Elven Fury (Agents of the Crown Book 4)

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Amazing.”

  Zenia didn’t know if Jia meant it was amazing a zyndar would consider an elf an equal or if it was amazing an elf would consider a human of any social status an equal. Maybe both?

  “There used to be many half-elves in the city,” Jia went on, “but most left when the war started and it became dangerous for them to live here. Some have created tiny enclaves of their own deep within the kingdom’s forests, and some simply live nomadic lifestyles with few kin. As I’m sure you know, it’s difficult to be a half-blood. Elves do not allow anyone with human blood into their cities, and humans… aren’t as open-minded about the offspring of such unions as they once were. Once, Korvann was a great trade city and all races were welcome here, but that was decades ago.” Jia shook her head sadly as she gazed down at the fluffy towels.

  “I think King Targyon hopes to make it such a place again,” Zenia said, hoping she was right. From what she’d heard from Targyon so far, she believed she was. She just wasn’t certain he would be effective at changing people’s prejudices, prejudices that the war had done nothing to alleviate.

  “Perhaps.” Jia’s sad smile did not suggest she was convinced. “For now, even those who were born in the kingdom and consider themselves loyal subjects must hide any evidence of their elven heritage.” She waved toward the scarf covering her ears. “I do not believe any of them are looking to cause trouble, but there is something you may be interested in, something I didn’t see myself but heard from others.”

  “Oh?” Zenia leaned against the tile edge of the pool and glanced at Rhi, who seemed content to let Zenia take the lead in the conversation.

  “Apparently, a group of people was snooping in the elven embassy tower last night. Someone thought they saw at least one person with pointed ears among them.”

  “Snooping? Is it possible the ambassador and his entourage simply returned?”

  “I don’t believe so, ma’am. They didn’t light any lanterns, and my acquaintance who observed the trespassing has a dragon tear. He sensed magic being used. He almost went to investigate, but he experienced a vision sent by the Fire Dragon, one of himself being engulfed in a magical ball of flame if he crossed paths with those inside.”

  Rhi snorted. “You mean he was afraid.”

  “Because of the vision,” Jia said earnestly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Zenia poked Rhi in the ribs, hoping she wouldn’t dismiss Jia’s belief in such things. After all the years they had worked in the Water Order Temple, Rhi ought to be used to people with genuine faith in the founders. Many monks and mages claimed to receive visions from them.

  “Thank you for the information, Jia,” Zenia said. “We’ll look into it.”

  “Be careful if you do, Captain. A group of elves in one of the human cities is a very unusual thing these days. If they’re here, you can be certain it’s for a reason.”

  “Jia!” a woman in a white gymnasium uniform barked from the entrance to the baths. “We need the tiles scrubbed in the steam room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jia bowed her head, then set the stack of towels on the bench and headed off without another word to Zenia and Rhi.

  As it should be. The value of the informants stationed around the city depended on others not realizing they were affiliated with the Crown Agents.

  “Isn’t Lornysh still staying in the tower?” Rhi asked when they were alone, save for the lap swimmers in the other pool.

  “The last I heard, yes. I haven’t spoken to Jev in several days, so I haven’t received any updates about Lornysh’s whereabouts. He could have moved on.”

  “Several days? I knew he hadn’t been back to the office yet—that gift from his former lady is still on his desk—but I assumed you’d spoken to him since he’s been released from the healers at the Air Temple.”

  “It’s only been a day since they released him. His injuries were extensive, and even though the healers used the magic of their dragon tears, they kept him a bit longer to work him through various stretches and exercises to help him regain his mobility. I haven’t visited him personally since that first day. Because…” Zenia had checked in with the Air Order healers several times to get updates on his progress, but she hadn’t visited Jev personally since hearing about the engagement his father had arranged for him. She hadn’t wanted to be seen lurking around him. And definitely not kissing him.

  She closed her eyes, an ache in her chest. She and Jev had no more than confessed that they cared for each other—loved each other—when that news had come in, that Jev was to marry some zyndari woman. Soon.

  “Ah,” Rhi said with more understanding in her tone than usual. “Maybe you can have your dragon tear wrap up that other woman in a mat and toss her in the harbor.”

  Zenia smiled wistfully. “Don’t give it ideas.”

  Rhi frowned at Zenia’s stack of clothing, the dragon tear resting atop it. Zenia wished she hadn’t implied the gem had a mind of its own, even if it seemed to have exactly that.

  “Jev is supposed to be back at the office tomorrow,” Zenia said. “We’ll tell him about the elves and see what he thinks.” She still needed to share the anonymous notes with him, too, and get his opinion on them.

  “That we should show up at the tower and thump them, I hope,” Rhi said.

  “Thump them? I believe Targyon would prefer we foster peace and understanding among the races of the world.”

  Zenia was tempted to walk past the tower on the way back to the castle, and maybe she would, but she would be hesitant to wander inside without permission from the king. Even if the old ambassador and his staff were gone, it was still elven territory.

  “Uh huh,” Rhi said. “If they’re trespassing and snooping, they get thumped. That’s what I’m here to foster.”

  Zenia thought of Jia’s warning that the elves had been using magic, and she had a feeling that going to face them with nothing but a staff wouldn’t be a good idea.

  2

  Sweat dribbled from Jev’s hairline, ran down his jaw, and dripped onto the anvil where he was painstakingly braiding thin gold and silver strands into a pattern that Cutter assured him was aesthetically pleasing. Or would be if he could stop screwing up. His grandmother weaved tapestries that were so beautiful, people paid handsomely to hang them in their castles—or they had before she had been exiled. Shouldn’t crafting ability flow naturally through his veins?

  “Dragon’s udders,” he swore, realizing he’d made a mistake three rows back.

  So much for natural crafting ability.

  Maybe he could blame his color-blindness, though he didn’t truly have trouble telling which strands were silver and which gold. It was just that when he’d chosen a pattern for the chain, he hadn’t realized it was so complicated and had so many strands.

  “They don’t have ‘em,” Cutter said from the anvil next to his.

  The smithy, with sweltering heat rolling off the nearby forge, wasn’t the ideal place for jewelry making, but Cutter had rejected Jev’s suggestion that they ask Master Grindmor to use her shop. Probably because he was tinkering with something that was meant to be a gift for her, or so Jev assumed. Cutter had been vague about it, but he was frowning, muttering, and tapping his hook against his jaw a lot as he worked. It was definitely something that mattered to him.

  “Dragons don’t have udders?” Jev had meant it as a curse—his nanny had used it when he and his brother had been boys and she hadn’t wanted to sully their impressionable young minds. “Are you sure? Have you seen a dragon recently?”

  “Seen plenty of paintings of them. All udder-less.”

  “Yes, but in all the paintings, they’re lying belly down on a mound of treasure.” Jev worked his way backward on the chain so he could fix the error.

  “Proof that they don’t have udders. Udders would get unpleasantly cold pressed against all those gold and silver coins.”

  “Wouldn’t body heat warm them up?”

  Cutter gave Jev an exasperated look. “Is t
his the kind of nonsense you and Zenia talk about when you work together?”

  Jev knew his friend meant it as a joke, but he couldn’t keep from frowning at the mention of Zenia. She had no sooner professed her love for him than they’d learned he had been engaged to another woman. True, he hadn’t had anything to do with that, but it must have stung Zenia. She hadn’t been by to see him after that day in the Air Order Temple when his cousin had brought the news. Jev hoped Wyleria hadn’t forbidden her to visit. He didn’t think she would, but it was possible someone else in his family might have. It was also possible Zenia had simply found it too uncomfortable to come see him.

  By the founders, that pained him. The healers had finally declared him fit enough to leave the temple and return to work, so he would see Zenia in the morning. And he would have a beautiful gift to give her.

  He looked down at his dubious progress. If he had to stay up all night to finish it, he would have a beautiful gift to give her.

  “We’re usually too busy talking about work to discuss udders,” Jev said, realizing Cutter was waiting for an answer. Either that, or he was taking a break from his own project, which looked like a combination between a tool rack and storage box.

  “That must be a relief for the other agents in your office.”

  Jev stretched before bending back over his chain, wincing at a twinge that came from his ribs. His bones were supposedly all repaired, but his body kept sending him reminders that he had foolishly allowed himself to be caught in an explosion.

  At least he had survived. That hadn’t been a certainty by any means. That night when he’d thought he would die, his biggest regret had been that he hadn’t told Zenia how he felt about her. Now he had, but it hadn’t fixed anything.

  “I’m thinking about going to go see Zenia’s father,” Jev said.

  “What?” Cutter asked over the banging of a hammer on an anvil.

  The two blacksmiths whose shop they were using weren’t the quietest co-workers.

  “Now that my ribs have healed enough to take a punch or two,” Jev said, speaking more loudly, “I want to see Zenia’s father.”

  He didn’t truly think old Veran Morningfar would punch him, but when Jev made his request, it was possible the man would order some servants to punch him.

  Cutter grunted. “Didn’t know she had one.”

  “Zyndar Morningfar. He had an affair with her mother but didn’t acknowledge her. That’s why she’s considered a commoner. But technically, she’s only half common. Most people wouldn’t consider that desirable, regardless—most zyndar, I mean—but it might help me sway my father into allowing me to marry her.”

  Allowing him. He grimaced, hating the way that sounded. Hating that he couldn’t choose his own fate, not without his father’s permission.

  But that was what being the heir of a zyndar prime meant. He wouldn’t be able to choose his own fate until his father passed away, and presently, the old man was as healthy as a race horse.

  “Thought you were marrying some other woman now,” Cutter said.

  “I’m not. I’m going out to the castle to tell my father there’s no way I’m agreeing to that betrothal. Tomorrow, after I check in at the office.”

  Jev had been tempted to ride home that morning, but his back was as sore as his ribs, and the notion of doing fifteen miles in a saddle had made him wince. He’d kept hoping the old man would come see him at the temple, as his aunt and several cousins had, but Father hadn’t shown up. He’d sent his condolences and well-wishes for swift healing, according to Aunt Vivione, but that wasn’t the same as coming to visit. It was possible something was keeping him busy, but Jev had a feeling his father didn’t want to argue about the marriage, as he must surely know Jev would do.

  “Humans overly complicate their lives.” Cutter lifted his project, frowned at it, then thunked it down and grabbed a pair of pliers.

  “Maybe only zyndar humans. I have this notion that being a commoner might be simpler. It’s possible it’s a naive notion. What are you making?”

  “A portable folding rack and storage system for Master Grindmor’s small jewelry tools. I thought she might find it useful when she travels for work, but…” He scowled at the project.

  “What?”

  “She’s not only the best gem cutter in the kingdom; she’s a talented metalsmith and crafter too. She could make this with one hand tied in her beard, so I’m not sure why… Well, she probably won’t like it. It won’t be good enough.”

  Jev pushed aside the urge to ask why a dwarf would tie a hand in his—or her—beard and said, “You’re good too. She’ll like whatever you make for her.”

  Cutter gave him a look that suggested he had the mind of a child. A simple child.

  “Over there,” one of the smiths said with an indifferent grunt.

  Jev looked up in time to see a cloaked figure gliding toward him, the flames of the forge at his back and hiding his cowled face in shadow. An uneasy feeling swept through him, and he knew with certainty that this person was deadly. Menace rolled off him like a foul odor.

  Jev tapped Cutter on the chest and pointed his chin toward the newcomer.

  The two smiths said something to each other, set down their tools, and went outside. Had the cloaked figure said he wanted to speak with Jev and Cutter alone?

  Cutter frowned and picked up a hammer. Jev didn’t have anything nearby that could be used as a weapon. He folded his arms over his chest and lifted his chin, hoping to exude some of that natural determination and defiance that Zenia conveyed so well.

  “You are the friend of Lornysh Grazharon?” the cloaked figure asked, not lowering his hood. Though his voice was cold, he had a lilting accent. A Taziir accent.

  “Yes,” Jev said, refusing to deny it, “but I guess not as much of a friend as you’d think since, in the years I’ve known him, he’s never told me that was his surname.” Grazharon wasn’t Lornysh’s last name—that was an elven word that translated to mean a pariah in exile—but Jev truly did not know the real one.

  Cutter frowned, perhaps recognizing the word, too, but he didn’t speak. He merely glared at the figure and tapped the hammer against his hook, making a soft clink, clink, clink.

  “Where is he located?” the elf asked. “We know he is in this grimy human city.”

  We? There was more than one elf looking for Lornysh? That didn’t sound like a good thing.

  Jev shrugged, refusing to let any emotion show. “Then you know as much as I do. He comes and goes as he wishes and doesn’t keep me apprised. You might check at the symphony. He’s a fan of culture.”

  “Human culture.” The elf spat on the floor, almost hitting Cutter’s boot.

  Cutter growled and surged in, raising the hammer. Jev lifted a hand, intending to intervene—whatever was going on, starting a fight wouldn’t help anything—but the elf moved too quickly. Incredibly quickly. He caught Cutter’s wrist and squeezed, twisting and forcing him to drop the hammer. Then he whirled Cutter around and thrust him toward one of the anvils.

  Indignation and fear for his friend sprang into Jev’s heart, and he lunged in, forgetting his desire not to fight.

  He threw a punch, but something slammed into his gut before it landed. Pain from his still-recovering ribs blasted him, and he couldn’t keep from gasping.

  What had that been? The elf’s boot? By the founders, he was fast. Jev hadn’t even seen him lift his leg to kick.

  Before he knew what was happening, he was spun about, his chest ramming against the anvil with Zenia’s chain spread across it. A roar came from behind him—Cutter. His friend sprang for the elf, but energy crackled in the air, and a wave of power slammed into him. It wasn’t directed at Jev, but he felt some of it, like a battering ram slamming into his back. His chest hammered the anvil again, hard enough that he worried his ribs would be broken once more.

  Something cold wrapped around the back of his neck—fingers.

  Jev thrust backward with his elbow and had the
satisfaction of hearing the elf grunt as he connected. But then a strange icy power gripped him, and Jev couldn’t move again. He couldn’t even breathe.

  “The time has come for him to pay for his crimes against our kind,” the elf whispered in Jev’s ear. “If you impede us, you will die.” The fingers tightened, nails digging in painfully. “We know you were a soldier in your foolish war, that you killed our people. I would enjoy sinking my dagger into your spine right now.”

  Jev wanted to retort—hells, he wanted to breathe—but neither his lungs nor his tongue would move. He realized it wouldn’t even take a dagger for this enemy to kill him. This lone elf had chilling power that made him wish Zenia were there with her dragon tear.

  The elf’s fingers left his neck, and Jev sensed him leaving—he didn’t hear a thing, even though the smithy had grown deathly silent—but he still couldn’t move. His lungs burned, crying out for air, but they were as frozen as the rest of his body.

  A gasp came from the floor behind him. Abruptly, the power holding Jev disappeared.

  He sucked in a deep breath and spun. The elf was gone. Cutter lay on the floor, curled in a ball, his eyes squinted shut.

  Jev dropped to his knees beside him. “Are you all right?”

  “Who in all the stone bowels of the earth was that?” Cutter demanded.

  Despite the heat of the smithy, Jev couldn’t keep from shivering. “Someone who I hope never finds Lornysh.”

  Jev stood shirtless in front of the mirror in his room in Alderoth Castle as he smeared the unctuous concoction that one of the Temple healers had given him all over his chest. He thought about knocking on Zenia’s door to see if she was there and if she would rub some on his back, but he was reluctant to let her see him with fresh bruises across his flesh. The explosion had been a noble injury, but being beaten up by an elf was another matter. The skin of his throat was turning an unappealing blue-black. He smeared goo on it.

  A faint tapping reached his ears, and he looked around the tidy room for the source. A mouse?