“We can make our own weapons, and so long as I do my job, we won’t have much need for any more of them. But if they have something that can grow a bit farther from the front—”
“Border,” Myranda corrected.
“… Right. Best to avoid a slip like that in front of the ambassadors…” Caya said. “But the point is, much as it’s lovely to have Tressor able to sell us food, and to repay them with minerals and lumber, it would be ideal if we could bolster ourselves with a few new crops. It seems we can’t get anything to grow in farms that were bountiful when I was a little girl.”
“We can only hope such things will be on offer. And that we will be able to meet their price,” Croyden said.
“And what might that price be?” Caya asked.
“There is no indication that they need anything from us. Again, the Tressons have not been straightforward about the terms of their own trade, but it was clear that negotiations were difficult. South Crescent cuts a hard bargain.”
Caya rubbed her hands together. “So do I, Croyden. So do I.”
#
Caya sat impatiently as the official greeting ceremony rolled into its second hour. Despite her best efforts, she’d had very little success in convincing those in the loftiest positions of her kingdom that diplomacy could be greatly improved through the removal of some of the surrounding tradition. Naturally, it was only right to treat visiting nobles with respect, but mandating where they sat and who entered first, and reading out an exhausting list of titles and accomplishments for each, turned even a brief discussion into a night-long ordeal. King Mellawin certainly hadn’t made it any easier. The man had a massive entourage. For the last half hour they’d been introducing and seating an interminable sequence of advisers.
“And now entering, Personal Poet to the King,” Croyden announced to the assembly, “Lualil Cossoran.”
“A personal poet. Of course. What trade negotiation or memorial anniversary would be complete without a personal poet?” Caya said, delivering the line with an impressive degree of mock sincerity.
Myranda, seated beside the queen, gave her a gentle look of rebuke. “I am quite certain it is a long and beloved tradition of the South Crescent people.”
She turned to the elven woman seated across from her. The woman had been introduced as Silla Lorekeeper, though it hadn’t been made clear how much of that was her name and how much was her title. She had long features, an inscrutable and stony expression, and a gown and headdress as ornate and frail as a spider web.
“Is that so?” Myranda asked.
“As it happens, no.” Silla spoke with the careful, deliberate diction of a non-native speaker who refused to flavor her speech with an accent. “King Mellawin, some seventy years ago, made some additions to his entourage. Personal poets, tasters, and artists are among them.”
“Personal poets? He has more than one?” Caya said, her expression dropping a bit.
“Owing to the length of this journey, he saw fit to include only one of each.”
“Ah. Good. I do admire a monarch with the capacity to endure personal hardship for the sake of his duties.” She leaned aside to Myranda and whispered, “Wonderful. He’s eccentric. That bodes well.”
The introductions continued for several minutes more. Finally, all in attendance stood as the six trumpeters of the elven king’s personal procession raised their silver horns to their lips. The fanfare they played was a softer, more complex one compared to Queen Caya’s. The king himself appeared in the doorway unaccompanied, and from the first glimpse, the courtly nobility was astonishingly apparent. His robes had been spun of gold-colored silk. They billowed and flowed as he moved. He wore a silver-gray wooden crown, grown rather than carved. It lacked the symmetry of something crafted by hand, curling left then right with individual pointed branches. Tiny jewel-like leaves dangled from threads affixed to the tip of each branch of the crown. He gripped a short scepter of the same wood in his right hand, a lump of naturally smooth amber cradled in the forked branches at its end. The color of the gem was milky-gold, and a large occlusion marred its heart, vaguely visible when illuminated from behind.
Elves tended toward long, slender features, but King Mellawin was an extreme example even among his own people. He was a head and shoulders taller than Queen Caya, taller even than her hulking bodyguard Tus. His cheeks were slightly sunken, his black hair threaded with a scattering of gray. The robes hid his physique, but his fingers were long and quite slender, hinting at the gauntness of his frame.
As he moved with an otherworldly grace, almost seeming to float down the hall’s floor, he raised his left hand, palm facing Queen Caya and fingers slightly curled. She responded in kind.
“Blessed greetings to you on this auspicious occasion of our first meeting,” Caya said in a practiced tone.
“And continued blessings to us all on the promise of meetings to come,” he replied in a voice oozing with refinement.
Unlike his representatives’ voices, his was flavored with the faintest hint of an accent. Caya didn’t have the proper ear to place the accent precisely. The only word that seemed a proper description was “regal.”
Queen Caya and King Mellawin took a seat, followed by the rest in the assembly hall.
“I am sure everyone in attendance is relieved to know there are no speeches planned for today,” Caya said, eying the servers as they set out the first of the banquet’s many courses.
“Yes. These events can become so tiresome, don’t you agree?” he said.
“Thoroughly. But then, as I am frequently reminded, tradition is tradition. And that alone is reason enough to cling to it, evidently,” Caya said, bolstered by what seemed to be a common belief.
“If you think your people cling to tradition, I formally invite you to visit my own court. A terrible curse of the long-lived, Queen Caya, is the stunning inability to see the value of change.”
“I suppose knowing you may not live to see the end of change that comes slowly does motivate one to seek it aggressively.”
“Quite.” He gazed about. “This is truly a remarkable hall. Cut stone. Your people do have an affinity for cut stone. Stacking it into whatever shapes you require.”
“Do you not build of stone?”
“We prefer to coax nature into obliging us, rather than inflicting our will upon it with hammer and chisel, but seeing artful edifices such as these might just change my mind on the subject. It is a union of sculpture—which we most certainly do embrace—and accommodation. Delightful.” He glanced about, fixing his eyes briefly on the pair of dragons, who still shared the same platform. “Oh! By the heart of the trees, I’ve become so numbed by the drudgery of office I’d nearly forgotten the thrill that has sustained me through the entirety of my sea voyage and my trip through the fair land of Tressor. The Chosen!”
“Yes, of course, you were not present for the introductions, allow me to—”
He raised a hand. “No, please. I am keen to guess. Now let me see. Most of what I know is second- and thirdhand. There is a sea separating us, after all. But there was a dragon. Presumably one of the pair you’ve seated at the table. Might I guess… the green one is Myn?”
“I am afraid not,” Caya said. “Guardian Myn is the red-and-gold creature cuddled up with him. And presently intimidating the server unfortunate enough to be carrying the boiled potatoes, I see. Croyden, please instruct the servers to see to the dragons first. Best not to have hungry beasts worrying our guests.”
“Ah, blast it. It was the armor, you know. I’d imagined a warrior would be dressed for battle. Nonetheless, it is so charmingly absurd to see such beasts seated at the table. You are to be commended for the level of training you have achieved. But back to the game, eh? I find myself at the disadvantage. There is a wizard, and now a duchess, by the name of Myranda. And that must be this exquisite crimson-haired beauty.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” Myranda said with a nod.
“Ah!” the king
said with a delighted clap. “And so I have balanced the scales. The pleasure, Duchess, is entirely mine. This young and studious gentleman by your side is Deacon, correct? Not one of the Chosen, as I recall, but still nearly so in his significance to the fulfillment of the prophecy.”
“That is I, Your Majesty,” Deacon said.
“You present yourself with considerable pride and confidence in spite of being overshadowed by so many members of the fairer sex.”
“… Thank you,” Deacon said, somewhat bemused by the statement.
Mellawin handed his wine aside to be tasted by a man to his left. “Now, now, now. I already know that two of the Chosen were malthropes, and that the male lamentably lost his life, so that leaves us with this ivory-furred creature here.” He touched his fingers to his head. “Oh, the name escapes me.”
“I’m Ivy,” she replied. “You sure do know a lot about us.”
“Oh, yes. We have listened with interest to every scrap of information our Tresson friends could share. For months I have been positively replete with anticipation of the opportunity to meet you. As you might surmise, I’ve never met a malthrope before, so you can imagine my amazement at learning not one but two of the beasts had been tamed and made to serve so noble a cause.”
Ivy’s expression sharpened. “Tamed?”
“Yes, yes.” Mellawin sipped from the glass of wine, which his taster had deemed safe to drink. “Oh, this wine is quite good. But as I was saying, it has been ages since the claim could credibly be made that a malthrope had been seen on our shores. Of course, the stories persist. And they do not paint a picture of a warrior who would fight in service of its world. No, not at all. Indeed. Malthrope. Do you know that it is one of very few words that is common to nearly all languages? Such was their monstrous nature that the word passed unchanged from one culture to another, again and again. But here we have a dragon and a malthrope put to work. A sign that no matter their dire instincts or simple intellect, any being can be made useful if guided by the right hands.”
“Yeah. Even a closed-minded lout can be king,” Ivy muttered, thankfully beneath her breath.
Mellawin continued. “And that leaves the most troublesome one. Ether, the shapeshifter. It could be anyone, I suppose…” He pointed to Grustim. “It must be you. You are entirely unremarkable otherwise.”
“No,” Grustim said flatly. “I am Grustim, Dragon Rider.”
“Oh, oh! Yes, I know the name. A rare Tresson addition to the quests of legend to defeat the otherworldly foe. Of course. I should have supposed as such. Your gear matches that of the dragon, which I now realize must be Garr. I give up, then. Which of you is the shapeshifter?”
“Ether, unfortunately, was unable—or rather, unwilling—to attend,” Caya said, pouring a fresh drink. “A shame; you share her capacity to alienate others with extreme efficiency.”
Rather than displaying shame or irritation at the assessment, King Mellawin grinned. “I take it that I have not made the best of impressions. Please accept my apology. Several of the members of my court were insistent about accompanying me in an advisory role to, in effect, speak for me. I refused. I wanted my contact with the locals to be unfiltered.”
“You brought a poet and an artist and a taster, but you left your cultural advisers behind?” Deacon said.
“Indeed. Who better than the king to decide how the king should behave? But now I see the folly in that thinking, as I’m left to fumble my way through these first steps. I am lamentably inexpert in my direct dealings with lesser races.”
“As a first step toward greater expertise, may I recommend you forgo referring to us to our faces as ‘lesser races,’” Caya said.
“There, you see? I am learning already!” Mellawin said, raising his glass. “Though I am utterly comprehensive in my knowledge of my own lands, I make no claim of anything more than ignorance of this lovely and mysterious continent of yours. Thus far, my dealings with your people have been nonexistent, and my dealings with those of Tressor have been entirely in the realm of business. I have far leveler heads than mine to deal with such matters, and so I have left it to them.”
“Am I to take it, then, that this meeting shall not be to discuss business?” Caya said.
“Not in the traditional sense, no. The nature of the currency involved is far more exotic. You see, what you have to offer is the Chosen.”
“You will have to clarify what I hope is a misguided metaphor.”
“Naturally.” He turned to his people. “Mingle among the others. This is matter between myself, the queen, and the instruments of fate.”
Without a word of question or a moment of delay, Mellawin’s people stood and left the table. After a pointed glance and a conspicuous silence, Croyden left as well, along with any other members of the Northern Alliance procession. All that remained were the king, the queen, the Chosen, Deacon, Grustim, and Garr.
“I shall be frank, Queen Caya… May I be informal and call you all by name rather than linking them with titles? It makes for cumbersome conversation.”
“You’ll afford us the same courtesy?”
“For the duration of this private chat, certainly.”
“Then I’ll agree to those terms, Mellawin.”
“Much obliged. As I said, I shall be frank. I have among my court any number of truly skilled diviners and seers. And few aspects of our world are more visible to such mystics as the framework of the prophecy. Different minds interpret in different words, but the broad strokes are the same here as they are at home. A great war, a threat to the world, divinely anointed warriors, and eventually salvation. I became king some number of years prior to the war that, in short order, clearly represented the one that had been foretold. That much we had anticipated. There is no questioning Tressor was the largest of the world’s nations. Anyone who would challenge them and last any amount of time would surely do so only if empowered through some unexplained means. We thus did what we believed to be necessary in rendering aid to the side we believed to be the most virtuous… for a modest compensation, of course.”
“Of course,” Caya said.
“Now, it is only natural for us to assume most, if not all, the Chosen would come from among my people.”
“Oh? And why would that be?”
“Any number of reasons. Elves have a natural mystic affinity greater than any other race, to name but one.”
“I would counter that fairies have a greater mystic affinity, and a strong argument can be made that mermaids do as well,” Deacon interjected. “And furthermore, I have found that with sufficient training and discipline, nearly any race can rise to a similar—”
“I am sorry, Deacon, but as you are at best tangentially connected to the individuals in whom I am currently interested, I would prefer you did not interrupt or contradict me.” He said sharply.
Deacon blinked, slightly taken aback. “Of course. My apologies.”
“As I was saying, ours were at the very least a likely people to provide divine warriors, if not the exclusive race likely to provide them. Imagine our concern when it slowly became evident that the Chosen had arisen, the prophecy had been fulfilled, and my people and land played no role. Many among my subjects believe this can only be a sign that we have fallen out of favor with our gods. And as my family holds the throne by divine right, there have been murmurings that some deed of my own is to blame for fate turning its back on us. This is, of course, laughable. Nonetheless, I would not be serving my people to the fullest of my duty if I did not investigate. So to begin, I have questions that may be of a sensitive nature regarding the finer points of the fulfillment of the prophecy.”
“So long as it won’t endanger our people, I naturally defer to the Chosen to decide whether they wish to answer,” Caya said.
“I will be as forthcoming as I am able, as will the others, I’m sure,” Myranda said.
“First, the most blunt of questions. Are we certain that residents, past or present, of my beloved South Crescent
have played no role in the fulfillment of the prophecy?”
“I don’t know that any fought among us…” Myranda said, her eyes drifting as she thought back.
“There are some…” Deacon paused. “In my education I was taught by some elves who journeyed from your lands. And I lent a hand in both training Myranda and in defeating—”
“I am not interested in something a half-dozen links removed on the chain of glory, Deacon,” Mellawin cut in. “Were there, at least, any elves in a role of any importance? I speak of hands on weapons, feet on battlefields, drawing blood and shaping history.”
“Croyden’s mother and my godmother, Trigorah, might satisfy your requirement, though perhaps not in a way you would prefer,” Myranda said.
“Trigorah. Interesting. A strong name, and one with some history among my people. From what family did Trigorah hail?”
“Teloran.”
“Teloran! I have no fewer than three Telorans in my personal guard! This is delightful news. What role did she play?”
“She was to be a Chosen; she bore the mark.”
Mellawin slapped the table. “There! You see! Already my journey has borne fruit. But that you speak of her in the past tense, and that she does not have a seat at this table, suggests perhaps an unenviable fate?”
“She was rendered impure, unworthy, due to service to the D’Karon.”
“… She was a traitor to our world?”
“Through no fault of her own, and she eventually turned her back on them. It was that act that claimed her life.”
Mellawin considered this. “The principle contribution of our land to the fulfillment of the prophecy is a treacherous failure. We shall not speak of her again, if you don’t mind.”
“Forgive me if I am overstepping my bounds, Mellawin, but surely information such as this could have been provided via dispatch or surrogates,” Deacon said. “And frankly, if I’d known it would be the subject at hand, I could have much more thoroughly prepared.”
“I do believe we were to be discussing business, not history,” Caya added.
The Crescents Page 3
