by Greg Curtis
For his part Iros had no family with him. None of his family even knew of the events unfolding. And maybe it was better that way. His mother would be shedding the same tears. The dark thunder of his father’s face and the sound of his teeth gnashing would have been a perfect match for Tenir’s stern countenance. And he wouldn’t have wanted his sister there either. Luella was prone to bursting into tears at the slightest thing.
Even the priest seemed less than happy with events as he went through the ceremony and gestured at them to wave their fronds at the appropriate times. In fact he looked angry, especially when he glanced at the high lord. Maybe because it was his faith that was being so poorly used. The other priests wandering through the sacred grove as they attended to their duties, looked no happier. And his friend Yossirion was nowhere to be seen. By the Divines he would have liked to have seen him. To have seen anyone he could call a friend.
A wedding should be a joyful occasion. This was more like a funeral.
As for the Grove itself, it was his first time there and he wasn’t sure what to think. Outsiders were not allowed in Honeysuckle Grove, it was sacred to the elves, though he wasn’t completely sure why. After all there was a grove in Greenlands just as there was a shrine or temple to all of the nine Divines, and he had visited it many times. So why was this one any different? Whatever the reason he had always been curious.
But now that he was there, in his brief periods of lucidity, it didn’t seem that special to him. It wasn’t that different to Wildflower Grove in his home, just a little larger and maybe the trees a little taller. There was plenty of lush green grass, always a good thing for a farmer to see, a lot of pretty trees, some with flowers, and a babbling brook running through the middle of it all with a few ducks quacking. It was pleasing to the eye, but not really as magical as he had imagined. Where were the prancing unicorns? Where were the rainbows? Where was the magic? All the things he had imagined should be in an actual elven grove in Elaris?
Then again, was this really an occasion for magic? For celebrations under the eyes of the celestials? Or for regret?
Yet if it was disappointing for him, how terrible was it for Sophelia? For him it was just a marriage, however unwelcome. He’d had no expectation of marrying a noblewoman. No expectation of marrying at all if the truth be known. He’d thought his sister could handle that. She was the romantic, he the wastrel. For Sophelia though this was a humiliation. A shame on her and on her house.
Sophelia in wedding him was giving up her name and her house. From this day forwards she would no longer be Sophelia of House Vora. She would be Sophelia of Drake. A house that not only wasn’t one of the great houses, it wasn’t even a house in the elven sense. She was going from high born to low, and maybe almost to nameless. Drake was merely a family.
For House Vora it was also a shame, as they were aligning themselves with a human family, scarcely something that could be considered a house. And that merger would be recorded and remembered by all the houses until the end of time. House Vora would not be able to hold its head up so high again for a very long time.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, from what he remembered of the previous day, if it was true, then she had given up her own chance at a proper marriage for this travesty of one, and in the bargain House Vora had offended House Allel. That would not be quickly forgotten. Reparation would be demanded, and the suitability of other members of House Vora to marry would be questioned. No more did he know how close she and her promised had become. How long they’d been intended. She could be sacrificing her love as well.
Still Sophelia had done her best to play her role. And she did look pretty in her formal white robes with the gold embroidery. And the posy of creamy white lilies she held in her hands before the elder, added to the image. To the lie. If only the tears hadn’t been flowing so freely down her cheeks. Yet they were the truth. This wasn’t a marriage. It was a sacrifice. Sophelia had spoken against her cousin, she had truly named him for what he was, and she had been punished for it. Yet if Finell hated what she had said, Iros loved it. That someone could call the brat what he was in this city of manners and excessive civility, that was something to respect.
He was jarred out of his melancholy as a healer nudged him, then squeezed his shoulder, hard. The elder had reached the important part of the ceremony and he had to listen. To play his part.
“Sophelia of Vora, daughter of Tenir of Vora and Freylin of Vora, do you pledge yourself to this man here under the eyes of Gaia?” The elder’s words brought him all the way back to the ceremony as he heard the important question being asked.
“I so pledge myself.” She spoke the words clearly for all to hear, and somehow she even managed to keep her sobs out of them. He admired her for that. It took courage. But then it had taken courage for her to stand against her cousin and to tell Finell to his face of his failings. She was a woman of courage and principle.
And then it was his turn as the elder asked the same question of him, and somehow he managed to squeeze out those same four words. He even managed to speak them clearly despite the fact that his throat wanted to close over. He would have wanted with everything he had to be able to say no. To save Sophelia and himself, to expose Finell’s lies. But it wasn’t a choice. The war had to end, even if only for a short time.
“Then it is my honour to pronounce you wed within the sight of the Mother.” But it didn’t sound like honour. It sounded more like a man intoning prayers for the dead. And the clapping such as it was that followed his words, it wasn’t joyful or spontaneous. It was polite and subdued. The applause that was expected, even demanded, but not given freely. This was no celebration.
“The papers.” Iros looked up to see a large grey smudge that he vaguely recognised as the high commander standing in front of him. And before he could even ask what was happening someone placed a quill in his fingers and the sheet of paper under his hand. He signed it as best he could, hoping that his fingers remembered how to, and a heartbeat later the piece of paper was snatched away. He didn’t even get to see if he had signed it properly. But then since everything was a blur it probably wouldn’t have helped.
After that it was Sophelia’s turn and then the witnesses, Finell and Y’aris. There was something indecent in that. Normally to have the high lord and the high commander as witnesses to a wedding should have been an honour. But just then it seemed more like a reason for shame. But then that was exactly what it was.
He understood that only too clearly as he watched the two of them run off before the ceremony was even concluded, in a hurry to get the piece of parchment to the roosts for the pigeons to carry back to Herrick. Everything about the wedding was shameful, save his new wife’s commitment to her duty. He would have said as much to her, strived to bring her some comfort, but by the time he turned around she was already in the arms of her mother, crying. A sound that tore at his heart. And this woman was now his wife. Her tears were because of him. He wondered if they were ever going to stop.
And soon he was going to have to add to them. He was going to have to tell her of what he had heard in the Royal Chamber. Of the false document Y’aris had had prepared for Tenir to see. Of Y’aris’ blaming her brother for the loss of the war. And of Finell’s intention to restart the war as soon as he had the ability. And the tears would flow all over again.
This wasn’t the marriage anyone would have hoped for.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Herodan was nervous when he entered the King’s Court. Summoned at such an hour, all but dragged out of his bed, rushed across the city by the guards, still half dressed, and then whisked through the palace, it had to be serious. It had to be bad. Everything was bad of late.
Since his cousin had launched his terrible war of vengeance it seemed there was no good left in the world. Not in Elaris. Not in Irothia. And he was the one caught in the middle. Trapped between the two realms and the two rulers. Having to try and justify Finell’s terrible attacks to the very angry king
, all while receiving pigeons from his high lord that made no sense.
Finell kept denying the attacks, even when it was ludicrous. They had the survivors of many of the attacks in the city now, living as refugees, and all of them told the same terrible tale of his people clad in black, killing everyone they could find and then burning what they left behind. Herodan had sent the high lord pigeon after pigeon relating that same information. And in return he got madness. There could be no denial, yet that was exactly what his high lord demanded him to do.
After that had come further insanity as Finell sent him demand after demand to lay at the king’s feet, accusations of battles and atrocities committed that Herrick denied vehemently. It was as though the two rulers could agree on nothing. That they were fighting two completely different wars.
By the Mother he hoped that this wasn’t going to be another day of foolish lies and unholy accusations that he had to keep repeating.
But at least the throne room was empty. The nobles of the court were likely tucked up in their beds, though in his years in the city he had come to observe that it usually wasn’t their own ones. The nobles of Tendarin seemed to delight in bed hopping. A dishonourable practice that it had taken him a long time to learn to ignore. But in time he had come to realise that although many of these people did shameful things, he could quite like them. Even learn to respect them. They weren’t elves. What they did was what they did. Their philandering had nothing to do with him.
Instead of a court Herodan discovered that he only had to face the king and a small group of advisors. That should have been a good thing. But King Herrick looked furious. Even more so than normal. And the advisors were standing there with heavy tomes of ancient law open wide. None of them looked particularly happy either. Obviously they were discussing something that Finell had done, and typically his cousin had failed to tell him of it in advance.
The guards escorted him to the throne, a journey that as usual he didn’t want to make.
“Your Highness.” He managed his usual bow, and did his best to keep his face expressionless.
“What does this mean?” The king angrily thrust the piece of paper in front of his nose for him to read, even before he’d finished bowing, and it took him aback. The king was never in that much of a hurry, and normally he handed documents to one of his attendants who carried it to him. But still Herodan took the piece of paper and started reading. It took his eyes a moment to take in the words in the subdued light of the palace. But when he did, when he saw what his high lord had written, Herodan wished he hadn’t.
“Dear Mother! No! My sister! No!” It was unimaginable. It was evil beyond words. And yet it was written down on the piece of paper for all to read. And sealed with the high lord’s own herald. It could only be true.
The blood drained from his face, he felt weak at the knees, and for the first time Herodan was almost grateful that he had guards on both sides waiting to grab him. Though their task was actually to make sure he didn’t attack the king, maybe they could also catch him before he hit the marble floor. If they felt like it.
But for Sophelia to be so casually sacrificed. For House Vora to be disgraced. It was unthinkable. A house was only as good as those it welcomed into its embrace, and Iros wasn’t even of a house at all.
“Your sister?” The king looked angry as he chewed away on the corner of his white moustache as he often did. And maybe even a touch unsure, and that was something he never was. In all the years he had been living in Tendarin, that he had been serving in the Royal Court as the envoy for his people, Herodan had never seen the slightest suggestion of doubt in him. He never mulled over a decision. He never worried about it. He acted, and that was the end of the matter.
“Sophelia of House Vora, my sister and the cousin of High Lord Finell of House Vora.” The words came out of his mouth as though someone else was speaking them, and he wished they wouldn’t. Speaking them only made the words real.
“But what does it mean?” King Herrick yelled it at him as if that would help. Or maybe he was just angry. Now that the war was finally going his way, the thought of peace surely wasn’t on his mind. Herodan understood that only too well. The king was angry. More than angry. His kingdom had been attacked, his people killed, and all the while High Lord Finell had sent him obvious lies and denials. Day after day of them.
He wanted blood. He wanted vengeance. He wanted Finell to swing from the battlements by his neck. Or to feed the rats. And above all else he did not want peace. But peace was what was being called for, and by the most ancient of codes, the request had to be heard and if it was genuine and not some terrible ruse, it had to be honoured. That was why the advisors were desperately studying the tomes of ancient laws. The king wanted a way out. And as shameful as things were, Herodan knew he couldn’t let him find one.
“It means that High Lord Finell is truthful in his request your majesty. My sister is his cousin. She is of the same house, and so for her to wed a man not of a proper house is a great shame upon her. Upon all of House Vora including Finell. And she was promised to another. House Allel will rightfully be angered by this. They will demand compensation from House Vora. This is not something that the high lord would do lightly.” But even as he spoke Herodan was worried that it might be. Terrified in sooth. Finell was not the child he had been, his heart beat basilisk blood and his soul was dark. It could actually be some sort of ruse. He could have happily sacrificed his own cousin, shamed his own family, just to play some political game. By the Mother he hoped and prayed it wasn’t, but Herodan knew it could be.
“Curse him!” Herrick let out his frustration and anger for all to hear. And if they didn’t he repeated it a few more times at even greater volume, his voice echoing through the vast halls and hallways of Castle Storm. He wanted nothing of peace. Not when he was within months or even weeks of having Finell dangling from a rope from his battlements or being consumed alive by rats. But he also honoured the ancient codes. They were what had held all the realms together for thousands of years, and he would not put them aside lightly. Only Finell would do that.
“What manner of vile serpent is your cousin? What poxy soul fills him? He has started a war of utmost indecency. His soldiers have committed atrocity after atrocity. He has broken the most ancient of codes. He has burned my mission, tortured and all but killed my envoy, murdered his parents, and now he sacrifices his cousin to save his worthless hide.” The king fixed him with an angry glare as if he was somehow responsible and it took every bit of will Herodan possessed not to step backwards.
“Majesty -.”
“No!” The king shouted his angry denial loudly enough to wake the dead not to mention the rest of the castle. Most importantly though, it was loud enough to stop Herodan speaking, and he was grateful for that. He did not want to defend Finell just then. Not when he had hurt his sister so terribly.
“This is a travesty! It’s an outrage! And I don’t believe a word of it!” Herodan couldn’t disagree with him on any of that, so he kept his peace and waited for the king to calm down. He had to wait quite a while as the king swore at the walls.
“By the nine hells I will honour this because I have no choice. But I do not respect it! I do not respect your worthless toad lord! Tell him that. Word for word.”
“And tell him this also. There will be reparations. There will be consequences for the foul deeds of his armies. His armies will be disbanded and their leaders will swing from my gallows for their crimes. Any of his black clad monsters that still remain in Irothia will drop their weapons on the ground and return to Elaris forthwith. If they carry so much as a dagger on them in my land they will hang. And above all there will be apologies. From him.”
“Tell him this and make sure he hears it. If I am to be denied the pleasure of witnessing his worthless corpse being slowly consumed by vermin, I will not be denied the satisfaction of seeing him on his hands and knees before me, apologising for his evil!”
“If he wants to keep hi
s neck the same length he will agree to my demand. If he wants not to sleep with vermin he will do it. He will be before me within four moons, prostrate on this very floor in front of all the lords and ladies of my realm, and he will admit his crimes and his lies, and he will apologise for them.”
“On this there will be no negotiation. Do you hear me envoy?”
“Yes Your Highness.” Shocked beyond measure by the outrageous demands Herodan somehow managed to nod respectfully to King Herrick, just before the king nodded to the guards and they grabbed him by the shoulders and started dragging him away. And yet even as Herodan was being dragged out of the throne room, still trying to make sense of everything that had happened, a part of him was wondering if the king could add a public flogging to the list of demands. Or if he could simply tack it on himself.
It seemed the least he could do.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
“Whoa.” The leader of the guards riding at the front held up his hand, and the caravan creaked to a halt at the top of the rise overlooking the valley and the distant town beyond.
