“What is it?” she heard Adonis inquire of Vale. “Is something wrong?”
Vale heaved a frustrated sigh. “Jerah never came back last night. And Saebellus wants me to take care of it. Like I’m not busy conquering cities as it were. Let’s hurry and get these prisoners back to the capital.”
Alvena heard a sword slide from its sheath and her heart stopped. He was going to kill her right there! ‘Sel’ari, please…!’
There were several solid footsteps behind her and she whipped her head around, mouth opening in a silent cry of terror.
Vale shoved his sword through the throat of the moaning Noc’olari.
His body jerked once and he stilled.
“Vale,” Adonis gasped, turning his head away as though in offense.
Alvena’s legs threatened to buckle beneath her relief.
“Better to put him out of his misery now,” Vale grunted. He slid the sword from the neck, wiping it off briefly on the dead male’s cloak. “You should applaud me for my mercy. It’s more than these fucking traitors deserve.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The air was cold and damp and the floor Jerah lay on was hard like stone: the cellar was growing more uncomfortable as the days passed. He was conscious of the slow and steady drip that pulled him increasingly further from his sleep. He groaned, shutting his lids tighter in an attempt to block out the sound. His master had promised that he would fix that leak…
Palick.
Why hadn’t he fixed that damn leak?
Jerah sat up with a start, his eyes going wide and dilating in the darkness. Wait! He had not returned to the cell! His mind swam, his body ached. He was damp and cold, cramped from having rolled into a ball for warmth. His wings peeled away from his stiff torso to stretch, pressing against a stone wall behind him. “Uhhhh,” he groaned as he retracted them once more.
The sewer system beneath the city. ‘That’s right.’ The memories from the previous night crawled back to him as his mind cleared. First there had been Kinraeus’ murder and then Jerah had slipped away into the city’s sewers. The sewers had gone on for great lengths as inches of cold, dirty water that dragged down his massive boots. There had been no good place for rest or shelter. When Jerah was so disoriented and cold that he could walk no further, he had finally surrendered himself to curling up in a tiny, damp spot on the side of the tunnels.
There Jerah had slept—a deep, solid sleep that had kept him until a rather famished rat started gnawing at his arm.
Jerah looked down then. He had subconsciously crushed the vermin—he was used to their kind. Aside from Master, they were the only company he had.
He knocked it away as he stood. How long had it been? His stomach responded with a low rumble and Jerah could only think of the rich taste of food. He gazed down the tunnel, envisioning a few pounds of raw pork.
And then sudden panic seized him. ‘How long had it been?!’ Jerah felt a bubble of fear push away his hunger. He could turn to stone at any moment!—He had to pay the price!
Jerah scrambled frantically over water and stone until rays of light shone down through the grate above. He cocked his head to the sound of movement. How many elves were up there? He had to kill one of them before a day passed outside his cell!
He gripped the iron of the ladder and hauled his massive form swiftly up its length until he could peer from the spaces of the grate. His stomach churned as he met the strangely brilliant light…
And Jerah froze. The churning inside him stopped and grew heavy, feeling like a stone held between his constricting lungs. He could not breathe! And he could barely see—the world was so bright!
The void above was a pale grey-blue and the countless distant twinkling torches he had seen the night before had vanished. In their place—and that of the large, white torch—was a yellow sphere of such brilliance that Jerah could not look at it without his vision fading entirely.
Fear overtook him. Where was he?! How far had he travelled in the day that the void had changed entirely? Was he still on Sevrigel? Or had he somehow crossed into Ryekarayn? His grip on the ladder faltered and he fell to land hard on his leathery wings. Jerah slowly rolled over, staring blankly at the wall before him, strange bright orbs still playing in his vision. His mind felt numb and his heart ached desperately for the safety of the cellar.
How foolish he had been. How foolish!
Time blurred together and Jerah lost sense of how long he lay in the muck of the tunnel, staring emotionlessly at algae clinging to the wall. He lay there until he noticed that his vision came more easily—that the orbs were gone—and that the light from the grates had faded.
Jerah turned around slowly. Almost cautiously. Certainly, the light had dimmed. He stood and looked warily up through the grate above him.
The void had changed. Indeed, where the grey-blue and fiery orb had lain now rose a deep and more familiar grey.
The sound of the movement had quieted.
With as much courage as Jerah could muster, he pushed aside the feeling in his gut and climbed once more up the slippery ladder. He lifted the grate up and leaned out.
He was between two buildings, in a narrow alley flanked by the creamy, white walls of elven housing. Down to his left was a broad street. There, he could see the occasional elf still moving quietly along, unaware of his presence.
Jerah inhaled sharply, sucking in the cool, damp air through his cracked lips, tasting the sewer water on his tongue as it passed. Where was he? Where was his cellar? And how long did he have before he would turn to stone?!
As panic at the last question once again began to rise, Jerah quickly pulled himself out of the hole.
The other questions would have to wait. For now, he had to kill.
Far above him in the void, he could see the glitter of a single torch. He wondered if, just perhaps, the torches in the black void did go out and only now were returning to light. It was welcome after the brilliance of his last attempt to surface, and his eyes adjusted swiftly to scope the darkness.
A brief hint of meat twisted in the breeze and the low growl of his stomach reminded him of his hunger.
‘No, focus Jerah!’ he rebuked himself. Perhaps the next black void in the sky would bring with it the cycle of a day. And that would be his death.
He crept to the edge of the alleyway and hunkered into stillness. The void grew quite black and was sprinkled with comforting white lights before an elf finally came near. His stride was long and careless as he wandered down the road, but that made Jerah’s job easier.
In a sudden, silent movement, Jerah leapt from the alley and seized the elf, dragging him back into the darkness as swiftly as he had left. With practiced efficiency, Jerah crushed the elf’s skull between his hands and dismembered him in the fashion he had been told. With the elf’s death came the release from fear of his own.
Jerah dragged the body to the side of the alley where it was quickly forgotten and raised his nose in immediate acknowledgement of his fatigue. The killing was done. Now he was finally free to eat.
And then, Jerah determined, he would begin his journey to Ryekarayn.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Saebellus let the door close with a muffled thud behind him, drawing his hand slowly from the handle as though extending the silence into the room. The marble floor was dark at his feet, but across its glistening surface the fire still cackled and belched on the dry wood. He noted that Taemrin’s sword, which had once hung above the mantle, was gone.
‘Vale,’ he muttered to himself. The Sel’ven had been eyeing the blade since they had unearthed it at the Battle of Elarium, trampled and half-buried under debris and corpses. Another token for Adonis, no doubt. Ilsevel would be irritated, but he was relieved to see his bedroom freed of the tackiness of the trophy.
Still, it did little to alleviate his stress. He dropped into the chair before the fireplace, allowing his forehead to rest against his palm. There was not a bone in his body that did not ache. A minute to close his eye
s was all he desired.
No sooner had the thought completed than a sharp knock rang out across the room. Of course he was not to have that moment.
He heaved a sigh. “Enter.”
The door swung open and closed in near silence, but Saebellus did not raise his head. “I hope you bear good news, Adonis?”
The male was beside him before he finished speaking, his delicate footsteps inaudible across the stone. “You look weary,” drifted his lieutenant’s reproach. “But I do have news.”
The omission of “good” made Saebellus cringe internally, but he lifted his face to meet the male’s gaze. The corners of the lieutenant’s pale eyes were riddled with lines and Saebellus dropped his hand away.
“I am well, Adonis,” he assured, gesturing to the chair adjacent to the flames. “Speak.”
Adonis made no move to take the seat. Instead, his features hardened and rigidity seized his slender frame. “Relstavum,” he began in his soft way, “has acquired a bounty on his head.”
Saebellus exhaled. A bounty? He had expected nothing less. “Good. Clearly his chaos is having the desired effect. When I spoke with him last, both his bandits and rebellion were closer to fruiti—”
“The bounty is for slaughtering the entire populaces of several cities.”
Saebellus jerked upright, wrenched from his languor. The shadows beside the fireplace surged across the wall in a reflection of his disbelief. “WHAT?!” he roared, rising to his feet.
Adonis drew himself up in equal measure, disgustingly and haughtily calm. He flicked his hand out, drawing a golden lock behind his ear. “Relstavum has slain three of Ryekarayn’s cities using necromancy. Two were of King Joramon’s, north of the Makataj. Only a handful of people are reported to have escaped. The last was under the purview of the True Bloods—the Eph’ven city of Dahel.”
Saebellus’ fingers curled. “What is that feral human doing?” he hissed, in a tone so venomous that the lieutenant was wise to take a sharp step back.
Safety achieved, the male goaded him with a crooked smile. His eyes locked in challenge. “Oh? So then, you are outraged?” His tone dropped away from its sickeningly mocking pitch and fell into disdain. “I just returned from Galadorium—I have witnessed firsthand what Ilsevel’s plans have wrought. The prisoners will arrive in a few days and then you shall see what is left of our brethren.”
Saebellus’ gaze did not shift away. He marched forward, daring his lieutenant to remain composed. “This is war,” he breathed with cold stoicism. “People die.”
“This is genocide,” Adonis growled. He stepped back once and stumbled, catching his balance on the arm of the chair.
In the brief moment that their gaze was broken, Saebellus closed the distance, bearing down in warning upon his insubordinate soldier.
Still the male dared to breathe his accusation. “Loneliness is more dangerous than the most potent of poisons.”
The shadows along the wall flared once. “Get out,” Saebellus whispered.
For all his valiant bravery, Adonis failed to conceal the tremble at the sight. His flush cheeks grew grey. “You cannot—!”
Saebellus’ chest expanded and he interrupted with elevated volume. “I commanded you to get out.”
And whether it was the sudden proximity of the darkness or the tangible bloodlust riding the air, Adonis was swift to obey, shooting the warlord a single scowl before he left the door open at his back.
For a moment, the deafening silence hung about Saebellus—cold and thick, but welcome.
Then the warlord shattered it with a roar. He slammed his fist into his chair and sent it crashing into the murals along the wall. The wood shattered on impact, black fire searing to life upon the covering of silk. The rod above it that held the War of Dragons in place snapped, clattering to the tiles and relinquishing the tapestry to the flames.
The act did little to quell Saebellus’ fury and so he raised his hand against the last chair before the fireplace.
A sweet voice rose unexpectedly over his rage. “What is troubling you, my love?” There was a quiet click as his wife did what Adonis had not, and he heard the tap of her small feet as she crossed the marble floor.
Saebellus stiffened and the black flames were extinguished with a hiss. From the corner of his eye he could see her sauntering, the golden frame of his crown twirling about her graceful fingers.
“I hope Adonis did not vex you.”
Saebellus merely grunted, dropping into the remaining chair.
Ilsevel fell swiftly onto his lap, batting her vibrant eyes in hopes of stirring visible affection. “Quite bold for a mouse, isn’t he?” Her fingers extended, the crown sweeping down upon his head. “Now tell me what he did to trouble you, my king.”
Saebellus managed no more than a visible twitch of his displeasure, but Ilsevel noted it nonetheless.
“Saebel, why will you not wear this?” she fussed, running one hand to smooth his hair about the circlet.
Saebellus’ expression remained indecipherably fixed. “I am wearing it now.”
Ilsevel chuckled and tapped his nose with the tip of her polished nail. “There is some humor,” she smiled, pressing her lips against his ear. Her breath tickled his lobe. “But I should like to see my king more often.”
Saebellus drew the twisted circlet slowly from his head, letting it hang loose in his calloused hand. “A crown does not make a king.” But when her lip jutted out in disapproval, he growled, “You are not asking me to be a king. You are asking me to be a tyrant.”
Ilsevel recoiled from his chest, her chin tucked downward. “What?” she demanded, making no attempt to moderate her tone. “And how do you reason such an accusation?”
“These planned attacks on the elven cities,” he replied, maintaining a level response. “I do not agree with them. In fact, I am staunchly opposed.”
Ilsevel’s hands fell to rest against her abdomen, and she turned her head aside, the shallow creases of her knit brow emphasized in the flicker of firelight. This was the core of her desires, and his words marred her countenance as though he had personally wounded her. “I see…” she trailed off quietly. She cast her eyes to the other end of the room, even and unblinking.
Where he knew Hairem’s body had been found.
Saebellus felt a rumble rise in his breast, and the shadows sibilated in animosity, frenzied by her manipulation.
Yet Ilsevel had never seen him as the banished villain the world had denounced him as. Adonis was right: loneliness was more dangerous than the most potent of poisons.
He tried to smooth the lines of her distress by stroking her arm as he spoke. “The humans and Noc’olari were one matter: they knew the price for ignoring the law. But this notion of relocating is forcing these cities to react—we are killing those who might otherwise not act against us. You are ordering us to move with the knowledge that we will slaughter non-Sel’vi by the droves. It is bordering on genocide.”
“Genocide?” Ilsevel laughed at his words, clasping his hands and meeting his eyes undaunted. “We are not committing genocide, Saebel. We are dividing and relocating the people so they cannot organize rebellions against us. We are not simply entering these cities with the plan to slaughter females and children. This is war. If the troops resist, then they die.” When Saebellus grimaced, she reminded him, “You may be king now, but what happens when you are dead? The council will rise up in their arrogance and your laws and your image shall be done away with in place of their own selfish desires. The council may be the root of the evil, but all of the elves… all of the cities have become equally as debased. Nothing makes this as clear as the day they branded you and my brother traitors.”
Saebellus’ fingers tightened on the circlet, causing the metal to twist and bend.
“It was not only the council that forsook us, my love” Ilsevel murmured. “The entire world has betrayed us, and so nothing less must be reformed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sellemar glare
d venomously at the intruding sun, his rancor due in part to the pain of his recent nighttime escapade, and the rest fueled by the hour of the day. ‘Where were you when I needed to rise, Zephereus?’ he shot upward resentfully. Between late-night correspondences with his connections in the capital and his own scouting operations, rising at his usual hour—without any assistance—had grown unsustainable!
Now the day was long after the dawn, and here he had just arisen as though he was young and blithe!—Though he supposed he had never actually been young or carefree enough to take advantage of such a luxury as sleep.
He muttered and scowled to himself as he ascended the large marble steps of the council’s hall in long, brisk strides. Late yet again. His own lack of punctuality disgusted him and it would surely do the same to the males within. Except that he did not need to hear their haughty rebukes. The lines on his face creased as he thought of Cahsari’s beady little eyes staring down at him in their puffed-up, vulture-like folds.
A flicker of white caught his eye and he glanced down. ‘What ill fortune is this…?!’ he growled to himself as he poked a slender finger through the bottom of his wine red shirt. ‘First the emerald, and now this?’ The war against the rodents of his estate raged on, and he was losing.
But there were priorities!—the fight with the demons, meeting with the members of his Resistance, and most importantly yet: his letter to Sairel for the aid of Hadoream.
The young royal was one elf Sairel must spare, as nothing would rally the spirits of the elven nation as the likes of a True Blood.
He gave a sigh of frustration and dropped his shirt, patting it once as though this would conceal his pauper-esque attire and quell his anxieties. What a pitiable state to which he had to lower himself in order to mend Sevrigel’s wounds—and what he would not give to adventure in more regal attire once again.
The guards before the Council Hall withdrew at the flick of his wrist, allowing him as usual to push the doors wide for himself and step into the golden chamber of his brethren.
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 21
