Navon’s eyes closed for a moment and Jikun started. He reached out frantically toward the Helven’s wrist, but jerked back as his eyes opened again. “Did you write to the council?”
Jikun nodded stiffly, quickly hiding his concern beneath his venom. “Gods pray they listen, Navon.” They had to listen. The centaurs would not move—not without a fight that Jikun could not give them.
“Maybe we will be called home soon,” Navon whispered with a distant, optimistic smile. “I must admit, this feels like the longest battle I have endured. Three weeks and I have not slain a single enemy, and yet, I feel as though I have never fought so hard.”
“Death has never been so close,” Jikun replied softly.
Navon’s smile faded slightly at those words and a glimmer of fear because visible in his faltering gaze. “I don’t want to die out here… not for this war.”
Jikun felt the anger rise in him and he tried vehemently to push it down. How dare the council ask him to do this?! To die such a miserable death unrelated to the warlord Saebellus or even the safety of the realm? Navon deserved far better. Every one of his soldiers deserved far better. “You are not going to die of illness. I will not let that be your fate…”
Navon’s body jerked slightly and he flailed a hand. Jikun took it sharply in his and gave it a firm grip for reassurance.
Even his captain’s hand was like fire.
“If I could ask,” Navon began with a gasp, “for you to pray to Sel’ari on my behalf.”
Jikun’s lips pursed, but he willed himself to reply evenly. “Of course,” he lied.
“So… hot,” Navon muttered. He closed his eyes and his head nodded to the side.
Jikun’s grip on his hand tightened. “Did I ever tell you about the gardens in Darival?”
Navon started again, eyes struggling back open. “No… I don’t think so,” he whispered.
Jikun leaned forward, resting his other hand on top of theirs. “Imagine snow and ice as far as the eyes can see. Palaces and houses built of ice and stone.”
Navon smiled weakly as he gazed off, far outside the physical world around him. “That sounds nice…”
“It is. More beautiful than a mortal has the right to see. The gardens are filled with sculptures of ice and the walls are sprinkled with a dusting of light snow. In the morning, the light glints off the city and dances across the streets and snow banks. Then the flowers that closed their heads at night unfurl—blues, purples, and whites—tiny, glass-like flowers covered in ice. No matter how cold it gets, no matter how much snow covers the land, the little flowers persist on.”
“Almost poetic,” Navon commented wistfully. “Not like you… to speak that way…” His eyes closed heavily. “It… feels colder already…”
Jikun clenched his teeth as his stomach tightened painfully. ‘Damn you, Sel’ari!’
Chapter Twelve
It was dawn on Sevrigel’s eastern coast, along the white shoals far below the jagged cliffsides that spanned the cloudless, summer sky. All across the peaceful countryside, the elven cities were stirring awake. They would pray and drink and eat and grovel to their corrupted politicians: until night came to place a temporary pause in the endless cycle.
Not far to the west, the first carts of the stable, eastern economy were beginning their march to the next city for trade and gossip. And still further west, boats were setting sail to their respective destinations to cheat the humans of their valuable goods in trade for overpriced wares numbering in silks and golds.
What a picture he could paint of his once glorious lands.
The orange rays of sun warmed the backs of the hillsides as they spotted their way into the east. And somewhere in the foothills to the north, the trilling of a flock of blue elhars could be heard on the edges of the strong gusts that swept in and through the encampment about him.
But here, in the shade of the Roan Forest, night had not seemed to pass.
Saebellus stood on the forest line, concealed from the foothills by the shadows of the broad canopy above him. The great Roan trees towered high, spreading their vast branches like a blanket over the forest floor.
His black eyes had not shifted from their scrutiny of the golden plains stretched before him.
“General,” came a voice behind him.
Saebellus reached his hand behind his shoulders without turning. He felt the parchment at his fingertips and drew it forward with a flick. The trilling grew softer for a moment and he allowed his eyes to scan the page as the male behind him continued speaking.
“Our scouts have returned from the south. Jikun is still engaged with the centaurs. It appears that his troops are currently laden with disease. Adonis says that there are so many bodies that they have a fire on their hill that burns all day and all night. Sometimes they just throw half-burned, or even still raw, corpses down the hill. They have not fought for several days… They are in no position to fight at all.”
Saebellus raised the parchment to his mouth and exhaled softly upon it. Slowly, but with growing intensity, blue-black flames sprang from the center of the parchment and devoured it. Saebellus let the smoldering remains drop from his long, pale fingers into the dry grass at his feet. “The Vetri may know we are here,” he spoke, nodding toward the foothills of the elves of the valley, his face impassive. “Come, Vale. If King Hairem and General Jikun think they have time to war with the horselords, then we will march on the elves’ Halls of Horiembrig. Let them know that we are to be taken seriously.”
As they moved into the darkness of the forest, they left the blue-black flames to rekindle on the dried grasses of the Vetri’an plains: there was no tolerance for the council’s sympathizers.
Chapter Thirteen
“Too formal? Or not formal enough?” the king fretted, tugging at the end of his silk sleeve.
Alvena crossed her arms, leaning back thoughtfully and feigning deep consideration for his plight. The king had been fretting often as of late. It was different than his complaints about the lords of the city trying to entice him to wed their daughters or his stress about the corruption of the council. No, this fretting always sent him into frenzies of appearance-based concerns and constant inquires as to the hour of the day. She rubbed her chin a few times as he turned toward the mirror.
“On second thought, this is just not… subtle enough. Too bold. Too bold? Yes… Too bold.”
And there he was, off talking to himself again. ‘Too bold for what?’ she wondered. She picked up a few shirts that had been tossed to the side and began to fold them neatly into their prior states. She could hear Hairem sifting through his chest, a pile of undesirables growing on his left.
“Here, nonono,” the king insisted, waving a hand at her. “I will clean this up when I return home this evening.”
The girl reluctantly set the clothes back on the floor, giving Hairem a steely glare. She knew what that meant. Tomorrow it would be just as shambolic as they left it tonight.
The king gave a laugh of denial. “I will. Upon my honor or a curse upon me.” He raised a hand in a pledging fashion.
Alvena smiled, though doubtful, and pointed to a shirt he had dropped onto the pile.
“Ah, this?” Hairem held it up, turning it around several times as though it would manifest itself more desirable at different angles. “This…? Hm. I think you may be right.”
The girl waited for Hairem to change, turning awkwardly to reach for the shirts on the floor again.
“Noctem above, I am late, aren’t I?!” Hairem suddenly cursed. He nearly tripped over her—as she was reaching for another shirt—and dashed madly for the door, his shirt only half buttoned.
Alvena stumbled out of his path, blinking wide-eyed in surprise.
Hairem’s head popped back into view and he waved a finger at her. “And put those down, Alvena!”
*****
“Erallus, this is far enough. You and your guard may turn back,” Hairem spoke as they entered into the quiet, cobbled streets of
the western end of the city.
“There are humans in port this week, My Lord,” his guard replied solidly, eyes flitting about the alleyways and nearby rooftops. “And the assassin could be roaming anywhere in this city.”
Hairem gestured toward the west incredulously. “If—”
“Perhaps if My Lord had chosen to take a carriage, I would be more inclined to leave you alone in the open streets.”
Hairem scoffed at his rebuking tone. A carriage! He certainly did not require a carriage to travel from his palace to Nilanis’ estate. There was something about recent events that made the lifestyle of the nobility sickening to him.
Not just something. Everything.
He glanced fondly at the relatively simply adorned homes of the common elves on his right, with their white marbled walls and golden domed rooftops—simple, yet richly elegant nonetheless. He felt more at ease beside them now and wondered if it was by choice or a realization in his lack of power that made their kind seem more akin to himself.
Still, as simple and harmless as the city appeared, Erallus’ point could not be ignored. “Carry on, Erallus,” he caved, allowing his guards to escort him for the remainder of his journey, through the winding streets to the little wall that encircled the El’adorium’s estate.
“Here you are, My Lord. We shall await you here,” Erallus spoke as he took his place near Nilanis’ gates. He leaned slightly out into the street, reproachfully eyeing the jumble of children’s toys from their station of siege outside the wall.
Hairem smiled faintly at the little line of cavalry, swords stuck into their wooden hands as they prepared to decimate Nilanis’ estate wall. Ah, to be a child again! He stepped over them carefully as he passed into the grounds and hopped briskly to the estate’s doors. As though hovering on the other side for his arrival, the servants swung them wide before he had extended his hand.
“Your Excellency,” the male began with a fluent bow that threatened to topple him forward. “I will inform Lord Nilanis of your arrival.”
Hairem watched the wiry male hurry away and stepped inside, finding himself alone in the grand entry hall. His eyes flicked across the countless paintings that stretched up the length of the wall, swam across the blue-tiled ceiling, and dropped down to the gaudy atrocity that was the Ryekarian chandelier. Aside from its own yellow glow, a redder essence seemed to paint its gentle curves. He glanced once behind him, out the towering windows to the blood red flush of the horizon.
On a day of horrendous loss, the gods of death had long since painted the rising and falling of the sun in blood. He clenched his jaw.
“My king,” came a pleasant voice, pulling him sharply from his thoughts. “I thought I heard you arrive.”
Hairem turned around in time to see Ilsevel straightening from a curtsy. She tilted her head in a charming smile and set the half-sewn needlework in her hands down on a statue behind her—that awful naked maiden statue that Nilanis had kept as a reminder of his wife. It offered a relieving, albeit somewhat meager, covering of her breasts.
Hairem shifted his gaze back to the lady and smiled in mutual affection. Gods, was she as radiant as ever. Her appearance was a distraction from what was to come.
She gestured toward a door to her right. “Would you join me in the dining hall? My father will be here shortly.” She smiled warmly, extending a hand from the flowing sleeves of her evening gown, beckoning him to come closer before she could dare continue in a hushed voice, “He is in a pleasant mood this evening. Now is a very good time for us to talk to him about General Taemrin.” She pinched him sharply. “Hairem, focus, dear! You wanted my father to host you tonight, so you had better look happy! And I’m here, so you have all the more reason to be so.”
Hairem found himself smiling easily in return, despite the thoughts still lingering at the back of his mind. “Lead on, my lady,” he commanded with the offering of his arm. As the doors closed the blood red of the sunset was lost and the sweet and succulent scent of food was replacing its memory.
The dining hall was brightly lit by half a dozen atrocious chandeliers and a pleasant fire yawning in the hearth on the north side of the room. The long table in the center of the room was neatly set near the head chair, prepared at length for the arrival of its notable guest.
“Your Majesty. There you are,” came a graciously polite voice. Nilanis swept in briskly from behind them and paused, ever so briefly, to flourish a half-bow.
‘Where did he come from?’ Hairem thought as he watched the male straighten, wondering at Nilanis’ ability to slither in or out of any situation he chose. Quite an enviable talent.
The El’adorium did not seem to note Hairem’s mild regard of surprise and strolled away to the head of the table. “You will have to forgive my detainment—there were a few personal matters that called on my attention. Please, sit.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as they took their seats and the servants filtered in on wordless commands to fill the wine glasses and spread the food across the table. Hairem attempted to break the silence with mindless comments about the enticing appearance of the food, but Nilanis’ mind still seemed detained on distant matters.
And that intrigued Hairem, finally piquing his interest about the El’adorium’s life. He wondered what could be more important to Nilanis than the possibility of the king’s interest in his daughter. After all, he had pushed that rather clearly the last time they had sat before this table.
Ilsevel did not seem put off by her father’s distance and merely slid her venison across her plate impatiently. She gave Hairem a sharp nod of encouragement. ‘Go on!’ it insisted.
Hairem hesitated, chewing deliberately as he watched Nilanis swirl the wine in his glass. The lord had hardly even looked toward the two of them. Hairem felt the surge of curiosity swell even greater and he leaned forward with clear intent. “Is there some way I can be of assistance, Lord Nilanis?” he found himself inquiring.
Nilanis started, as though he had genuinely forgotten that the king was there. “What? Ah, I am afraid not. You must forgive me, Your Majesty,” he insisted, smiling thinly. He set his wine glass down and leaned forward with a suggestive smile. “There are no doubt things you wish to discuss with me.”
Hairem gave a forceful smile in return. There was the sly snake he had expected—half attentive and all façade. “Lord Nilanis, there is, in fact, a matter of severity that I wish to discuss.”
Perhaps the male could read his forced smile, or perhaps he simply knew what the matter was. In either regard, he sat back, thin smile fading. “Go on, Your Majesty.”
“I would like you to call for an urgent council meeting on the morrow.”
“I assume this is in regards to the general’s raven?”
“Avoiding the matter at the council will not save you from addressing it, Nilanis. This is not a situation to be taken lightly—”
“And I do not,” Nilanis snapped suddenly, cutting him off, “take the matter lightly.” His dark brows had knitted together so tightly in irritation that they nearly bound together. “Your Majesty, the general has only been combating the centaurs for a month—”
“Combating the centaurs…? The only thing the general is ‘combating’ is the plague.”
“Well then gods forbid he brings it back to the city.”
The king’s mouth fell agape. He felt an ache in his hand and loosened the iron grip he had taken on his knife. What madness drove his stubborn response?!
“Father,” Ilsevel’s eyes flicked away from Hairem’s whitened knuckles and she spoke up quickly in an attempt to salvage the conversation, “His Majesty has come to dine tonight that you might listen to his reasoning with an open mind.” She reached out and rested a small hand on her father’s, patting it once as though to confer patience on the male.
Nilanis’ face smoothed out slowly and he picked up his wine glass once again, allowing his other hand to remain in hers. “My daughter is right to rebuke me. Forgive me, Your Ma
jesty. Speak your mind.”
Hairem felt considerable affection for Ilsevel as she smiled back at him, once again encouraging him to continue. “The general stated that his army is incapable of continuing to fight. They are—and this is not an opinion—defeated. If they remain on the hill, without proper food, water, or medical attention, they will likely all perish. Saebellus already took the Halls of Horiembrig but two days ago. Additionally, the plains of the Vetri have turned into a raging wildfire of some strange and unquenchable black magic, forcing them to abandon their positions across the southeast. Chaos is ensuing, Nilanis. Elvorium has never been in more danger. If you leave the one male who might be able to defend it rotting in the south, you can dismiss the number of your ships and wealth as it is only a matter of time—a short matter of time—before Saebellus lays siege to Elvorium. And you, along with everyone else, will lose everything.”
The words hung heavily in the sudden silence of the room. Nilanis stared into his wine glass for a long moment, eyes lingering on some unknown image to which his mind had whisked him away. He did not speak for some time and Hairem found his expression unnaturally composed. “As the lords of the council stated yesterday, why concern our citizens with the outlying cities when we have other important issues that must be addressed? We simply cannot ignore all other matters while Saebellus continues to drag this war out for the next century or two. He is as far east as one can go—what more can we ask for? The Halls of Horiembrig have long since ceased to be of cultural or economic importance. It is but a small victory for him. We cannot scatter our small supply of soldiers to every corner of this vast country in defense. We must protect that which is most important.”
“You mean that which is of single importance to you?” Hairem suggested steely, surprised by his own boldness. “We know where he lies now. Let Jikun and his army return home, recover, and meet Saebellus again.”
Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1) Page 20
