by Greg Curtis
“I had not heard.” Four simple words that no envoy should ever utter. And worse, spoken clearly in a room so quiet that everyone surely heard them.
“So I gather.” The king suddenly leaned forwards in his throne, and the look on his face was not one of sympathy. “And do you know what else was in that message?”
Not trusting himself to speak Herodan simply shook his head.
“It says that the high lord has dismissed you from your station because he doubts your loyalty. He doubts that you have been speaking for him as you should.”
Disloyalty? That was treason. And Finell had accused him of such? To the humans? In all his years Herodan had never heard of such a thing. It violated so many trusts to do such a thing. And the worst of it was that he had no idea of what to say. His instinct was to protest. To defend his honour. His house’s honour. But he could not do that to the king. His protest had to be to Finell. And if Finell had done this thing, then his words would at best fall on deaf ears. At worst they would fall on ears that heard only lies, and he would be sent for trial and execution.
But the king hadn’t finished. He gestured and instantly Herodan felt himself grabbed by the guards.
“Now I don’t know what this is about.” He whispered the words almost as would a confident, but loudly enough for all to hear. “And I don’t care.” He bellowed the last and if he’d been able to Herodan would have stepped back in shock.
“There is only one thing that I care about. And that is that before the fourth moon has passed, that poisonous little toad will be here in my throne room, on his belly before me, apologising to all of Irothia for his crimes, and begging my forgiveness.”
“You tell him that when you see him. You make sure he understands. And make sure that he knows that if he is so much as a day late I will send my armies for him and he will feed the rats.”
“Now get out!” Herodan had thought he’d been shouting before, but when the king bellowed those last three words, he realised he’d barely been speaking loudly. The castle’s very foundations seemed to shake with his fury. And there was nothing he could say. As the guards dragged him away and the entire court erupted into applause, he knew that there was nothing at all that he could say.
But after he had been dragged out of the throne room, across the huge antechamber, through the massive arched doors that led out of the castle, down the long cobbled pathway that traversed the courtyard, and then thrown out into the street, he knew that there were questions he had to ask. And first on that long list, why had Finell turned so terribly on his own house?
First Sophelia, now this? Deliberate acts to harm his kin. And with them, his preventing of messages flying between them. The message he had received from Sophelia had been the first he had received from any of his House in months, and in it she had asked why he hadn’t sent any messages to them. When he had sent dozens that explained many things. Finell was restricting their correspondence, and surely costing them business in the doing.
It was as though he actually hated House Vora. But how could that be? How could an elf, any elf, turn against his own house?
Chapter Forty Four.
The house was full for once, something that had not been so in a long time. But then House Durlan was a small family, its members mostly old and quiet, and they mostly kept to themselves. That was why the members of the other high born families had chosen to meet there. It surely wasn’t the place where the high lord and his dark watchmen would expect to find sedition. And whether it had been said or not, sedition was exactly what was being discussed. It was probably being discussed in every home in Elaris.
Of course nothing would come of it. This was far from the first time they’d met, and each time they’d left with nothing decided. Sometimes the thought of a petition to Finell was raised, but nothing more. Argan hated that. But House Durlan was far from the strongest of the seven great houses, and on its own his house could do nothing. That was why he hosted the meetings. It was his chance, maybe his only chance to speak with them, and when the lives of his own family were in peril he felt he had to.
“We must do something.” Argan held the floor such as it was as he addressed the other high born, and they all knew he was right. Something had to be done. The high lord was insane, the mist of the moon maiden had surely taken his mind after the loss of the war, and it hadn’t returned as he sat on the Heartwood Throne whiling away the days until he had to go to the human realm and give his apology. The only thing that did change was his madness, which grew daily as he pretended he didn’t have to and screamed at anyone who said otherwise. It was getting worse.
The boy was crazed. His grandfather had been the same, hearing voices and speaking with those who weren’t there. He had had to be locked away in the end, for his own good, and it seemed that Finell might be following the same path. But regardless of his lack of reason he had to go and pay his penance. King Herrick would restart the war if he dared to avoid it. They all knew that. Herrick was angry. More than angry. And with the endless reports reaching them daily of what had happened, of what the Royal Watch had done in his name, maybe he had reason. No matter the high lord’s endless denials. Sure traders might lie, but not all of them.
And that dark robed advisor of his, always whispering into his ear. It didn’t take the wisdom of the ages to know where the madness came from. But it wasn’t something any of them could raise with the high lord. Not with Y’aris standing beside him at all times, and his watchmen everywhere. The boy wouldn’t listen and Y’aris would respond through his soldiers.
Those who had tried to say something had been cut down. Brutally. Many were dead. Many more were in that foul prison. And for some reason people’s homes were being burnt down as well. The human mission wasn’t the only house to have been burnt to the ground, and the envoy far from the only one to have been thrown in the dungeon. It mattered not if a man was high born. It didn’t even seem to matter if he was of a great house. The prison was filling fast with those who had spoken out, and no one who went in seemed to leave it ever again.
But that was the least of what troubled them. More worrying was the number of people vanishing from the city. Disappearing without trace, usually in the middle of the night, and according to the whispers in the street, the watch had something to do with it. Their black armour was everywhere these days, and the soldiers themselves were less than respectful as they ordered people about.
They did more than order them too. They inspected packages. They searched innocent elves. Purchase a few foods from the market and a watchman would be there watching. He would go through your bags as you walked home, searching for something that he would never tell you about. And if you resisted, the likelihood was a quick beating in the street. If you were lucky. Some of the low born and especially those of mixed blood, had been killed where they stood, usually without any reason. And then their bodies were just left there for the families to collect.
That was unheard of. In all the centuries and millennia that the elves had dwelled upon the soil, open violence had never been tolerated. Not even during the endless warfare that had marked the age of kings. It didn’t matter who the victim was, it didn’t matter what blood flowed through his veins, violence was abhorred.
What was to be done though? That was the question that they had gathered together to answer, though thus far answers had been few and far between. As ever.
“But what can we do?” Pria of Lendar was uncharacteristically timid these days. Normally he was a charging bull, steam pouring from his nostrils. But not any longer. Not since two of his siblings had been dragged away. “He has locked away his uncle, First of his House. Tenir cannot aid us. House Vora cannot aid us either as they no longer attend the court. The elders have been silenced. His accursed watchmen are everywhere. And after what he did to his cousin. Casting her aside into the arms of the utra. A man who could do that to his own family, he is beyond all reason. All decency.”
Pria was right of course. Finell wa
s consumed by something dark and terrible. Something so foul that it seemed that even his house no longer meant anything to him.
“Open the door in the name of the high lord!” The shout came from just outside, startling them all, and before it had even ended someone had started smashing the door with something heavy. They could hear the wood splintering under the assault. The dead could have heard it.
Argan stared at the others as they in turn stared at him, all of them suddenly frightened. High born elves in their own houses in the city, frightened of their own protectors, that was wrong. It should not be. And yet it was.
“Stay your hand soldier. I will open the door when I am ready.” Argan yelled at the man outside his door imperiously, hoping to stall him with his natural high born arrogance. Hoping to remind him that he was only a soldier, and as such he did not have the right. Hoping to find the time for the others to think of a plan. It wasn’t to be.
“You will open it now!” The man yelled it at him even louder than before, and the crashing continued at pace. There wasn’t much time.
Then the door gave way with a crash and he realised as he heard the heavy tread of boots in the hallway that there was no time at all.
The door to the main room burst open and the watchmen flooded into the main room like an angry wave crashing against the shore while all of them just stood there staring in shock.
“What is the meaning -?” That was as far as he got before one of the soldiers punched him in the stomach and he doubled over, spluttering and gasping for breath. And yet even as he did so a part of him was wondering if this could actually be happening. No one hit him. Ever. But the doubt was quickly removed from his mind as the same soldier cruelly twisted his arms up behind his back and lashed them together as they would a common criminal.
He heard others yelling and screaming as he tried to straighten up. He could hear them being hit as well, and their cries of pain. And by the time he’d finally managed to stand straight once more it was to see the others all bound like him. The sons and daughters of the oldest and most important families in the realm, being treated like cut purses.
But he knew enough by then not to complain or demand answers. Especially when he saw others doing the same, and being hit hard for opening their mouths. Instead he just stood there, bound, and waited for some sort of explanation.
In time he got one when the captain cleared his throat to speak, but it wasn’t the one he wanted.
“By order of the high lord you are all charged with high treason.” Short and simple and utterly unfair, save that he was perhaps a little bit right. They had been discussing the situation and what to do about it. But no one had suggested treason. No one had suggested overthrowing the high lord. Even if the thought had been in the back of all their minds.
Immediately the captain had finished there was a chorus of denials and yells. Demands to speak with their families and with the high lord himself. And of course threats. But none of them had the slightest effect on the black clad watchmen, and they simply twisted their arms behind them once more and started marching them out of the room.
By the time they reached the hallway, Argan realised that they weren’t alone. For some reason the servants had also been bound and were being marched off to the prison in tears. Why? They could have nothing to do with anything. But it was the sight of Phyrella lying on the floor in a pool of blood that tore at his heart. She was just a girl, an innocent child who cleaned for them, and she could never have fought the soldiers. She was half their size.
And yet her broken body was riddled with wounds. Deep wounds from swords and spears. She had very nearly been torn apart. As if by wild animals. By the Mother how could that be? How could anyone do such a thing?
But even as he asked he knew the answer. Before they’d even opened their mouths to call her a half caste, he knew. She was half gnome. And everything, he suddenly understood, came back to that. It was nothing to do with war or sedition. Nothing to do with crimes. It was purely about hatred. It was then that he finally knew to bow his head in prayer as they marched him out of his own home. It had been too long.
“Mother I beg of you. End this madness.” In the end he knew, there was no one else who could.
Of course the watchmen just laughed in his face.
Chapter Forty Five.
Herodan rode into Greenlands somewhat nervously. He was worried by what he would find there. By how he would be received. But mostly he was worried for his sister.
This was a strange land, even to him having spent so many years in the human realm. And while he had grown to like Tendarin and its towering spires of gleaming marble, he had never really thought of it as his home. That was always Leafshade. But no longer for Sophelia. Now Greenlands was her home, and she had never even visited the human realm before.
She was married too. And the very idea of that frightened him. Married not for love, and not after a proper courtship, and not even to someone of one of the great houses. Not even to an elf. Married to a human. Sold by their dark cousin just so that he could keep his skin. It was wrong.
At least Iros was a man of honour. He had been spoken of as such many times by the nobles of King Herrick’s court. Though often they seemed to consider that honour of his as a fault. And he had proven his honour with the last message he had sent to the king before being imprisoned, asking him to respect the code even when he was sorely tested. He had proven it again with the words he had given Sophelia on the day of their marriage. Words of warning that she had passed on to him.
Finell on the other hand had proven his dishonour with every message he had sent. He had proven his disloyalty to the family as well. First by selling Sophelia into marriage. And then by dismissing him from his post without reason. And the way he had gone about it. Sending the message not to him but rather to the king so that he could inform him of his dismissal in front of the entire court, that seemed calculated to cause the greatest possible offence.
At least it would be the last time that he would be heckled and jeered out of Castle Storm.
For now though, he faced a new castle and a new town. One he had passed through before, but never stayed at. And one he would have to visit more often now that his sister resided there. Now that the Lord was his brother in law.
At least Greenlands seemed like a civilised town. Not as refined and elegant as Tendarin. The streets weren’t paved and the people wore less finery and more dirt. The stone of the slab like buildings was dark grey, an unappealing colour, and they were without finesse. Without artistry. Without spires. Greenlands wasn’t nearly as large as the human capital either, though he imagined it could still be called a city in its own right, if the humans weren’t so stubborn about names. But neither was it as rough as he had feared. It was what the humans would call honest. No false pretensions. Buildings were buildings and people were people. They didn’t pretend to be more than they were.
The masons and carpenters were busy. Everywhere he passed there were artisans at work, replacing roofs, putting in new glass in windows, tiling and even rebuilding front porches. And even from a distance as he’d approached the town he’d seen hundreds of workmen digging out the foundations to begin finishing the wall. This was a town under construction.
There was a strong guard presence about too, but maybe that was for the best as things seemed orderly. At least no one yelled curses at him, no one threw rotten fruit at him. He had half expected that, as he’d approached the southern lands and started seeing the signs of the war everywhere. But he knew that as he continued south, leaving the protection of the guards and heading into the regions harder hit by the war, that might still happen. There was a reason that he had acquired a large hooded cloak for his journey home.
The castle, when he finally reached its gates, was an actual working castle. It wasn’t like Castle Storm of Tendarin. It wasn’t pretty with towering spires, a marble façade and massive arched windows. Drake Castle was like the town, rough and honest. It was a fortress
built only to house and protect those who called it home. And everything about it said that it would do that job well.
“Identify yourself.” A guard called out to him from just the other side of the portcullis, and while he looked to be relaxed Herodan wasn’t fooled. The man was standing ready.
“Herodan of House Vora.” He pulled back the hood of his cloak so that he could see his hair. “I am here to visit with my sister and Lord Iros.”
Did his words have any impact on the man? Or his blue hair? Not that Herodan could see. The guard simply stared at him briefly, maybe looking for weapons, and then gestured for a boy to come running to take his horse. So was the man being slack? Or had he simply assessed him as posing no threat?
