RAP. RAP. RAP. RAP. The sharp sound cleared his mind in the surrounding silence, echoing across the vast and empty estate like a thunder clap.
“Damn it, have patience!” he muttered, hurling the parchment as he scrambled for his bedroom door. He improvised by sweeping up the maroon-colored shirt draped beside the fire. What was a little ink to the atrocity of the pauperish hole Cahsari had been so gracious to identify?
RAP RAP RAP RAP.
Sellemar flung the ink-stained rag into the smoldering fireplace and wasted no more time. The sleep was gone; his mind was clear. The disturbance warned of no ordinary guest—someone had arrived at the end of the True Blood Tunnel.
Sellemar caught the edge of the banister and swung himself over the side, landing softly beside the wall. ‘Alvena?’ he wondered, even as it was for Itirel he begged. He ran his blackened fingers down the marble tiles and pressed his hand flat against their base. The magic charged his palm and he spoke the ancient elven words for its compliance. “May I pass?!”
The wall revolved inward at his request and the golden, vaulted ceiling of the tunnel lit with a flicker of gentle, cerulean orb light.
Beneath the glow, the Noc’olari became illuminated.
“Itirel!” Sellemar cried in relief, though he restrained himself physically to a refined smile. The male’s flesh was unmarred by weapon or blood… He could not have been present when Galadorium was attacked! ‘Praise Sel’ari!’
“What took you so long?” Itirel breathed in rebuke as he ducked past the speechless male.
Sellemar pursed his lips, watching as the male wiped the perspiration from his brow. This was not the characteristic, ambling greeting he had expected after their time apart. Even when the circumstance was most dire, the Noc’olari was habitually, unnaturally calm… Had he been informed of Galadorium’s fate? “What has happened?”
At Sellemar’s detection, Itirel’s anxiety melted. His hand extended and dropped staunchly upon his shoulder. “Hadoream is in the land.”
Sellemar stood stupefied with disbelief. “Ha… doream…?” he stammered like an imbecile. Sairel had acceded to his plea?—It could not be true! “How do you know this?” he demanded. “If it is merely a rumor, spare me your optimism!”
Itirel discarded his worn sack beside the still-open wall and rested his lance at its side. “Allies in the south,” he replied vaguely, his attention fading as he scanned the estate. “Again, which way is your kitchen…?”
Sellemar had hardly begun to indicate down the hallway when the Noc’olari caught sight of the room at its end and hastened past. He vanished into the doorway beyond, leaving Sellemar to scurry in pursuit. “Hadoream on Sevrigel?” he repeated skeptically. “But I never truly presumed that Sairel would permit this… regardless of his father’s vow. Ilsevel will certainly threaten war upon the Sel’varian Realm if she discovers that a True Blood royal has returned!” He trailed off, envisioning the staunchly resistant king scowling at his missive’s proposal.
No, never Sairel.
Yet Itirel chuckled, flipping the doors of the pantry open one by one, and, as though he had forgotten his manners entirely, leaving each ajar. He snatched the loaf of bread from the lowest shelf, pausing briefly to regard the chunk nibbled from the side. “Sairel? Oh, he did not agree to this. This was entirely of Hadoream’s own choosing. It seems he slipped south with the assistance of Darcarus almost two weeks ago. Some of the sailors who trade out of the Eph’ven city of Dahel smuggled him across the channel to Marilore. Since then, he has made himself remarkably scarce…” He laughed and shook his head. “War? We have to find Hadoream first.”
Hope flared within Sellemar’s breast. This was a shocking turn of events. He had expected to expose the lies of Saebellus and Ilsevel one by one, and that the discovery of such duplicity would incite a rebellion within the people. Yet even were he able to cripple Saebellus’ army, uproot his council, and divulge his heinous plan, the rebellion would remain bereft of a leader.
But a True Blood! Not only would the elven world be eradicated of the centuries of corruption, but a true leader would then assume the mantle of responsibility.
Sellemar practically grinned. ‘I rescind complaints in full. Your plans are invariably grander than I can conceive.’ He was wrenched from his praise as Itirel heaved another door. “So then Darcarus must be here as well,” he concluded. “He has long favored the old cities along Dragon Wing—I would reasonably wager that Hadoream resides there.”
Itirel cast wide another door and sighed in dismay. “You need to eat more fruits and vegetables. You will suffer from ailments if you—”
“This is not the appropriate time to lecture me,” Sellemar interrupted, scraping his black fingers together in a failed attempt to snap. “Have you scoured the coast?”
The chunk of stale, nibbled cheese hung loosely in Itirel’s calloused hand. “I am afraid we have no such fortune,” he uttered regrettably. “Darcarus did not accompany him.”
“You cannot mean that Darcarus left Hadoream’s side…?” The notion was too preposterous to comprehend.
And yet Itirel nodded his confirmation. “Indeed, yes.” He shoved another hardened lump into his sack. “Yinsara is with him, granted, but our sources verify Darcarus was never on the ship. One can only assume that he has determined that he can best aid Hadoream from Ryekarayn.”
“From Ryekarayn?” The story was becoming increasingly outlandish. “What can he possibly achieve there? The male has no allies—” His expression flattened. “Surely he does not intend to hunt Relstavum.”
“This is Darcarus of whom we speak,” Itirel tutted. “He’ll attempt something ludicrous.”
“Fair point,” Sellemar muttered. He snatched a molded chunk from the shelf of a nearby cupboard before Itirel’s eyes could land upon its decrepit state. “Still, I see no victory in their reckless path. By not contacting you or me, Hadoream certainly cannot expect to ascend the throne.”
“I am certain he’s made his intentions quite clear by not contacting us. You know that this is hardly the first time the idea has been suggested to him. But we are on Sevrigel and Hadoream does not want to stir further conflict…” Itirel frowned faintly, raising the last bit of cheese for inspection. “Do you have mice?”
Sellemar bristled. “I am going to get a cat.”
“Oh? I thought cats hated you.”
“Not every cat can hate me.”
Itirel shrugged, reaching his hand along the topmost shelf of a pantry in his quest for further provisions. “What color?”
“I was thinking—Damn, the color matters not! We are discussing Hadoream.” Sellemar slung open the lower pantry and placed a chunk of dried meat atop the Noc’olari’s supplies. “That is the last of my food. Now tell me, what does Hadoream think he is doing here alone?”
“What does Hadoream think he is doing here?” Itirel chortled. “I do not believe Hadoream thought about his actions before he plunged headlong into the heart of the war. I imagine that he is attempting to help Sevrigel’s people. Ilra knows he’s probably bandaging some refugee and boiling soup as we speak.”
Such naivety! “Hadoream cannot forever evade his lineage! We have witnessed the state to which this country has fallen without his family! If he wants to truly help his people, he must—” He cut himself off, clenching his fist. “If Hadoream will not take the throne, so help me, I will!”
Itirel was upon him in an instant, catching the front of his collar to rattle him like an infant’s toy. His eyes pinned Sellemar with his full attention for the first time since his arrival. “Don’t you dare,” he sibilated. “We have all discussed this before. What is our decision? We cannot shelter this world forever. Do not, Sellemar, cross this line.”
Sellemar wrested his hand aside and shoved himself away, scowling. “Then Hadoream must—”
Itirel interrupted him in a deliberately passive tone. Hadoream a pacifist?—hah. The True Blood would find no greater rival to that title than t
his Noc’olarian male. “Hadoream’s mere presence is an inspiration to the people. He is giving them hope and ideas of rebellion. Their spirits are stirring, even without Hadoream leading them to war. But,” he stressed before Sellemar could interject, “you are correct. Sevrigel needs his leadership now. You and I can likely convince him to take the throne, but we must find and protect him first.” He dropped his sack onto the counter with a grunt. “There. That should be everything we need.”
Sellemar blinked. ‘WE?’ “What…?” He briskly stepped away, shaking his head. “No, no. I cannot accompany you.”
Itirel leaned forward, fixing him with narrowed eyes. “And is this decision because of your cat?”
Sellemar mimicked the Noc’olari’s expression. “No, this decision is not because of the cat-I-do-not-yet-own,” he replied flatly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned against the wall. “I have to stay here,” he insisted as his free hand gestured about the drafty interior of the old Rilden Estate. “If we are to change this country, we require more than an improvement in monarchs—the people must comprehend the crimes Saebellus and Ilsevel have wrought. When the people realize what they have caused by their compliance to such horrors, they shall become our rebellion and the strength in Hadoream’s army. That is my responsibility to oversee—you can fetch our prince. After all, your skills of persuasion far surpass what I can offer.”
“Hah. Your praise is flattering, but—”
Sellemar pressed a palm to the invaluable vial tucked safely into his inner breast pocket. “I just acquired the Nemorium. Once I have administered this to Ilsevel, failing to incite a rebellion will be impossible. We must change the hearts of the people or no army or king will deliver this country from its cycle of self-destruction. You can accomplish your task without me, Itirel—I have complete faith.”
Itirel straightened slowly. “Flattery, again. Thank you for your confidence, but I am not a god. And neither, as I apparently must remind you, are you. I will refrain from asking how in the Nine Realms you managed to acquire Nemorium and simply ask how are you going to manage to slip it to Ilsevel? Waving a glass of wine before the queen and tempting her to drink is far greater a challenge than you make it sound. You are talking about being equally as capable of slipping her poison. She is hardly that inept.”
Sellemar pursed his lips, wishing he had a plan to divulge. And in his search for a distraction, an unwelcome thought leapt into his mind. He had been so relieved to see his friend that his initial reason for his anxiety had vanished.
His throat tightened. Even the confidence of the male would surely waver in the wake of the news. “Itirel…” He swallowed his hesitation. He was not gifted with the charisma to ease into such a tragedy. “Galadorium has been destroyed.”
What little color Itirel possessed drained. For the briefest moment, his composed expression wavered; his eyes faltered. Yet he did not address the matter. “It is too dangerous for you to stay here,” his friend breathed after a moment. “Far too dangerous. Ilsevel is mad with bloodlust. We shall have to manage without the change of heart—surely such a thing can be achieved once we have Hadoream on the throne.”
Sellemar shook his head firmly, his lips drawn tight.
“E—”
“No,” Sellemar spoke forcefully. “And where will you find an army? Ryekarayn?—Saebellus’ plans there have disabled any hope for aid. I will be fi—” He stopped abruptly as a knock rang out from the door to the estate. “Truly?” he muttered. He turned to the hallway stretching to the Grand Hall and the estate’s front doors. A silhouette lingered behind the clouded panes of glass beside it. “Wait here… Stop venting your frustrations on that bread.”
Sellemar stepped quickly to the tattered curtains adorning the front window and peered out through the small crack along the side. If Tilarus had dared to show himself in person here…!
His stomach dropped.
‘Ilsevel.’
Sellemar promptly withdrew, hastening across the marble hall and breaking into a sprint within the hallway. “Go. Ilsevel is here!” he gasped. He grabbed Itirel by the arm, dragging him and his obscenely heavy sack swiftly toward the open tunnel. “Find Hadoream. All of Sevrigel is depending on you.” He picked up the lance, shoving it into the Noc’olari’s thick arms.
Itirel hesitated just for a moment, no doubt struggling through a mix of “sage advice” and “necessary warnings,” but he finally surrendered himself to Sellemar’s push. He took a single stride to fade into the darkness. “Be careful, my friend.” His tone of concern was unnervingly blunt. “We are not immortal… If you find yourself in danger, do not count on Sairel’s protection. He cannot reach you here.”
The shadow behind them shifted and a louder knock spurred the Noc’olari forward. “May Sel’ari bless you,” Sellemar replied grimly, running his hand along the tiles. “Thank you.”
And the wall closed with a quiet thud.
Sellemar straightened, his breast filling with confidence. Ilsevel had come to see him. Perhaps Sel’ari even now presented encouragement for his choice to remain behind.
“Greetings, Your Majesty. I am honored,” he spoke as he swung the great door wide. He dipped into a regal bow.
Ilsevel glanced through her escort of guards, surveying the darkened and dreary home with disdain. “Still quite drafty,” she lamented, drawing her heavy silk cloak about her shoulders to ward off the chill in the winter air. She stepped inside and drifted idly toward the kitchen as though she were mistress of the estate. “Where is your dining room? Have your servants prepare us something.”
Sellemar frowned. Visions of empty cupboards and recently crumbled bread rose in response to her words. “I am afraid that I have neither servants nor food at this time,” he replied awkwardly. And what a shame that a male of his stature owned so little in this land, even before his comrade had raided his meager stores.
Ilsevel paused at the entrance to his hallway, her hand running along the ancient tiles. Then she whirled and batted her bright eyes. “Will you then take me to dine, Lord Sellemar?” she inquired, flashing a smile so sickeningly sweet that it caused him to roll his shoulders in discomfort.
“I have some important—” he began instinctively as she swept back and wrapped her slender hands about his arm. But he immediately rebuked himself. ‘This is Sel’ari’s door to you,’ he snapped. He offered what he hoped was some semblance of charm. “But anything can wait for your sake,” he amended.
*
The establishment Ilsevel had chosen was an extensive, three-story building with a white marbled exterior and countless balconies jutting around the upper floors. Sheer chiffon curtains hung in varying shades of gold behind the closed glass doors, casting a warm array of orange light to fall to the cobblestones outside.
Crystal chandeliers, magically lit orbs, golden dining ware—the presentation possessed all the airs of a grandiose eatery. Still, Sellemar found himself unimpressed and wondered if his distraction was evident. This was an elven establishment otherwise worthy of his praise.
“Thank you.” Ilsevel’s words interrupted his thoughts. The server had pulled her chair aside and she seated herself with a graceful flourish of her skirts. They had stopped on the topmost floor before a table secluded within a vast row of dark, mauve curtains.
Sellemar realized his discourteous behavior too late and muttered a quick apology. For the briefest moment, he had thought that he had seen a familiar face at a table to their left, but the curtain closed and ended his perusal. He dropped into the chair across from the queen, trying to fashion what he perceived to be a charming smile.
Ilsevel raised her glass to the side as the servant elevated the bottle of wine. “El’adorium, you seem troubled,” she began, swirling her glass.
Damn Itirel for being correct! How in Sel’ari’s name was he to manage to slip the Nemorium to the queen with her sitting a yard away, ogling him with such shamelessly attentive eyes?
In his mild consternation, he
had drowned out the inquiries of the servant beside him and only the brief flick of Ilsevel’s eyes recalled him to the room. “The El’adorium would like a glass. I’m afraid business has left him absentminded.” She gestured to the goblet before him with a sweet, understanding smile.
Sellemar took a long sip. Damn. Focus. Ilsevel’s eyes lingered on his, her slender hand resting closer to his side of the table than was entirely natural. He slowly lowered his glass. “Server, I would prefer something a bit drier,” he requested, maintaining focus on Ilsevel’s gaze. “A white wine from the mid to late eighty hundreds, if you can oblige.”
The servant nodded quickly in acknowledgement and cleared his throat to begin a rambling inventory of the foods the eatery would provide.
Ilsevel leaned slightly to the right, away from his voice. “That will do,” she replied with a crinkle of her nose and a dismissive wave of her hand. She only reclined into her seat as he shuffled away. “I so love dining outside the palace,” she began again, as equally sweet and soft as she was outwardly passive. “My brother loved this place. I sometimes come to this balcony alone to reminisce about the time we spent here. It is nice to have a change in scenery… and to be away from prying ears.” She smiled and gestured curtly to the guards around her. “If you could wait outside, that proximity will suffice.”
Sellemar glanced sidelong as the soldiers filed out, hearing the soft clank of their armor settle outside the wall of curtains. Ilsevel followed his gaze and in that brief absence of all attention, Sellemar slipped the vial from his breast pocket and pressed his hand into his lap. He forced a smile as her gaze returned. “I could not agree more. Nor could my company be enhanced by a more beautiful lady.” He offered the words as courtesy dictated, but they left his tongue with a bitter aftertaste.
Ilsevel devoured the compliment. “Last time we spoke, Lord Sellemar, I failed to deduce much outside your charming character,” she purred. She dipped the tip of her ring finger into her wine and touched it slowly to her tongue. “But now that you sit on my very council, I should like to remedy that distance.”
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 25
