by Greg Curtis
Why?
It was a question to puzzle on as the darkness returned to claim him once more.
Chapter Thirty Four.
“Pita, Mya.” Yossirion called the children, and they looked up from the stream where they were busy laundering their clothes, and came to him. They were good children he thought, well raised and well spoken. And they had good hearts as well. Even while they grieved for their friends and worried for the master, they found the strength to care for the other refugees now calling the grove home. It wasn’t only their clothes that they were washing. So it was good that he could finally bring them some welcome news.
“Iros is alive and free.” Their faces lit up at his words and made him happy. He only wished the rest of his news was as good.
“Is he well?” Mya was the first to ask the obvious question, perhaps because she was a woman.
“No. From what I’ve heard he is gravely ill. But the healers are tending to him and they hope he will make a good recovery. The high lord does too.” If only so that he didn’t swing from the battlements of Tendarin. And sadly the elder knew it wasn’t an unworthy thought. Finell cared nothing for peace, only his life.
“He is to be wed tomorrow, to Sophelia of House Vora, as part of a bid for an end to this terrible war.
“Wed?” Pita and Mya both looked shocked.
“Yes. Here in the Honeysuckle Grove. It is an unworthy reason for a marriage, but they will both agree to it. They are both of honour and duty above all else.” And in that he prayed to the Mother that they would both find acceptance. He doubted that they would find love, or that their marriage would bring forth children. But maybe they could find solace in their shared fate.
“Then they will go home?” Pita was quick to understand the consequences. A sharp mind for one so young.
“Yes but you will not be able to travel with them. Nor attend the wedding. You are both thought dead by Finell. And his watchmen will surely be in attendance and will provide an escort back to Greenlands. They would kill you on sight and then discover how many others we are hiding within the Grove. Both of you and Saris too, will have to remain hidden. I’m sorry.”
“No need Elder. You are right to say it and I should not have thought so quickly of myself. We will remain hidden and hope that this will end the war and then we can go home.”
“Thank you child. Iros should be proud of you.” Iros had trained the boy well he thought, but then that was his gift. He inspired. Though he pretended otherwise, even to himself, he was noble of soul.
The world needed more like him. And less like Finell.
Chapter Thirty Five.
Tenir didn’t bother knocking. Instead he simply turned the handle and flung the front door open before marching into Finell’s private quarters, filled with anger. His nephew’s betrayal of his own family was unforgivable. An act of treason against both house and family far more terrible than any of those he seemed to believe were being carried out against him.
“Nephew!” He didn’t bother with the servants who came rushing to see what had happened, he just bellowed so that the entire house could hear. It might not be elven, and it was far from polite, but the time for such things had passed. The servants guessed that and quickly made themselves scarce.
“Tenir.” It wasn’t Finell who came out of the deeper recesses of the house, it was Y’aris, and that surprised him for a moment. Then it angered him. That this elf of no house should be in a house belonging to his, speaking to him, trying to intercede on his nephew’s behalf. It was an outrage.
“Leave here Y’aris and do not return until I am finished.” He ordered the black blood out of the house with barely restrained fury, and was surprised when Y’aris didn’t immediately rush away. Instead he tried to argue, as if it was a matter open for debate. As if he was of House Vora.
“The high lord -.”
“I am not here for the high lord. I am Tenir, First of House Vora and I am here for my nephew Finell of House Vora. Now leave Y’aris of no name, before I have the house guards throw you out.” The little elf glared at him his face filled with rage, but Tenir knew he would do nothing. Despite all the unlikely tales of his heroic deeds, he knew Y’aris was a coward. The signs of his craven nature had always been there for all to see.
“Very well I’ll -.”
“Get out!” Tenir was in no mood for pretend civility and he finally gave in and screamed at the black blood. Then, for emphasis he picked up a heavy bronze candlestick from a side table and advanced on him. Y’aris, courageous warrior that he was, sprinted for the front door and vanished through it like the wind. If he’d listened though, he might have heard the sound of a bronze candlestick burying itself in the wall behind him.
“Finell!” This time Tenir really bellowed, his angry roar echoing through the house. There was no chance that his nephew hadn’t heard him. But every chance that he was too frightened to show his face. Hiding wouldn’t save him though.
“Get your worthless hide down here now or I’ll drag you down by your ears.”
It was a long time before he saw the figure of his worthless nephew appear in the doorway, and by then Tenir had been seriously considering picking up another candlestick and hunting him down.
“Uncle.” Finell stared at him like a frightened little child. And it was well he should be frightened.
“What have you done toad spawn?”
“Only what I had to.” Finell stammered out a pathetic lie, and Tenir had to resist the urge to march over to him and beat him to a pulp.
“Then you should have offered yourself, not my daughter. Better yet you should have offered your head. And the head of that black blooded toad of yours.”
“It wouldn’t be enough uncle. I’m trying to save her life.” Finally he had an answer from the foul child, even if it didn’t make any sense.
“What?” Tenir was sure it’d be some sort of lie anyway. Finell was simply trying to save his own skin from rat bites.
“I’m trying to save all our lives. All of House Vora.” And to prove it he pulled out a piece of paper, a message, and handed it to him with his hands shaking. It was a message from King Herrick, a rant of insults and threats against Finell, much the same as had been read out in the court many times before. A rant that he tended to agree with. But as he read further Tenir discovered with horror that this one went much further. The king had threatened to kill all of House Vora. To hang the lot of them from his battlements.
“By the Mother!” Tenir was left gasping by the bluntness of the threats. From a king. A king that up until recently, Herodan had always spoken favourably of. In fact he’d admired him. But this, if it was true, was never a man to be admired. He was someone to be feared. If it was true. And even as he read it Tenir knew that his nephew was not above crafting a fake letter to save his worthless hide. And he had to know that Tenir would be angry with him.
“It’s a lie.”
“No it’s not. It arrived yesterday morning. The seal of the mission was unbroken, and you can see it will still fit back together if you refold the paper. And if you check the message is also dated and stamped by the roost.” He had all the answers, probably because he had expected the questions, and that did not impress Tenir. If a man was constantly prepared to prove his truth it suggested he was used to being called a liar. There was often a reason for that.
Still Tenir checked all the seals and markings as his nephew suggested, and then when he found nothing untoward he checked them again. After that he read the letter for a second time and a third, hunting desperately for any sign that Herodan had not penned it. But he couldn’t find one. The letter was too short, and the text supposedly taken word for word from what the human king had said. It could be a forgery, or it could be real, and he had no way of knowing. No way of finding out either. There was not time to send a pigeon to his son and receive a reply. The wedding was in the morning.
“I told you.” Finell was suddenly in front of him, almost smirking with trium
ph, and Tenir simply couldn’t stand his evil face.
He hit him. He hit him hard, his fist striking him across the cheek and sending him flying across the room. And it took everything he had not to walk over to him there and hit him again. Hit him until the blood flowed and he no longer moved. But he couldn’t do that. And instead he had to settle for throwing back his head and letting out a wordless scream of frustration and rage that surely even the Mother heard, while Finell lay on the floor staring at him in shock. He had never been hit before and he simply didn’t know how to deal with it. Maybe he should have been hit before, many times. Tenir was shocked too. In all his life he’d never hit anyone. But he was so angry that he didn’t care.
It was a long time before he could let his rage ease enough to think. A long time before he realised that his nephew, still sitting on the floor but propped up against the far wall, was calling his name. And when he did he wanted to scream some more. He wanted to beat him some more. He wanted at the very least to add to the trickle of blood running down from one corner of his mouth. It took so much effort to rally his thoughts so that he could say what he needed to say.
“You are a worthless child. An embarrassment to House Vora. And a traitor to both your house and your family.” He kept his voice low and even, a hardship when he really just wanted to scream and yell at him some more. And then beat him to death with his own arms.
“I will bring this to my daughter and she will make her decision. In time someone will bring you word.”
“But regardless, whether this is true or false, it is your fault. You have betrayed your family and your house. If you were not high lord you would already be gone. Sent from the House Vora as one unnamed. It is only the fact of your position and what it would mean to Elaris were you disowned that holds me back now.”
“You may keep your name. For now. But only that. Everything else is taken from you. There will be no more gold and moon silver sent to you. If you want to run this house you will do so out of your own pocket. You will not be welcomed at our family gatherings. You will not be supported in the court. House Vora will no longer be in attendance, the seats empty for all to see. Your name will not be spoken by us.”
“And know this.” There were no words for how utterly serious Tenir was when he added the last. No words even for the pain he felt from just gritting his teeth so hard. “Should you do anything at all to harm one of my house again, even in the slightest, I will cast you out without a second thought. You will be a nameless beggar in the street. I pledge that to the Mother and the house.”
“Do I make myself clear troll skin?” He raised his voice a little so that his worthless nephew knew an answer was required. Maybe more than a little.
“Yes uncle.” It was a small voice, that of a frightened child, and not, he was certain, the truth. The boy was a coward who would say anything to save his own skin. But it was enough and it was all he was going to get.
With another wordless scream, Tenir stormed out of the house, too furious to even look at his nephew any longer. He slammed the door shut for all to hear, then slammed it again for good measure, before marching off angrily towards his own home. And if any saw him, if any greeted him on the way he ignored them.
Most probably took one look at his thunderous scowl and simply got out of the way. They weren’t foolish.
Chapter Thirty Six.
The wedding was a ceremony such as Iros had never seen before. At once formal and ceremonial with everyone in their neatest white robes and adorned with flowers, and at the same time emotional, something the high born almost never were. They prided themselves on remaining calm and in control of themselves at all times. It would have helped if that emotion were joy, but it wasn’t.
Instead what he saw ranged from shock and horror on the faces of the more distant guests, to absolute distress, tears and grief on the immediate family. And anger. Tenir was trying hard not to let his anger loose, but his jaw was clenched, his fists too, and his face was completely white. It wouldn’t take much before his fists started flying. Iros wondered if they would be coming in his direction.
In keeping with elven tradition it was held outdoors, there were no buildings in the grove. And as for a shrine or an altar, the raised bed of honeysuckle fulfilled that purpose. The elder performing the ceremony, simply stood before them in his ceremonial robes and spoke to them and the audience. He had no book of service in his hand, there were no holy relics, there weren’t even rings to exchange. All there were were a few fronds that they were given to wave at particular points in the service.
At least it wasn’t raining, though he understood that the service would have continued even if it had and they would all have simply stood there and got wet. Some even considered rain at a wedding a promising sign. An omen of healthy children to come. He would have welcomed it too, but only because it might have cooled the burning of his skin.
It seemed a strange ceremony to Iros, But then he had never been to any elven weddings before and so had nothing to compare it with. Besides he was still in a bad way, his thoughts wandered in strange directions much of the time, his flesh could not support him, and he spent a lot of time collapsed. In fact he couldn’t remember much of how he’d got to the wedding, or the much of that morning. Most of it was just snatches of memories.
To stop him finding the ground each time his mind wandered, they’d given him an ugly wheeled chair to sit in like an old man and people to push it as needed, mostly healers.
He didn’t like the healers that much of late.
They had been busy with him in the day and a bit since he’d been released from the dungeon. They’d rubbed salves into his wounds every hour, always apologising as they did so. Not that it hurt so terribly. He guessed he would have to be healthier before the pain could really make itself felt. They had bandaged him from head to foot, tight enough that he could almost stand with the aid of crutches. That did hurt. And they had poured any number of strange teas and other foul concoctions down his throat. All to make him well enough for the ceremony. But not to make him comfortable. Nothing was going to do that.
For the most part they had succeeded, although he wished the healers would have stopped apologising as they kept covering his wounds with the salve. It didn’t really hurt that much, and the smell was almost pleasant. And he was feeling stronger. Not strong enough to stand for the service, but still no longer completely prone all the time. And at least he was awake, mostly. Maybe in time he would return to health, though the worried sounds the healers had made each time they removed the bandages to look at his wounds, didn’t bode so well.
Theirs might be a short marriage.
But judging from the high lord’s eager face as he sat there in his chair to one side of Iros’ betrothed, that would be fine. It only had to last long enough for the papers to be signed. Then to send those papers off to the king as evidence of his good faith. And if he couldn’t sign, Iros guessed his evil little high commander standing beside him, would put the quill in his hand and sign it for him. Anything to end the war and save his sorry skin. Though it hurt to realise it, in that at least they would be one. He hated them, but they had to stop the war.
At least things hadn’t gone completely smoothly for them. Y’aris was surprisingly quiet, saying little since he’d arrived, and Finell was sporting a huge bruise across one side of his face. Even through his blurry vision Iros could see that, and the way he kept rubbing at his mouth. If he’d had to guess Iros would have said that whatever plan the two of them had cooked up to deal with Tenir, hadn’t run as well as they’d hoped. He only wished he could have asked.
But it wasn’t really important. Ending the war was. The marriage was. And he knew it was going to be a difficult marriage. The marriage ceremony was one thing, and Iros would have been perfectly happy to go through it, sign some papers, and then the two of them could have gone their separate ways. There was no reason that their lives should be ruined. But that wasn’t the elven way. In fact it would
have been considered another insult to Sophelia. A rejection. Looking at her as she stood beside him, he knew she couldn’t take much more. Her eyes were fixed on a point somewhere behind the priest, her face was drawn and her body was rigid. It was taking all she had just to stand there and look calm as she forced herself to go through with this. He could not add to her suffering.
So instead of leaving her behind, safe in the arms of her family after the ceremony, he would have to bring her back with him to Greenlands.
Then would come the marriage, and he knew it would not be a happy one. The look on Sophelia’s pallid face beside him as they stood before the priest, silent tears running down her cheeks, was enough to tell him that. The sobs of her mother Freylin only added to the certainty. And maybe most telling of all was the stern face of Tenir, her father, as he forced himself and the rest of the family to go through with this. He knew that they had no choice. None of them did. But they didn’t like it. Sophelia’s sisters weren’t even in attendance. The likelihood was that there would have been yet more tears being shed if they had been there.
