“You are safe here,” he tried to reassure it.
It responded with a growl.
“Are you hungry?” He questioned once again in the human tongue.
When it merely bared its teeth, Jerah attempted to pacify it. He reached over and picked up a piece of meat. It watched Jerah silently for a moment as he moved it onto the floor in front of him. He cut off a small piece with his talon. “Here,” he offered.
It responded with a sudden, ear-splitting screech that trailed off into a guttural growl.
Jerah dropped the piece and leaned away. “My ears hurt when you do that,” he rebuked.
It let out a second, ear-splitting screech.
With ears ringing, Jerah angrily bared his fangs, raising his shoulders up to demonstrate his massive form. The snarl that left his lips shook free the loose drops hanging above the pool.
The creature’s eyes widened in fear and it shrank away. Its intense stare locked onto Jerah’s leg, as though willing him to collapse.
There was a sudden tingle and Jerah looked down.
He choked out a gasp. Fire!
Jerah quickly put his hand over the little flame, snuffing it out. When he looked back to the creature, it had subsided once more into unconsciousness.
Jerah slowly removed his hand, revealing the stain of a little scorch mark upon his pants leg.
“What, Master, was that?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“I explicitly stated a red swatch, Tilarus—the color that we strive with great airs to maintain so staunchly vibrant. The color of the ancient royal line. The hue of our blood. The champion of the military front. And yet you managed to fail utterly. You are lucky I found you at all,” Sellemar criticized as he watched the elf perch himself atop a barrel.
Tilarus scoffed, his pale green eyes creasing at the corners. Noctem’s moon was dim, even for a winter’s eve, and his expression was almost lost in the darkness of the alleyway. Still, Sellemar could see him wave a hand facetiously. “Oh, just admit that this time I hid it quite effectively and even you could not find it. It is certainly red.” He stiffened his shoulders beneath his thick, cotton tunic.
Sellemar waved the swatch in the chilly air to diffuse the stench of fish that breezed in intrusively from the docks. “How can you argue that this is red? This is pink. The swatch is most certainly the pinkest fabric I have ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes upon.”
“No, definitely red.”
“Now you are just being stubborn.”
“They were out.”
Sellemar regarded him flatly. “Material Possessions was out of red fabric.”
“Yes.”
“And Fabric Tales? Mages and Bolts? That one at the corner of Silengar and Nuvae?”
Tilarus raised a hand. “There is a shop at Silengar and Nuvae?”
“Yes,” Sellemar sighed. “With the wooden sign of that veritable mountain of fabric.”
Tilarus regarded him blankly.
“On a golden platter?”
“Oh! You know I always thought it was a hat… Wide brim… a little pointy?”
“…Do you know what the color red looks like, at least?”
Tilarus snatched the swatch from him and stuffed it deep into his pocket. “We should just do away with pictures entirely. It isn’t as though we are on Ryekarayn—I dare say every elf has been taught to read for at least ten or twenty millennia.” He sniffed, wiping his nose across the back of his hand. It had grown several shades more scarlet than his swatch. “Anyway,” the male stated, gesturing to the wall as though offering Sellemar a fine place upon which to lean his back. “Why could we not simply meet at the headquarters?”
Sellemar’s lips drew tight, remembering the pretty face of the young male Sel’ven he had observed lingering about the place. “No… This is the second time I have seen one of Saebellus’ lieutenants hovering near me this week, and I am fairly certain he is a mage—one moment he is lurking in some nearby flowerbed, and the next, he has vanished.”
Tilarus bit his lip. “Have care, Sellemar. A male like that could equally appear behind you and put a knife in your back.”
Sellemar ignored the comment. “For now, I am avoiding that area… They may hold the temple suspect. If we lose the Resistance before the rebellion has sparked, there will be no source with which to set the tyrants aflame.”
Tilarus shrugged. “We are so close to rebellion… do you honestly believe Saebellus can still prevent his fall?”
“We have weakened his army and kindled distrust, but Saebellus is far from defeated. Once we reveal the genocide to the people, I will strip Cahsari and lay the council’s crimes bare for all to see. When the people truly comprehend what their complacency has wrought, they will seek a new leader. We must be present until Hadoream’s forces arrive. When all this has come to pass, then Saebellus will fall.”
“Well, this is why you are the leader. You make the plan sound easy,” Tilarus snorted. Then he paused, letting the corners of his lips dance. “You mentioned nothing of revealing Saebellus’ plans… Nothing of the Nemorium. And I notice that you have quite a number of scratches. I do hope the two are related. Another exciting tale?”
Sellemar slipped his hands casually beneath his cloak. The Nemorium. That was the subject he was most fervently attempting to banish from his mind. Tilarus had warned him the effects would begin thirty days after binding… and tomorrow would mark the thirtieth.
Damn the cursed bond he was soon to endure! “Oh, the scratches are nothing,” he coughed faintly. “Just a cat.”
“…A cat?”
Sellemar glared.
“I’m just trying to say,” Tilarus began, throwing his hands up in defense, “that the response was not nearly as glorious as I expected.” When Sellemar’s scowl grew withering, he choked back a barely disguised laugh; it departed his nose as a gauche snort. “Gods, why would you get a cat? Dabbling in Ulasum’s Tooth, are we?”
Sellemar remained stoically unamused.
“You never did get along with Sorsa or Pexan.”
Sellemar scoffed. “That is because your cats were despicable creatures.”
The creases at the corners of Tilarus’ eyes faded. “And on the contrary, your cat seems delightful.”
Sellemar’s hands dove deeper into his soft, cotton pockets. The Nemorium was beginning to sound like an inviting topic. “Have you any news?”
“About my wife?” Tilarus leapt to the topic, though he had to be aware that it was not the information to which Sellemar had been referring. “She is doing magnificently. Radiating like the sun. Healthy as a goddess. Sel’ari bless her!”
“…And here on Sevrigel?”
With a huff, Tilarus’ face grew grim and he anxiously adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves before speaking, as though there was some way they could have fallen out of order. “I have word from Sairel. Ilsevel and Saebellus are making fairly severe threats upon the Sel’varian Realm for Hadoream’s presence in the—”
“This is unbelievable.”
Sellemar blinked. “What?”
Tilarus paused, releasing hold of his wrist. “I said that Ilsevel and Saebellus are making fairly severe—”
“Don’t you dare try to pacify me now!”
Sellemar closed his eyes tightly. A drumming was resonating within the recesses of his mind. It was intensifying, rising to consume the world around him. What…?!
“Sellemar?”
“Saebellus…”
A high-pitched whining swallowed his words. Darkness engulfed him.
“Sellemar, are you alr—”
“SAEBELLUS!”
Sellemar felt himself stiffen, his body drawing away from where his hands had pressed against the cold, weathered wood of the ancient table before him.
The pounding ceased. The whining dimmed.
The darkness had abated and he found himself in the vast, stone hall of Elvorium’s palace. A single chandelier swayed as though whirling from a storm, the
little flames of its score of candles flickering in the wind it created for itself. Unnatural shadows scraped and clawed their way up the wall, illuminated as light landed directly upon them.
Saebellus stood before him, dressed in silk so black that even his hair seemed muted beside it. No light reflected off the rigid composure of his body; instead, it scattered about him as though fearful of his mere presence. His long, pale face had contorted in rage, his eyes a challenging void to the other emotions stirring in the room.
Ilsevel shifted in her chair against the far wall, a glass of wine gripped so firmly in her tiny hand that the stem threatened to snap beneath her force.
Vale finished straightening from the table, his eyes flicking once over the little pawns scattered across the map of Sevrigel. ‘Burn it all,’ he thought with a scowl, running a hand down his scarlet tunic. He cleared his throat, eyes rising once more to Saebellus. “Hadoream is nothing. Sairel would never be so stupid as to allow—”
Saebellus whirled, his teeth baring like the fangs of a serpent, ready to strike at Vale’s attempt to pacify him once again. “No? NO? How do you know this, Vale?! Has the goddess granted you some vision of the future?! DO share your wisdom!”
Vale pursed his lips, eyes shifting toward the door of the chamber hall. Gods did he wish he had gone to scout in Adonis’ stead and sent him to deal with Saebellus’ rage today.
“LOOK AT ME, VALE!”
The shadows along the wall rose sharply and flickered like talons above the room, veering haphazardly each time the chandelier light scurried across their forms.
Vale allowed his gaze to meet Saebellus’. “Sairel has… fifty thousand civilians? How many soldiers, in that lot? To be sure, the Sel’varian Stronghold at their west may bend beneath his demands to supply him troops, but with Relstavum creating every kind of threat outside their doors, neither Sairel nor the Stronghold can possibly spare the soldiers without fear of being laid utterly to waste. And even if he could, at best he could acquire thirty-five thousand: and that includes the arming of some civilians. Twenty thousand is all—”
Saebellus roared in frustration, and his hand slammed against the underside of the large wooden table. As though it were made of straw, it flipped high into the air, sending the pawns scattering across the marble floor. A thunderous echo resonated through the chamber as it smashed into the tiles at the captain’s feet. “Twenty thousand is all? Is ALL, VALE?! I was the unchallenged king of this land for mere DAYS before Kinraeus attempted to usurp my power through the human king. No sooner was he killed than some rebels crippled my attempts to recover my military force. And now, with the threat of a rebellion at our gates, the True Bloods have forced their way back onto this continent! My grip on this throne is weakening every DAY Hadoream remains alive! And you attempt to pacify me with, ‘Should you kill his brother, Sairel only has twenty thousand to send to war!’ KILL Hadoream? I CAN’T EVEN FIND HADOREAM!”
Vale swallowed audibly. He knew why. Adonis’ words echoed in his mind. ‘You are betraying Saebel…’ He could see that even Ilsevel had pressed her body away, eyes wide in fear as she regarded the king.
Saebellus’ temper…
Still, Darcarus deserved a chance to save Hadoream. Vale owed him that much. He raised his chin, steadying his voice as he met the lifeless gaze of his general. “If you choose not to kill Hadoream—and merely imprison him instead—the rebellion will vanish and you will have nothing to fear from Sairel. Even if you choose to kill the little prince, I doubt Sairel would attack the continent. What good would it do if his brother is already dead? Sairel and Darcarus will be the last of their line: with Darcarus practically disowned, if Sairel were to lose the war, the True Bloods would be at an end. Sairel would not risk their family line to wage war for his dead brother’s sake.”
Saebel’s face remained fixed in anger, but he raised his hand to the bridge of his nose and pinched. “Mm,” was the only vague response he offered.
Vale grimaced, gaze shifting toward the bitch-queen.
She scowled at his obviously hostile thoughts. “Saebellus,” she began softly, fully aware of how daring it was to attempt to change the topic. “Since we have Vale here, perhaps we can discuss that matter I mentioned to you again the other night. Your captain came into the Fel’ruan and humiliated me before the El’adorium. Simply because I agreed with your request to leave Alvena in his care. I believe killing her would settle this matter more effectively and I—”
Saebel’s hand dropped from his face and Ilsevel choked back her words. “Humiliated you? Alvena? Do you think I GIVE A DAMN?! Alvena is a little servant girl who saw you murder Hairem: a deed long past and THE LEAST OF OUR PROBLEMS. Hadoream, who is still alive, is in the south, stirring my kingdom against me. And ALL YOU CAN THINK ABOUT IS THAT LITTLE CUNT!” The ancient table burst into black flames, devouring the wood with insatiable lust. “SO HELP ME—!”
“Saebel, your map,” Vale swiftly interjected. “Ilsevel was just attempting to pacify you. Foolishly, but she meant no harm.” His gaze shifted to her and his eyes narrowed. ‘You owe me,’ it read with a hidden sneer.
The flames were extinguished in a puff of thick smoke. As Ilsevel let out a breath, her glass abruptly slipped from her fingers, shattering across the briefly silent room like a wail in a catacomb.
Saebellus started, face softening faintly as though his sense of self had been reestablished through his rage. He turned and focused on the bitch-queen, waiting for her to speak.
Ilsevel’s hands trembled slightly as she placed them into her lap and stifled her uneven voice. “Even if a rebellion takes hold here, they shall crumple without a king. I will send my best male to find Hadoream, my love.”
Saebellus remained still, but his tone was dangerous in its query. “And who is that?”
Ilsevel drew herself up, elevating her chin as though she was fully aware of Vale’s amused regard. Clearly, she did not want to appear frightened before him. But they were all terrified of Saebellus. Gods, the male was a maniac in his rage.
Stupid bitch had nearly pushed him over the edge.
“Well?” Saebellus demanded, angling his body fully toward her. “Who?”
Ilsevel’s eyes darted to the shadows behind the king and Vale followed her gaze.
‘No, not—’
“Ra’vonis,” she exhaled deeply.
Saebellus remained unnaturally still, his words the only suggestion of his displeasure in her response. “That murderer?”
Vale stifled a snicker of mutual contempt. “I always thought Ra’vonis was pathetic.”
The shadows where Ilsevel’s gaze had fallen altered abruptly and a figure seemed to materialize from the darkness. His weather-beaten face was twisted, his cracked lips curled; his eyebrows contorted to consume his grey-rimmed eyes. But Vale could still glimpse them, blue-black and as empty as Saebellus’. They swept up Vale’s slack torso and pierced into his dumbstruck gape. “Call me pathetic again, little damsel,” a low growl emerged.
Vale’s hand darted to his hilt on instinct. His gut churned. “Were you in here the whole fucking time?”
“Why not? You’re Saebellus’ dog. I’m Ilsevel’s.” The man raised a scarred hand to flick a lock of long, black hair from his broad shoulders.
Vale watched the strand of hair fall beside the half-elf’s crooked nose. Vale had helped improve its garish state with a swift punch several months ago, but it still dipped unpleasantly toward the silver stubble of his wide, flat chin. He drew himself up; he would not look weak before Saebellus.
Ra’vonis calmly stepped forward, aware that the room had gone silent.
“I said,” Vale began evenly, casually running his finger down his very straight, decidedly more attractive nose, “that from the moment you butchered the captains, I knew that you were pathetic.”
Ra’vonis promptly darted forward and Vale had little time to gather that the man had even moved.
Gods was he fast!
Ra’vonis caugh
t Vale’s wrist where it lay at his hilt, twisting it fluidly behind the elf’s back. He swept a blade from his thick belt and pressed it against Vale’s groin. “I’d threaten your throat or your gut, but we all know what you value most.” He gave an abrupt shove to release the captain, pushing him headfirst into the stone wall. “Pick your battles, little damsel.”
Vale gripped an old tapestry for balance, his lips twitching into a snarl. “Damn you!” He drew his blade as he pivoted, parrying the thrust of Ra’vonis’ waiting dagger, and threw his weight into the man’s chest.
Ra’vonis’ footing faltered, causing him to stumble and drop to a knee. Even as he fell, his fat calf swept beneath Vale’s legs, toppling him into the smoldering table.
“Fuck!” Vale swore, and before he could free himself from the debris, Ra’vonis scrambled forward and threw his repulsive body down upon him. “Get your ugly ass off of me, you god-damn, bitch-queen pandering coward,” Vale swore between grunts as he caught Ra’vonis’ greasy hair and forced himself on top. He snapped the man’s head back and, where he usually enjoyed the pain and gasp of the body beneath him, Ra’vonis was trash even he would not fuck. He slammed his fist into Ra’vonis’ stubbled throat and the man coughed and gagged.
There was a flash of steel and Vale caught too late the sight of Ra’vonis’ blade piercing for his groin…!
An explosion of fire tore between them and Vale let out a cry as the flames licked his hands and face. Ra’vonis scrambled away, stifling his own agony beneath a muted whimper.
But his general was far from through with them. Vale felt the pain even before the pale hand clutched his throat. It dug its fingers around his trachea and crushed down until he could not breathe. He saw the other hand dart out and catch Ra’vonis by the back of his head, slamming his face into the marble floor with the same force previously exerted upon the table.
“Sellemar?! Breathe!”
Saebellus’ voice came to them in a dangerous whisper through the pain. “If I have to intervene again, I will kill you both.”
The fingers around his neck released and Vale let out a choking gasp for air. Orbs of discolored light flickered before his eyes as he attempted to focus on the surrounding room.
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 43
