8
Vad’Alvarn glanced across the room at the announcement of yet another delegation. Sartol. The name drew his eyes up from where he watched some server darting among the sea of bodies, deftly refilling mugs from an almost sloshing pitcher.
“Presenting,” the crier began. “Lord Mordaen of Sartol.” Sartol was a mountainous region, known for its metal and marble. In fact, the famous blue marble of Sartol mimicked the sea in the ballroom itself. It shone back from the floor and walls with an opalescent sheen. A kingdom rich, beautiful, and well-fortified if what he was told said true.
Lord Mordaen strode into the hall at the head of his contingent, his silver hair pulled directly back and held only by a leather thong. A warrior among courtiers. It was obvious from the way he carried himself, his eyes sweeping across the crowd making note of the placement of guards and even the battle readiness of the king himself. As if he planned a battle for that night. Of all who had appeared, only he had the audacity to wear his armor into the presence of the warrior king. Even more, he boldly wore his coat of arms, a cave dragon against a dark blue background in the devourer pose. The dragon was scooping some unsuspecting soul into its open jaws. No one else had been willing to risk such a blatant display of strength in this situation. His foot soldiers followed him in, each wearing his livery proudly, as though this were certainly no reason to be worried about what was occurring. They drew their strength from their leader’s defiance. One good reason to always kill the leader first, it demoralized with a quickness few things could match.
The king smirked at this defiance. No one else had dared. Not against this king who had put more families to the sword than would fill his capital city of Arthum. Yet this old Father wore his armor and his sword into a function meant to be peaceful. The murmur of surprise, and just an undertone of alarm, passed from lip to lip like a brush fire in a dry forest. Still, though he smiled, the King made no overt move toward the interloper. This was his palace; he had every right to demand the Sartol delegation, which came so openly armed, be removed from the premises. However he said nothing. His eyes tracked the glimmer of battle metal as it moved across the floor, interest in all other proceedings disappearing before the towering need to demolish this man who had the audacity to come into his presence, a monster of war, armed for battle. Underneath his armor, a set of black spines started to rise and his eyes darkened from a red the color of fruit to the color of drying blood while taking on a slight glow. The glow grew as he watched the silver haired man move across the floor toward him. As if sensing his gaze, Mordaen glanced up, meeting the eyes of his opponent with a chill formality. Sartol blue versus Burning Island red; locked in silent combat. A defender versus a conqueror. Who would prevail?
Mordaen turned away first, not because he was accepting defeat, but because someone laid their hand on his arm. His face softened. At his side appeared an angel, a young woman of sun kissed skin and hair falling in soft, glossy black curls about her face. On the arm of her pale blue gown, she wore the devouring dragon of Sartol emblazoned for all to see. His happiness was mirrored on her face, whatever tension there was between her lord and the king did not seem to touch her as she gazed at him, a twinkle in eyes, too dark to be brown but too light to be black. The Lord’s progress across the floor so arrested, the king could not help but let his eyes fall upon the Lord’s comely companion.
Eyes fell across her and seemed to drink her in, his spines flattening again under his armor. This was a female; he did not have any reason to fight with females. They were to be admired, but not heeded. Held but never confided in. This female though had Mordaen’s attention, his adversary. Rising from his place, the festivities came to a stop, eyes watching him from every corner of the room. The movement drew Mordaen’s eye back to him and it seemed as though the realization of what was to come was immediate, his eyes went from the king to his companion who had also shifted to look. Taking her by the hand, he moved away from the stairs to the throne. At first, she resisted, eyes captured by the dark armor and the swooping dragon burned onto the front. Then it seemed she came back to her senses, following along tamely.
The king moved to follow, only to be brought to a stop by his second on command. “Vad’Alvarn,” he said, grabbing his leader by the arm. “Wait.”
“What?” the king snapped out, the words were not angry simply impatient. Red eyes focused on his best friend, reminding himself of the years they had spent together on the Burning Island, seeking to make their mark on the world as large as it could be.
“You cannot pursue her,” he warned. “That must be Sartol’s own get, his daughter.”
“I know that, I can see it from the way he looks at her.”
“My brother, you do not chase the daughter of a man you will take in war. Not if you ever truly wish to have her.” Navar had rarely steered him wrong in the time they had known one another, and even if he had, then Navar himself had tested the knowledge and found it to be false as well. When they fell, they fell together.
“True, any man who truly loves his child and does not wish to see her under the yoke of war will slit her throat.” It was common practice among the women and children of the Burning Island. Fathers and husbands who truly loved their children and wives would kill them rather than see them carted away in chains to serve some foreign master. Never would a woman who had a husband or a son be made a slave. She would find an honorable death first at the hands of those who loved her. “So what do you suggest?”
“Defeat him in battle and take her as spoils. He will not have time to protect her if he is busy protecting his men.” Of course, Navar always had an answer.
Bodies moved around them, too conscious of their precarious position to want to intrude on his thoughts. Silk floated by and satin rustled around bodies parting before them as the pair walked the length of the ballroom toward the double doors issuing out into the grand hallway. The hallway was a different marble, pale silver-white, like clouds after a rain when the sun was just breaking through. Their footsteps echoed back to their ears as they walked the length toward the outer doors.
“I have women aplenty as spoils,” Vad’Alvarn said as they pushed the doors open, a guard discreetly finding himself a spot within sight distance of the talking pair. “I’m running out of gems for their necklaces.” He dismissed the thought of this woman as yet another of his consorts out of hand. Already he had one from each of his conquered kingdoms. Fleshly gems as beautiful as the stones they wore around their necks, each of them in the colors of their kingdoms’ crest. Already there was one who wore silver and sapphires; Relagina, the surviving daughter of Xernia claimed the deep blue of the sea as its color. Xernia, its string of beautiful islands, was a hard fight. The army of Vad’Alvarn had been unused to fighting on the sea and Xernia had been well taught. Yet Vad’Alvarn had won, he had strode into capital city and taken the head of the King of Xernia. Then he wedded the man’s daughter.
“You’ll never run out of gems and there is no such thing as too many women as spoils.” Navar was too amused by his friend’s dark countenance. After all, Navar was well known among the women who followed the army. With his easy grin and dashing features, it was hardly a question of why. Coal colored eyes with hair like darkened wheat, lips not quite full enough to be considered womanly, strong chin, and a body capable of shaming the carved statues of gods, Navar had many differences from the man nearly called his brother. Vad’Alvarn by contrast wore his black and silver streaked hair long, braided away from his face. Eyes shared the same red as the sand on the beaches of the Burning Island where he was born, not quite bloody, but more a shimmering red like crushed rubies. Along his back from his hairline to the base of his spine, black armored scales and spikes ran under his armor. Similar spikes were along the outsides of his arms, all of them tending to stand like towers when he was angered and being sharp as swords.
“What would you know about too many women as spoils?” His tone was serious, though still teasing. Navar had
no women of his own in his tents but those he invited and sent away at the end of the night. “You have not even the first women wearing your sigil.”
“And what do you truly know, my brother?” Navar answered back, eyes glittering with his amusement at the reaction he was eliciting. “When was the last time you returned to Arthum and bedded your wives?” True, the king had not returned to his capital city in over two years, too caught up in his military campaign to even consider turning back. His advisors had mentioned wondering when he would take the time to father an heir to his empire.
They were worried about the future of the empire he had not truly secured. It sickened him, just like this gathering they foisted on him as some kind of political expediency. What did he care for the negotiation of treaties when he could simply crush those who fought him under his boot and take what was theirs? That was the way of the Burning Island where every morsel of food was worth fighting for and actually was. Each person brought up from the cradle to understand the fight was the most glorious thing; it was a necessity of life, on the same level as breath. After returning from the wastes and working his way through the ranks of the army, Vad’Alvarn chose to take the army, now under his command, and use it to conquer the known world. So far, he had been nearly successful. Still, there were kingdoms seeking to halt his march of conquest.
The march was set by the beat of his heart singing forever the song of war. No woman’s arms had ever brought him to the same place as his mistress--combat. Perhaps if he had he would not be so reluctant to head back to his capital and become soft by reigning from a single position. “Tell me what you think of these treaties the advisors seem to want so badly.”
“The advisors always want treaties, Vad’Alvarn.” Navar’s tone was weary as if this conversation were hardly worth the words it would take to continue it.
“They have to justify their existence somehow. Otherwise, you might decide you no longer need them and wish to take off their heads.”
“You do not sound as if you would miss them if I did make such a decision.” Vad’Alvarn watched his friend out of the corner of his eye, just the glimmer of amusement on his face. “Perhaps I should.”
“All but Uniarl are useless. And the only reason I do not say Uniarl is also useless is because…”
“He was a warrior and understands my thoughts. Perhaps he does not always agree, but at least he understands.”
“Uniarl should not have given up his sword; he would still make a fine soldier.”
“Indeed, he would, but it was his choice after losing his eye. He earned his wives. What more does he have to do battle for beyond glory and he gains plenty of that as my advisor.” Vad’Alvarn was certainly not the kind who saw himself giving up his sword, much less for something so simple as the loss of an eye. After all, heaven had gifted man with two eyes. Losing one was certainly no great hardship. “I think it a waste, this negotiation they will have me sitting through in the morning. First we give them all night to plot amongst themselves and then we ask them to deal fairly before the light of morning, how foolish are we?”
“You have others listening, do you not? Listening for their plots.”
“Of course, the servers know they will be paid handsomely for anything they can bring to the kitchen carl who will of course report it all to me before daybreak.” Or he would torture the man until every drop of information was squeezed out of him hopefully before he bled to death. Most unfortunate but of little consequence.
“And you wonder what these parties are good for.” Navar chuckled. “Tomorrow, you will know who is plotting against you and of those, who will make the most worthy opponent.”
“To then crush like the grapes of Liercene.” Vad’Alvarn’s eyes grew contemplative as he gazed out into the night, taking in the stars shining down on them. The night was wearing on and they were only just beginning to find it tedious. One could only guess what they would think after the dinner.
9
Lord Mordaen paced his assigned chambers, eyes sweeping back and forth searching for an outlet for his anger. Long strides carried him across the carpet from one eggshell-colored wall to the other, back and forth, while his daughter watched him from where she sat before the vanity.
“You are upset with me.”
“I told you I would bring you, but you were not to be seen.” His words cracked through the air like a whip. “That creature!” Mordaen took a slow breath. “He collects wives like he collects thrones. Treats them as worthless things. I would rather he did not see any such flower of Sartol to covet. Now you have gone and undone it all!”
“No, Father. Had you not acknowledged me he would have known nothing.” Jalcina stared at her father, chin raised, eyes defiant of his worry. “Besides, what have I to fear from him? Do you truly think he will be capable of capturing Sartol?” A goad to her Father’s pride at absolute worst.
“Those words should never come from your lips again.” He whirled to a stop, the clattering stop of his armor near deafening in such close quarters. “Jalcina, do you understand me, for the rest of this trip, I do not want you to be seen. Not by that monster or anyone else.”
“Why bring me so far when you only wish to hide me from the world?” She rose from her chair, advancing on her Father until she was standing with her small frame against his armored bulk, fearless even in the face of his anger.
“I bring you to see the world, not so the world can make you its slave.”
Jalcina was his eldest child, not his only, but his first and favorite. Already she had a suitable match back in Sartol, young Lecern, and she would succeed him as he had brought her up to.
“Jala,” he said her familiar name carefully, brushing his fingertips along her face and into her hair, before cupping the back of her head and pulling her into an embrace. “Please. This is a war. If he is what they say, he will use whatever he can in order to weaken me.”
“I would never allow him to use me as a weakness against you, Father, you must know that.” Undaunted, she laid her head against the breastplate of his armor. The feel of it was familiar, as much a part of her Father as his voice.
His dislike of the situation came through on his face at her words. She was his daughter, through and through; there was no denying that fact. In the face of danger, she would not back down nor turn tail. Her mother had been so much the same it hurt his heart to look at her and hear her speak. “I trust you, Jala, I do. But neither will I put you in such a treacherous place. So you will do as I say and stay out of sight?”
“Yes, I will, but only because you ask it of me so sweetly.” Her tone spoke of chiding but her eyes said she was still quite in love with the elder member of her family.
“Good, I’ve got to go back to the ball. You will remain here.” As if she had not just agreed to his terms. Anyone who knew Jalcina knew such a reminder was extremely necessary. Promises from that young woman’s lips were quite beautiful things, but hollow rather like gourds. She could be trusted to keep her word only so long as her attention was kept. As soon as she saw a good opportunity for some kind of adventure, she was gone; all promises made forgotten in the temptation of having whatever new shiny object drew her eye. Planting a tender kiss on the forehead of his daughter, Mordaen steeled himself against the fact he was going to be stepping back out into the den of the lion. He was not particularly safe in these borrowed rooms, but at least he could be certain he was not caught in some web of intrigue when it was only himself and his eldest child. Out among those who were beholden to the monster and those who sought to keep his teeth from their throats, he was not safe. No matter how much armor he wore.
His daughter did not quite understand the enemies arrayed against them. Sartol was mighty, but the army of Vad’Alvarn was immense. It was the army of captured kingdoms. Each of them as large as Sartol, some larger. It was as if he were staring into the Morl Eye, the eye of the future incapable of speaking anything but ill. An old story said the Morl Eye appeared to those unable to
change their destiny. It gave them the strength to accept what was coming, knowing there was nothing they could do but put one foot in front of the other on their path to destruction. He dashed the thought away as his soldiers formed up around him. Sartol had a future and it would never know the slavery of being under the yoke of the Usurper King. He would see to that.
“Lord Mordaen.” His second, Darien, matched his step as the group headed back toward the throne. “One of the party from Membalar came to me while you were speaking with the princess.” Membalar was the nearest defensible territory to Sartol, lower in the mountains but still ringed in by foothills making it hard to directly attack. “They seek an alliance.”
“What are they offering?”
Each and every free kingdom needed to come together. It had been a folly on the part of Vad’Alvarn to bring all of his enemies together under one roof. Give them a chance to meet, create networks of support, and thus thwart his efforts to crush them all. He could not fight on every front at once. No mortal man could. Yet he had heard the usual talk of Vad’Alvarn, the king was blessed by the dark god of the Burning Island to bring pain and suffering to all other kingdoms.
“They say they are willing to be the forward force. They know the valleys and the foothills well. So long as we offer them a place to retreat to should things go wrong.” He leaned his head in close to keep the information between the two of them. There was no reason to get the hopes of those around them up. Each of the guard had chosen to devote their lives to his service. Each of them knew they were likely to die any day. Yet they were men, they knew the folly of hope. None of them wanted to see their wives or children bowing to this man who thought to own the known world. “I am inclined to take it, sir.” He offered his opinion humbly, eyes scanning the veins of the fine stone of the hall.
Chains of Fate (The Fate Circle Saga Book 1) Page 6
