hand with a spoon and turning with a wink. “Do they not teach you manners in the army? Nulaves, hand me the bowls.” She jostled Jikun aside until he had retreated to the table and was sitting as impatiently as his father. When dinner had been laid out across the table, his mother sat down on his other side, bright-eyed and expectant.

  “Tell us about the war and Elvorium,” his father began, raising a spoonful of soup to his lips. He blew on it softly as his eyes rested attentively on his son.

  Jikun reached out and placed a slice of bread on his plate. Back south, it was only Navon he could confide in. But here, in his hometown, he knew every word he said, every action he took, would never leave the frozen tundra. A genuinely tranquil smile crept across his lips. “Elvorium is as haughty as ever. But Liadeltris has died and his son has taken the throne. Based on my conversation with him when I returned to the city, I believe that things may change—he seems to have the courage to defy the corrupted politics of his council.”

  “Oh? Liadeltris seemed like such a respectable ruler,” his mother lamented, though Jikun was aware that she knew nothing of his time on the throne. “May the gods grant him safe passage.”

  Jikun paused to sip his wine, noting that Darival had still not received news of the death of the king. He felt it demonstrated just how removed from the Sel’vi they had become. Even their own council member, Mikanum, had not prioritized the information to his people, perhaps thinking it better to distance himself even further from his wild brethren of the north.

  Jikun continued, keeping his voice as dismissive as he could. He knew that it was his mother’s nature to worry excessively. His father, on the other hand, had at least half of his attention on fishing out bits of rabbit from the soup. “As for Saebellus, he has not been defeated. I cannot stay in Kaivervale for long—I have responsibilities to the army in Elvorium.” He straightened his shoulders. Of course, what he said and did may remain in Kaivervale, but with nothing new leaving or coming, the city was ripe with gossip. It was best to tell his parents firsthand that he had seen the mage. “I came here first and foremost to see Murios.”

  His mother looked up and he could see her brows knit in concern. “Murios? Why Murios?”

  “Is something wrong?” his father demanded, leaning forward sharply. His soup lay forgotten.

  Jikun sipped his wine calmly and set the glass down. Still southern wine, even for the north. He remained silent for a moment, tapping a piece of the dried bread along the edge of his plate. “It’s just a little issue with one of Saebellus’… soldiers. A private matter. I simply sought Murios’ wisdom. I cannot stay long.”

  His father nodded understandingly, even as his mother sighed in disappointment. She tapped the table once as though in thought, and then suddenly clasped his hand, seemingly desperate to change the topic. “I just remembered—eat more bread, you look famished—Laikum’s son killed a white thakish the other day. By himself.”

  Jikun raised a brow, glad as well for the change in topic. “A white thakish by himself? Was it fully grown—eyes fully set in and everything?”

  His mother nodded excitedly. “Brought back three, fully developed eyes to prove it! What a soldier he will make!”

  Jikun chuckled, admittedly impressed. “Indeed.” He remembered the hunts shortly before his deployment to Elvorium—they were always a rush of adrenaline. But he had never known any elf crazy enough to hunt alone—in fact, no hunt was even allowed with less than four soldiers.

  “What about you, dear?” his mother broke in. “Do you still hunt frequently? With your new southern friends, I suppose?”

  His father laughed. “It must seem like child’s play to hunt the passive creatures of the south!”

  Jikun’s lips twisted in resignation at the question—unfortunately, he didn’t know whether he was now displaying a smile or a grimace. “I don’t hunt. I have no time.”

  His mother’s fingers slipped from her cup in offended disbelief and she raised a brow. “Well, they must give you time to yourself,” she said reasonably. When Jikun offered nothing more, she pried further, suddenly grinning and eyeing him expectantly. “What about your poetry, then? Are you winning any hearts in the military?”

  Jikun trailed his spoon through his soup as he flatly met her gaze. “There are no females in the king’s army. And even if there were, I haven’t written poetry since I moved to the capital.”

  “What?” his mother exclaimed in dismay. “But you used to write all the time. I still have the poem you wrote about Lithriella—the one where you said that her world uses so many colors that, to mere mortals, it appears white. I thought that it was so lovely and clever.”

  Jikun pursed his lips at the mention of the goddess’ name. “I don’t have time for such luxuries working for the capital.” He was a general now—not some green soldier. Things were different in the south.

  But unfortunately it was his father he was sitting with, and the male who had raised him was scrutinizing him with a piercing gaze. Nothing could get past him, even with half of his mind on food. “…Do the other males still give you a hard time about your religion?” he finally grimaced.

  “No,” Jikun replied shortly. His eyes flicked down in subconscious shame before he realized his action. ‘Damn it.’ There was no avoiding the conversation now.

  “What do you mean ‘no’?” his father pried. “You wrote to us after you were first transferred and said that the military is quite cynical about the practice of foreign religions. You’re telling me that the soldiers simply dropped the matter all together?”

  “Yes, as you should,” Jikun replied stiffly.

  His father narrowed his eyes. “You’re worshipping Sel’ari now, aren’t you?”

  Jikun laughed outright, shaking his head once in anger. “No. For your information, I am not groveling to anyone right now.”

  His mother let out a little gasp and her eyes flicked to his father as though demanding he repair the situation.

  “Jikun Taemrin, you should be far wiser than that! A lack of devout worship is only complete arrogance to—”

  Jikun raised his finger and pointed it sharply to the ceiling. Gods could they not drop the subject?! “You think she cares?” he demanded in exasperation. “The fact that I walk out of every battle without so much as a scratch and some of my most devout Sel
’ari-grovelers are cut down screaming proves otherwise. She doesn’t care who abases himself to her and who does not.”

  His father stiffened. “I would think your safety and success proves she does care for you.”

  Jikun snorted once. “I have seen thousands upon thousands of adoring followers die in ways you can’t even imagine. Gods. Don’t. Care. Not one of them,” he snapped, numb to the frustration and pain at the core of his attack.

  “Jikun, you are a—”

  His mother smacked the table desperately. “Boys! Boys!” she raised her voice sharply in desperation. “I get to see my son once every few years and I will not have this home turned into another battleground. That’s enough. You two can write angry letters back and forth about this, but you will not carry on in my home. Nulaves, silence.”

  Jikun’s expression softened as his mother bit her lip, eyeing him as though he was an icicle just waiting to fall loose and shatter. He sighed and forced a smile onto his face, nodding to his father respectfully.

  “Lais just got a new winter wolf pup,” his mother spoke after a moment of silence, continuing the thread of their previous conversation as though the fight had never occurred. “His was killed on a hunt a few months ago. The poor boy. The garrison let him have first pick from the newest litter.”

  “…A good, large pup,” his father ceded. He scraped the remaining contents from his bowl and dabbed his lips with the cloth on his right. His expression had become passive once more, but Jikun suspected that fury, indignation, and concern still roiled beneath the ice.

  He sighed, wishing he had better-concealed his disdain for the gods. The gods’ folly was no fault of theirs, and it was not his desire to break down their lifelong faith.

  “And I was thinking,” his mother continued, “When it gets cold in the south, you could bring Nazra with you to Elvorium. She would certainly be an aid in battle. How she misses you!”

  Jikun smiled faintly, but shook his head. His mother already knew the answer to that. “I would not put her at such risk. Animals make it back far less often than even my best soldiers.”

  His mother patted his hand as she refilled his bowl, as though to comfort him. But Jikun knew it was she that needed reassurance. “The life of a soldier is rough…” she trailed off quietly.

  Jikun drew his hand away and met her gaze steadily. “It is what I want.”

  His mother sat back down, taking a long sip of wine before she spoke again. “Merkan and Nalaen got married,” she carried on. She waved a finger at his bowl sharply. “Eat more.” She paused and exchanged a look with his father, a subtle attempt Jikun caught only from the corner of his icy blue eyes.

  He looked up and narrowed them cautiously. “Oh please—”

  “Jikun,” his father began reproachfully.

  “Kaivervi has grown up to be beautiful and strong,” his mother spoke in almost a reprimanding tone, and yet she giggled—a sound far more youthful than her age.

  “The point being,” his father added, waving a hand at his wife. “With your reputation, you could have any of these ladies. How do you think I won such a lady as your mother? A good soldier is a desired spouse. An excellent soldier, more so. Don’t squander it!”

  Jikun opened his mouth to respond, but a loud knock interrupted his cynical reply.

  “I wonder who that is… Nulaves, the door,” his mother barked her orders again. As he vanished from the room his mother leaned in, dropping her voice to a soft whisper. “While you are here, you will see her, won’t you?”

  Jikun had begun to protest when a tumult of voices erupted from the front door.

  “Nulaves!” A chorus of males shouted their boisterous greetings.

  “We heard Jikun is back in the city! Where are you hiding him?!” a voice jested loudly in a charismatic ring.

  Jikun heard his father chuckle. He leaned forward, glaring reproachfully at his mother. “No—I wanted a peaceful—” he began in irritation to her, but no sooner had he begun his sentence than a dozen faces crowded into the doorway of the dining room, grinning broadly.

  “Jikun Taemrin!” one bellowed, some throwing in an afterthought of “general” or “captain” behind it.

  Jikun leaned back in his chair and waved a hand. He could see tattered boots poking out from the feet amassed before him and a silvery mane of hair bobbing behind a shoulder; Rulan and Daiki peered up sheepishly from the back of the throng.

  “This is no hero’s welcome!” Jekum waved a hand from the front, as though brushing Jikun’s parents aside. “No offense, Catervi.”

  “Jikun, up! Come!”

  Before he could respond, hands grabbed his arms and dragged him forward, down the hallway, and toward the door as though he was entirely weightless and his protests were mute.

  “Have a good evening!” his mother called after them.

  Jikun found himself half-carried through the streets despite his continued protests. The temperature in Darival had fallen with the sun, who had also, it seemed, taken her blanket of clouds with her. The sky was a show of glittering stars and moonlight, as light as dawn with the white rays reflecting off of the snow. In the distance, he briefly glimpsed the turmazel crystals glittering from the mountain’s face.

  He was finally deposited at the north end of the banquet hall. Whereas the rest of the city lay dark and quiet, the torches outside this building were lit and a tumult of muffled noise sounded from within. “I—” he began, not certain what he was going to say after that, but he didn’t have to finish. The doors flew open and a gust of warm air laced with grease and ale swept over him. He was released and pushed into the long room in the final endeavor to raise him to social interaction.

  “I—” he began reproachfully once more as the males squeezed in behind him. But he stopped at the sight of the hundreds of elves crowding the room, raising their mugs in anticipation for his arrival. A slight smile crept across his face despite himself and his cheeks flushed. It was one thing to be honored before his own soldiers. But he knew every one of these faces. “Thank you,” he spoke humbly after the eruption died just long enough for those two words. Perhaps, in a more sober state, they would have even demanded a speech.

  Fortunately, that had passed.

  “Our table is over here,” Merkan began as the ruckus once more filled the room. He smiled his slightly crooked smile, a match with his brother, Rulan, and pranced half clumsily toward the west end of the room.

  “There is enough ale to fill all the dwarves in the Black Hills!” Daiki piped in as he hurried after him. “As you may be able to tell, some of us have already dipped in.”

  ‘I would have never guessed,’ Jikun thought in amusement. He walked between their escort to the long table along the wall, eyes scanning the familiar faces across the hall. He inhaled heavily as he went, sucking in the sweet scent of sugar baked into something along the far wall. In the south, the scent was as common as the gold, but here in the north, sugar was gold.

  He dropped himself down on the thick stone bench. They had spared no expense in celebrating his return.

  “You walk so rigidly… the commanding nature of a general, I suppose?” came a quiet voice behind him the moment he had settled. A lean body bent over his right shoulder, pressing a slender hand against his.

  “Kaivervi…?” Jikun began, his chest tightening, but she drew away before his words had left his tongue, dragged swiftly away by Nalaen toward the south end of the table. Damn Nalaen!

  “You don’t mind if I take this seat here, do you?” Rulan asked as he dropped himself heavily down beside Jikun, unclasping his cloak and kicking it under the table. “Damn, what a long watch today. Can bones freeze?” He breathed into his hands and swiftly rubbed them together.

  Jikun narrowed one eye at him, turning away from Kaivervi reluctantly. “I told you not to tell anyone.”

  “Oh, I didn’t. Not a word. Not a soul,” Rulan protested the accusation. “Daiki did.”

  Jikun kept his face stoically repr
imanding for another moment, making sure to catch Daiki’s eye, and then his face broke into a broad smile. His muscles relaxed. This was home. These were his friends and family. This was the Darival he remembered: before he had even finished his dinner the entire city was aware that he had come home. How many nights had he spent in these halls as a child, a page, a soldier, a captain? He had fished beside the great ice falls in the summer, froze fish in the autumn, and prepared stews in the winter. He had hunted and trained his way up from the digging of excrement trenches to the mansion he now possessed. There was nowhere else he’d rather be—not even Roshenhyde.

  And that was a damn good place.

  “What are you waiting for? Give me my first ale!”

  And they did. The first. The second. The third. The fourth. Things gradually became more humorous. His responsibilities faded. And the weight of his military title fell somewhere into the bottom of his third mug.

  Laikum had settled in across from him, his youthful face riveted to Jikun in adoration. They were close in age and had trained together in the academy, and yet, the years had been far kinder to the broad-shouldered male before him—he had hardly aged a day in the last two centuries: he had the body of a male and the face of a child. “How many soldiers have you slain in battle?” Laikum asked excitedly, leaning forward from across the table. “Twenty? Thirty?”

  Jikun blinked. “Twenty? Thirty…? Gods. You know I’ve been fighting for years, right?”

  “So then eighty?”

  Jikun waved his hand. “Two.”

  “Eighty two?”

  Jikun rubbed a hand over his face. “Eighty two what?”

  “Soldiers. Dead.”

  “Where?”

  Laikum paused for a moment thoughtfully. “I don’t remember. What are we talking about?”

  There was a sudden rumble through the mountain that rose even above the din and the hall fell into a deathly silence.

  Jikun’s mind cleared somewhat and he raised his head from Laikum’s plastered smile. “What… was that?” His hand moved on instinct to the hilt of his sword.

  “A white thakish,” Daiki replied with a shake of his head, leaning in from the other side as a wave of whispers swept the room. “They have been particularly vicious this spring.”