“Perhaps a little flaming will convince them to remain quiet,” the firedrake suggested before the archdoyen could respond.
“Flame me, Senass?” Wyln asked, just as interested. He shifted to look at the guards around him and, parole or no, they eased back.
“Perhaps we just should kill them anyway,” the faerie said. “We have the prince and the apprentice. We don’t need anyone else.” She smiled, showing pointed, sharp teeth. “How about an escape attempt? Those can be lethal.”
I inhaled again, the fragrance of the earth suffusing me, and I was once more behind a plow on my parents’ farm. The sun was warm on my back as I followed the horse, the fertile loam a song of spring and new beginnings. I stumbled and, looking down, I saw a branch reaching up from the ground towards me, a single ripe fruit hanging from it. My hand yearned towards the fruit’s smooth fullness and I slid my fingers around it, gently pulling. As I did, the branch came up also and, catching it in my other hand, I saw it was really a staff of ash wood—
“Where did he get that?” Ilenaewyn shouted.
My head snapped up to see the glory sphere flying at me. I knocked it away with the staff, my chains rattling.
“Stop him!” Kareste jumped up, knocking over his chair.
Laurel roared, his claws raking, as he fought to get to the table and his own staff. Kareste snatched it up and started backing away, his free hand weaving, his fingers crooked as he muttered. The firedrake flamed at the cat, and Laurel flung up a paw, deflecting it. The water sprite shrieked as the fire stream hit the table and she cupped her hands, pouring water over the flames.
The Council members tipped the charred and wet table over on its side, some sheltering behind it while others leapt over it to join the fray, those with weapons drawing them. The firedrake inhaled to flame again, but staggered back, his eyes wide. He quickly turned around to see Wyln. The dark elf Enchanter gently smiled, tracing fire in the air as he moved to face the winged fire serpent.
The glory sphere spun back, and I knocked it the other way. The windows started to shake as the wind rose again to a shrieking howl. The sylph rose over the melee and flew at me, her eyes full of jagged lightning. I raised my staff and the elemental slammed against the wall.
“He has taken a human as Cyhn. A descendant of the accursed Iver.” Pellan strode to the front of the guards, rallying them against their Fyrst. He drew his sword, and stood facing his uncle. “We will replace his polluted line with one that’s pure.”
“Whose? Yours?” The Fyrst held up his hand and the great sword of his lineage shimmered on the wall. In the next blink it was in his hand and he brought it before him. “No, Pellan. I think not.” The glory sphere circled again and I swatted it away again. The smell of sweet grass and loam was strong, and I looked at my hand to see an earth sphere there.
Suiden and Javes ran towards the High Council and Gherat came against them, his sword drawn. Javes pulled the lens off his quiz glass, revealing a thin dagger. He lunged forward, stabbing Gherat’s arm, and Gherat dropped his sword in surprise. Suiden scooped it up without breaking stride, just in time to meet Kenalt and Ilenaewyn, and the clash of their swords added to the tumult in the hall. Groskin had slipped by and jumped, knocking down the guard with the knife on Allwyn’s throat. The other guards converged on them as they rolled and fought on the floor. Esclaur grabbed Berle, his own quiz glass knife in his hand, and he dragged her towards the dais, where Obruesk was hunkered down out of the way of swords and magic.
I absently hit the glory sphere away once more, staring down into the earth sphere as it pulsed with the promise of life. I opened my hand and it rose—
“NO!” Whatever Kareste had worked up he flung at me, a zigzagging streak flashing across the hall to where I stood, folk diving to the left, right and down as it went by, their weapons clattering on the marble floor.
“Rabbit, get down!” Laurel bellowed.
“Move, Two Trees’son!” Wyln shouted.
The wind shrieked and the entire keep shook.
Watching the earth sphere rise, I brought my staff up and deflected the Magus’ working. It struck a window, shattering the glass, and the wind became still.
The earth sphere had apparently reached as high as it could go as it now floated down, spinning slowly. It touched the floor and was gone.
There was silence; then Ilenaewyn laughed as he rose from the floor, dusting himself off. “Well, that was a bust.” The other Council members laughed with him as they all gave me derisive looks, some peeping over the table’s edge. “It appears that this human is overrated,” the elf said. “I know the rest of the race is.” He picked up his dropped sword and turned to face an obsidian dragon, its outspread wings shot with gold. He dropped his sword again, and Suiden caught it in one taloned hand while he held Kenalt in the other. The dragon prince showed an excellent set of teeth, flames licking out of his muzzle, and Ilenaewyn backed away into a corner. With a sweep of his arm, the captain herded the rest of the Council members there to cower with the northern elf.
I pulled the iron manacles off, dropping them on the floor, and kicked off the fetters. The iron collar followed, falling on the chains and shackles with a clank. I looked up, expecting to see the hall full of wind and fury, but it was silent. I glanced into my hand; the rune remained dark.
“Your air aspect is blocked, Two Trees’son,” Molyu said. She gave my arm a tentative touch.
Oh, yeah. I frowned and looked around.
Laurel had reached the dais and now faced the Magus, both with hand and paw aimed at each other—at a standoff. Wyln also stood with his hand raised, a tracery of fire around him and the firedrake. A gray wolf, one eye swollen shut, paced in front of Gherat, growling as the Lord of Dru shifted, trying to find a way around him to the dagger on the floor. In the shadow of the platform were two sets of gleaming eyes, one snow wolf blue, the other russet fox brown. Obruesk edged towards Esclaur’s own dropped knife and the snow wolf turned his muzzle full of teeth on him. The archdoyen backed away again.
I looked the other way and saw a black panther crouched in front of Allwyn, his golden eyes fixed on the city guards, not moving except for the tip of his tail. Allwyn stood behind the cat, holding a dropped sword. Beyond them was the Witness Circle, in front of the Fyrst’s throne. As I stepped over the chains and ran towards it, the glory sphere came after me, and I batted it away. My bare feet slapped against me marble floor and, skidding to a stop, I stepped into the Circle, placing a foot on each weighing pan. But the runes remained dark.
“You allow this presumption?” Pellan asked, his light voice echoing in the hall. “This intrusion?” The city guards who had fallen back from the Fyrst’s great sword hissed and pulled their own swords, and some broke off to head my way. Laurel shot them a glance and they paused. The Magus, taking advantage of the Faena’s distraction, began to move his hand again, muttering.
I reached for the wind but, feeling resistance, turned to look at the sylph still plastered against the wall. Standing in the rune circle, I could now see a thin thread leading from her to a dense weaving around and over me, like cloth. Leaning the staff in the crook of my arm, I took the weaving in both my hands and pulled.
“No!” Kareste flung his hand out again.
There was a ripping sound and the sylph screamed, convulsing. My ears popped and I was encircled with white light as the runes blazed, painting their symbols on the high ceiling in light. I raised my hand, the truth rune on my palm as bright as the sun, and the Magus’ working was knocked into the floor, the marble stone crackling and breaking.
“Sixty-four lines to an elfin king,” the Fyrst said.
“Miscegenation,” Pellan said. “An unholy mixing with a lesser race.”
There was a booming, rushing sound as the wind poured into the hall and swirled around me, howling its rage and frustration at being blocked. My body started to resonate, rising from the floor, but Molyu once more placed a tentative hand on my arm. Recalled to myself
, I looked at her and, seeing pale threads that were wrapped around her, frowned. I gently brushed them off and she smiled.
“No, my sister’s son,” Wyln said as he watched the fire-drake. The serpent wove, trying to find a way past Wyln’s defenses, and Wyln snapped fire at him. “Not a misbreeding, but a breeding true.” There was a flash where the Magus’ working had cracked the floor. I glanced at it, but it was gone.
“Yes,” Laurel rumbled. “Lady Gaia herself is calling out, and the human kingdom has answered, fiat! They have become fae and their king elfin, dark and gold.”
“The cat blasphemes—” Pellan began.
“Dark and gold,” the Fyrst repeated. “My daughter was not lost when Morendyll fell, and now her blood runs through the Royal House of Iver.” Molyu gently cupped my chin with her hand as Wyln had done earlier, staring into my face.
“One of my lineage sits on the throne of the human kingdom,” His Grace said, “and Two Trees’son is his close cousin and so of my line too.”
“Misbegotten,” Pellan said. He began to move, raising his sword. “An obscene offense.” He lunged at his uncle.
With minimal movement, the Fyrst parried, and Pellan disengaged, circling around His Grace. Loran tracked him, waiting, at ease. “Obscene? Again, I think not. He has made the rune circle alive and full of light, as he has also done in Morendyll. As you have never done, Pellan.” The Fyrst’s lips pulled back, showing his teeth in a snarl, even as his voice continued calm and even. “He is mine as Jusson Iver’son is mine, and cursed be anyone who takes either one from me.”
“The curse will be yours, Fyrst and Cyhn to obscenities.”
Pellan lunged again, hoping to take the Fyrst by surprise, but Loran was waiting for him, and sword met sword in a clangor that filled the hall. I watched for a few moments, noting that the centuries’ difference in experience was telling as the commander, though good, was outclassed by his uncle. Apparently a city guard thought the same and crept up to the Fyrst’s unarmored back, a knife in his hand. I looked closer. Damn it all, it was my boot knife. The wind murmured in outrage and the guard was frozen midstep. So were the commander and His Grace.
“Release me,” the Fyrst said, his eyes annoyed. Freed, he took his great sword and, ignoring his nephew and the would-be assassin, stalked over to where Illenaewyn and the rest of the Council were penned by Suiden. I tried to follow, but was buzzed by the glory sphere as soon as I stepped out of the circle. Tired of it, I raised my staff.
“No, Two Trees’son, you do not want to knock that who knows where,” Wyln said from where he still faced the fire-drake. “Contain it, so that it may be safely disposed of later.” The air solidified around the corpse green ball and it too froze where it hung.
“Very good,” Wyln said. “Now, a little help here, please.”
There was a very brief scramble by Council members attempting to escape (they survived), but a moment later they, the Magus, the city guards, Obruesk and Gherat, were all held by a solid mass of air, with only enough give so those who needed to could breathe. Laurel made a couple of passes with his paw over Kareste, and I could see the white lines of his binding. Snatching his staff back, Laurel yowled something at the Magus, and Wyln looked startled, his eyes rounding. The Faena then turned away with a flick of his ear and tail and jumped off the dais to walk over to me, his own eyes wondering.
“You have worked translations, even though your aspect is air.” He looked at the staff I held, gently touching it. “And you were Gifted with a staff—”
He looked back into my face. “It was you in the embassy in Iversly, no? You changed everyone into fae and fantastic beasts.”
“Honored Laurel,” Groskin growled, “the doyen’s hurt bad.”
The Faena turned and hurried to where Doyen Allwyn had folded in on himself, collapsing to the floor. Groskin watched for a moment, then padded over to stare at Arch-doyen Obruesk, frozen in a crouch behind the High Council’s platform. The archdoyen moaned in terror.
“Tell me, Illenaewyn, why I shouldn’t remove your head right now,” the Fyrst said, standing eye to eye with the northern elf.
“He cannot, Your Grace,” Wyln said as he came to stand next to the Fyrst, fire sparking from his hands.
“Yes.” The Fyrst backed up and raised his great sword, ready to dispense elfin justice. Ilenaewyn’s eyes rolled up to watch the blade ascend.
“No, my husband,” Molyu said, a thin line of dried blood on her face. “You have given your parole. Will you now violate it?”
“A parole obtained through torture, my sister,” Wyln said. “Yours.”
“Most are given that way, my brother.” Molyu gave the same gentle smile as her brother. “We will bring the parole, Ilenaewyn, and the rest before the true Council to judge, and so our honor remains.”
The Fyrst hesitated, then lowered his sword, and Ilenaewyn closed his eyes.
“Ah, Your Grace, it’s easier you are than I, then,” Harbormaster Lin said from the open doors, butterflies fluttering about her. “As I would be after having his head on a stick.” Behind her were the castle guard, officials, and servants, all pretty much glowering at both Pellan and the Watch as they spilled around her to fill the room.
“Where had you gone, honored harbormaster?” I asked as two butterflies once again lit on my shoulder.
“For some reason the commander and his Watch didn’t seem to see me or my sisters, so we slipped away to find the keep’s guards and servants,” Lin replied. “But the doors were warded and it took a while for us to get through.” She looked around and found the faerie council member frozen in midflight, and a smile flashed across her face.
“Sister,” the faerie said. “See how the human has treated us. Please—”
Lin’s smile broadened, showing her own pointed teeth, and I suddenly felt nervous about the butterflies on my shoulder. “I told you, Ro, did I not? Yet you wouldn’t listen.” Lin shrugged, rippling her wings. “Now your consequences are upon you.”
I went over to Suiden, who sat on his haunches as he held Kenalt before him, the Turalian ambassador dangling from two talons gripping his silk jacket. In the captain’s other hand was a sigil, and he stared down at it. He saw my interest and lowered the sigil so that I could see it better. “A device for calling storms, with my own insignia worked into it.”
I peered closer. “Your own insignia, sir?” It looked like a dragon in flight. I gave a wide-eyed glance back up at Suiden.
The dragon rumbled, still staring at the device. “I am prince and heir, Lieutenant. This guaranteed that the djinn would find me—and anyone else with me.” He looked at his cousin. “You must’ve paid some wizard a pretty drackel for this, Kenalt.”
Kenalt said nothing.
“Why, cousin?”
“Another simple sin, sir,” I said when Kenalt remained silent. “Envy. As you said, you are prince and the amir’s heir, and he’s not.”
Laurel rumbled in agreement as he helped Allwyn sit up. “Folk wanting what’s not theirs, taking what they shouldn’t even touch.” Kenalt stayed in sullen silence and Suiden’s sides heaved in a sigh. He spared a glance as Javes and then Esclaur on three legs, with Berle scurrying behind, joined him. The russet fox slipped in front of the dragon prince and huddled down, trembling. Suddenly small and furry, she must’ve figured he was the lesser of all the evils in the room.
Loran had turned away from Ilenaewyn and now stood mm looking into his wife’s face, his hand under her chin. His thumb traced the line of blood. “Art thou well, wife?”
Molyu curled her fingers around his hand. “Yes, husband.”
“Good.” Loran released her chin, but intertwined his own fingers with hers, holding her close to his side. He turned to look at the commander, still frozen with his sword raised. “I suppose you’ll also ask me not to touch Pellan.”
“My sister’s only son, husband,” Molyu said.
“Will you argue for the Magus?” Wyln asked. “He’s not Council nor k
indred.”
“I would ask for him, honored folk,” Laurel said from where he was still tending Allwyn’s cuts and bruises, the castle healer now helping. “He has dishonored the Lady, my staff, and the tree who gave it to me.”
“There must be someone we can wreak havoc on,” Wyln said, his fingers twitching.
“Gherat,” Javes offered.
“There’s Obruesk,” Esclaur suggested, and Doyen Allwyn, ignoring Laurel’s efforts, made a sound of agreement.
Suiden held Kenalt, arms and legs dangling, towards the Enchanter, while Chancellor Berle, casting a nervous glance towards the dragon above her, met my gaze and ducked down again.
The Fyrst touched his wife’s face once more, then walked to his throne dais, climbed the steps, and sat. Laying his sword across his knees, he looked out over the hall. “Where’s my scribe?” The same clerk who recorded my Cyhn separated from the mob of castle servants, petty officials, and guards who were busy disarming and taking prisoners, and hurried to His Grace.
“Record in the Acta that I declare Rabbit, son of Lark and Two Trees, and Jusson of the House of Iver to be of my line—”
Ilenaewyn made a sound of rage.
“—their lineages to be my lineage, their oaths to be my oaths, their debts I shall owe, what’s owed them I shall collect, those they love, I love, those they hate I set my face against. Fiat.”
“Betrayer of your own kind,” Pellan said, struggling against his bonds of air.
“No, he’s not,” Suiden said, distracted from Kenalt. “You have no idea what your Fyrst has done, do you? Ilenaewyn does.” The dragon turned his head to consider the northern elf. “Any House with pretensions has at least one line to Iver. The entire kingdom is descended from the Fyrst. Or at least the ruling class is.”
“But I have sixteen lines,” Esclaur began. “Even Gherat has ten—” His voice trailed off and his ears laid back as he stared up at the Fyrst. He gave a small whine.
“But the lines are to Iver,” Berle said, daring to sit up, “and he’s not related to the Fyrst.”
Covenants (v2.1) Page 50
