Curiosity swept in, taking over. Reading about humans was one thing, but Drynn had never thought about actually seeing them before. Did they really stand as tall as trees, worship rocks like dorrans, and use magic like drow?
Tayvin sighed. “I don’t know. I just . . . wish we could have done something. Anything.” The hopeless words faded to a long break of silence between them. “Father’s probably planning on telling everyone else about Mother in the morning. You should get some rest.”
It seemed like Tayvin had already given up on the idea as Drynn’s mind raced with the possibilities. He didn’t feel like sleeping anymore, but he stood and took a step toward the stairs. “Are you coming?”
“No. I’ll just stay here tonight.”
Drynn nodded. Elves didn’t spend a lot of time indoors. They put windows every few feet in their houses, inviting the sunlight, and still, many elves preferred to spend the warmer months on various rooftops or on the suspended bridges that connected the houses together in a great web. Tayvin had always done that, and it seemed for a moment that life was back to normal.
As Drynn went back down the stairs, he glanced at the Queen’s Opal in his hands.
His mother’s opal.
The queen had never cared that Drynn wasn’t the social icon his brother was. She had given him her undivided attention when he shared his discoveries from books or the forest, no matter how boring everyone else said they were. She praised his memory and attention to detail and—
As soon as he reached his sleeping mat, Drynn thrust the opal under it and blinked back his foolish, childish tears before they could fully form. He forced his thoughts back to his discarded books—anything to block out the sudden pain that gripped him.
Tayvin had given up too easily. True, it had been so long since elves and humans had interacted, and the elves knew little about them.
But Drynn knew a race who did.
CHAPTER 3
“I WOULD LIKE to bring the two-thousand thirty-second annual King’s Council to order.” The voice of the High King filtered across the round table. All conversation under the open gazebo waned, leaving only the sounds of birds and elves going about their daily business yards away.
The other kings knelt on mats with their queens or advisors from their home council at their side, a few rangers standing in the background. Other elves could watch if they wanted, but few besides those in attendance cared for politics.
Normally, Tayvin didn’t care for politics either, and would be yawning through yet another council meeting, but through the weeks of his mother’s mourning period, it seemed he had gotten nothing but rest. Every muscle, every part of him longed for action. He knelt by his father eager to learn how the council planned to address the illness leading up to her death and how it could be prevented from striking down someone else.
The High King continued. “First order of business. The Spring Celebration. It seems to have been a success. The fifteen new infants’ names have been recorded and we have seven new recruits for the rangers—my son, Tayvinaldrill-Falberain, among them.” He named the rest of the young men and women chosen. As if someone there could have possibly missed the ceremony.
At the end of the recitation, the High King opened the discussion to the rest of the table, leading to several side debates on how they would improve the celebration for next year.
Tayvin’s shoulders rocked with impatience. They still hadn’t mentioned his mother’s death. Stopping elves from dying in the middle of the celebration had to be the best way to improve it, but the council was continuing down the same tedious veins as it always did.
“Next order of business.” The High King consulted a scroll in his hands. “We have received correspondence from the dorrans. It seems they wish to trade earlier this year.”
“How much earlier? It was not scheduled for another four months.” The King of Ravilynd, kneeling to the right of Tayvin’s father, leaned in to check the parchment himself.
His hand, tanned with age, brushed the High King’s paler one.
Separated by hundreds of years, Tayvin’s father was young enough to be the son or grandson of any of the other kings, but it hardly seemed so. The High King wore the same long robes, silver streaked his red hair, and he was just as dry as any of them when he responded.
“Immediately.” He never looked up from the letter.
The silver-headed King of Ravilynd sputtered a few times before speaking. “Now? What can they be thinking? Even if we started preparations now, it would take at least a month to be ready and another three weeks to travel.”
The High King frowned. “I believe it has something to do with their war with the goblins.”
“Is that still going on?” The King of Baylannah’s voice dripped with disgust from the other end of the table. “When will they learn to get along with their neighbors?”
Several other kings murmured in agreement, but Tayvin jerked at the reminder.
Their neighbors—the dorran mines bordered the forest and the human kingdom. The dorrans were the only allies of another race the elves had, and could be their only link to the answers Tayvin had sought since his mother’s death. He had to support this.
“Excuse me, sires, but why should it take a month to put a caravan together? All they usually want for their iron is food, textiles, and wood, all of which can be found here in Titainia.”
All heads turned to him with raised eyebrows.
His father only intended for Tayvin to listen and learn from these meetings. The others might decide to ban him if he pushed his luck too far, but this was too important.
“I beg your pardon, my prince, but have you ever put together a caravan?” Ravilynd asked. “It is a lot of work! A leader must be found! Plus the supplies, a guard, and other laborers.” Pushing the letter back at Tayvin’s father so roughly the paper crinkled, he turned his head, long silver hair hanging across his profile. His queen stretched her hand down the length of her dress, miming for him to take deep breaths.
“Still, he is right. It would not have to be a month.” The King of Ambernone put his hand on Tayvin’s left shoulder. Of all the kings present, he was the youngest besides Tayvin’s father and Tayvin found that they agreed on most issues.
“I still do not see why we should have to move the trading convoy at all,” Baylannah said, continuing to frown. “It’s a big inconvenience to us, and the dorran conflict is not our own. Let them sort it out.”
“I do not believe they are asking us to take up arms.” The High King consulted his letter as if he were afraid they were implying he missed something.
“They might as well be! Our precious trees used to make weapons!” Ravilynd’s temper flared, giving heat to each word despite his wife’s earlier interference.
“And where exactly do you think our bows come from?” Ambernone smiled broadly. If this wasn’t such a formal affair, he might have laughed, and Tayvin would have joined him, especially when he saw how red Ravilynd got in return.
“It is not the same thing.” But Ravilynd never bothered to explain why it was not.
The group went back and forth for a while longer before falling into a tense silence.
Tayvin wanted to nudge his father, but he didn’t quite dare. As a blood heir of Lady Starrillaylee, Trilynthane-Falberain represented the central holt The Lady founded in Titainia. He also served as chairman of the council and High King of the whole forest. In theory, he had the authority to decide split votes and take control in matters deemed a crisis, but Tayvin had never seen his father use any of those powers. Outside of conducting, his father hardly did anything.
“Who was to be caravan leader this year?” The Queen of Pelanaytra’s voice swept in with a quiet authority from the other end of the table. The silver-haired woman ruled her holt more than her husband. With Tayvin’s mother sick and now gone, and no female heir of The Lady on the council, it seemed she sought to fill that void.
“I was.” The King of Verngalla raised a hand
from his marsh-colored robes.
Pelanaytra nodded. “Then we will leave it to you. How soon could you leave?”
“Well,” Verngalla paused to consider, “if I did not head home as planned, we could leave in a few days. But I would need new volunteers, not all that signed up could get here that fast.”
“We could put the word out.” The High King finally looked up from his letter.
Tayvin turned to the High King and spoke quietly. “Father, now that I’m a ranger, I could go as part of the guard. Jyrail—Ranger Jydderaillen-Lillious—and I could both go.” He nodded toward the ranger who stood with those in attendance behind them and had been assigned to train him.
“We will discuss it later,” his father whispered before facing the group. “Now, is there any more new business to go over?”
There was, but none Tayvin had any interest in. Ambernone wanted to extend its farmland. Ravilynd thought Gardenell was foraging in their territory. Trilverna had several unusual reports of oddly behaving animals. And on and on and on . . .
After the council finally decided that Ambernone could go another harvest without extending, Ravilynd’s food had been foraged by animals, not elves, and Trilverna was to keep them posted if the fish did anything besides change color, the High King was ready to close the meeting.
The time for subtle encouragement had passed.
“Father, I think you are forgetting something.”
The High King blinked at Tayvin. “And what would that be?”
The casual response infuriated him, but Tayvin strained to keep his answer neutral. No one would listen to him if he yelled. Less than they already did, anyway. “The sickness, Father. The High Queen just died and I’ve heard that others died the same way in the past. Surely you need to discuss how we’re going to protect everyone else.”
Tayvin’s father turned back to the group. “I am sorry, Tayvinaldrill-Falberain. If I had known you were still so upset, I would have excused you from today’s meeting.”
“We all grieve for the loss of the queen,” Pelanaytra said. All the visiting queens made sympathetic doe-eyes at Tayvin as if he were a squalling infant.
Tayvin tried not to look at any of them. “Grieving does not change the fact that she is gone, and that others could be in danger.”
“And where did you hear that others have died?” Pelanaytra asked.
“The rangers. When I got my sword, they said . . .” Tayvin glanced behind him as the attending rangers shuffled a step back. A few of the kings glared.
Were the rangers not supposed to tell him that? Why not?
“Yes, I suppose that would make sense.” Pelanaytra let out a sigh, steepling her hands in front of her face. “The rangers must deal with harsher realities of life than the rest of us. Traveling with them, you may learn things we often prefer not to discuss in the holts or in this council. You will learn what is appropriate to repeat and what is not.”
Tayvin’s hands went white on the table, nearly ready to tip it over. He had spent the last few weeks cursing himself for allowing the prolonged nature of his mother’s illness to give him a weird sense of security, for believing her every time she insisted that just one more day of rest would put her right. For not even thinking of death as a real possibility.
But maybe it wasn’t his fault. Maybe it was theirs. The previous deaths had taken place in Tayvin’s toddlerhood—no reason for him to know about them without being told, no reason for him to connect them to his mother’s illness—but they had known.
To the ancient kings and queens, the previous deaths should seem more real, more threatening. They should have made the connection the moment his mother showed the signs and leapt into some kind of action, but they had never said a word. “So, you’re just ignoring it?”
“What would you have us do?” Ravilynd asked. “We are not gods to prevent death.”
Many others added their agreement.
“But if we can find a connection, shouldn’t that be explored before it spreads again?” Tayvin asked. Shouldn’t they try something?
Baylannah scoffed. “The High Queen carried the curse for years, faring better than all the others before her. There could be no connection at all. It’s like the color-changing fish; we have nothing to go on.”
Several more of the kings nodded along with him. Only the kings of Ambernone and Titainia weren’t, and Tayvin wasn’t even sure if his father was paying attention.
The High King had been studying his hands the whole time.
“Perhaps we should hold off on this issue until we do.” Pelanaytra turned to the High King. “Trilynthane-Falberain?”
Tayvin’s father jerked as if waking from sleep. “Ah. Yes.” The High King straightened and formally closed the meeting until the next year.
Several side conversations roared to life. Ravilynd, Baylannah, and Pelanaytra moved to talk to the High King and a ranger moved to talk to Tayvin.
Jyrail shook his head, standing with his hands folded behind his back. “Are you trying to get us permanently transferred? They might stick us in the mines forever if you push them.”
“Sorry.” New rangers were probably meant to ask their senior partners about assignments, but being a good ranger was the furthest thing from Tayvin’s mind. “It’s just—”
“It’s all right. If they haven’t told you about the illness before, they should have.” Something of a glare passed over Jyrail’s face, but instead of validation, Tayvin felt exhausted. Anger or pity got them nowhere. His mother was already dead. As much as he hated the other kings and especially his father for saying it, they could be right—maybe nothing could be done.
Even thinking of going near the humans was an act of desperation. The other races could hand out answers, but could also bring more trouble if disturbed from their uneasy truce, like prodding a sleeping bear. It wouldn’t be worth the risk to anyone, especially the perpetually inactive kings and queens around him.
Tayvin stood from the table, a drag to his step that made Jyrail hover closer.
“How have you been feeling?” the older ranger asked.
“I would rather not discuss it.” If someone asked Tayvin about his feelings one more time he would punch a hole in the table.
Jyrail backed away. He scanned the trees with his back still perfectly straight. “Of course, but if you don’t feel able to do something when we’re traveling, it’s perfectly fine. As the others said when you signed on, we all understand your family’s special circumstances. Carrying that stone is more than enough burden for one man.”
“Stone?”
“Starrillaylee’s stone. The Queen’s Opal.”
“Oh. I don’t have the opal. Father gave it to Drynn.” And frankly, that had come as a relief. He didn’t want to see that stone again—a reminder of his mother and all the questions that would never have answers.
“Your brother?” The ranger’s formal pose dropped before he recovered himself. “I suppose that would make sense . . .” Jyrail cast a hasty glance at the kings and queens.
What else were they hiding? Tayvin didn’t often use his title to make demands, but he frowned until the ranger turned his head away, and the words continued.
“Your father is the king, and you’re his heir, so until there is another queen, I suppose that would only leave . . .” Jyrail left Drynn’s name unspoken, ducking his head. “Though he is rather young, isn’t he?”
“Young for what?” Tayvin’s voice rose. His hands flexing near the man like some beast controlled them. His father and the council always chided him on his temper, but what did they expect? All the secrets, all the lies. No one ever listening. Yelling might not change anything, but it often seemed his only option.
“The sickness, the queen’s curse. Don’t you know? All the female heirs died, one at a time. Then some of the men. Then your mother, but she lasted longer.” Jyrail shrugged helplessly. He had never been so ineloquent. “As the other kings said, we don’t know all the reasons, but it is e
ither the stone or the bloodline. If your brother has both, then most likely . . .”
Everyone, the council and the rangers, knew the illness would strike again. They even had guessed its next target. Drynn was going to die.
The world spun. His arms fell, his feet barely holding him upright. His anger faded to a sinking, helpless dread. Was it possible? He had always known there were no more female blood heirs of Lady Starrillaylee left, though it seemed merely a fluke of fate that they were male instead.
But The Lady had lived nearly two thousand years ago. There should be dozens of other blood heirs spread through the holts—cousins younger and older than Tayvin—but there weren’t.
Tayvin had never questioned it, contenting himself with his mother’s family, never longing to hear more of his father’s kin based on the increasing turbulence between him and his father. He had never known an elf to die from sickness before his mother and had accepted the timeless, untouchable world his elders had presented since his infancy.
Tayvin watched his father and the other kings placidly sharing conversations in a surreal blur. One death might be easy enough to dismiss for those not directly affected, but Tayvin now expected that a whole holt could drop dead and the council would still be talking about hunting disputes and trading schedules. And his father, the leader of the council and the worst man among them, had passed lethal magic to Drynn on the night of their mother’s death without saying a word.
Jyrail sighed, eyes far away. “I always wondered why the heirs didn’t just toss that thing away, but it seems to get a hold on them somehow. Like demon magic.”
An illness. A curse. Drynn already stared at that stone so much. He always had, even when it was on their mother’s neck. And Drynn had always been . . . different. Quiet. Like he had been born an elder. Had their father chosen Drynn, or had the opal done it itself, already possessing him somehow? Would tossing it away even help? Drynn would start tripping, sleeping through the day, dying, and their father and the council wouldn’t do a thing.
The Queen's Opal: A Stone Bearers Novel (Book One) Page 3
