Ambassador (Conqueror of Isles Book 1)

by Stephen L. Hadley

  “My father was killed fighting your people,” he said. “It happened during the last war. I was just a boy, so I don’t remember much about him. But I remember hating your people because of it. And it took me a long time, a very long time…”

  He squirmed and opened his eyes. Rhona was staring at him with a mixture of pity and curiosity, neither of which made him feel any better.

  “Mother?” she asked softly.

  “Died a few months after I was born,” he explained. “I don’t know—some sort of sickness.”

  The pity in Rhona’s eyes intensified to the point where Elias could barely stand to look at her. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. Scooting closer, Rhona took his hand in hers and patted his wrist in what was doubtless supposed to be a comforting gesture. It had the opposite effect.

  “Your people kill my father too,” she said. At his startled expression, the corner of her mouth quirked into a weak smile. “Many, many years before. Different war. Before I am Gwydas. Your people attack Eh’kaavi. My father and people protect it. And trow too. My father thinks to ask for peace and my people agree. The trow do not agree. They attack your people at night. More fight, more die. My father too. Then, I take his place as Gwydas.”

  Elias nodded slowly and breathed an uneasy sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s… why I’m here. I want to prevent another war.”

  “I know this,” Rhona said, squeezing his hand. “This is why I help you, Elias.”

  He nodded again, uncertain what else to say. Fortunately, he didn’t need to say anything at all. Carefully, as if afraid she might scare him off, Rhona crawled forward and stretched out alongside him. Deliberately avoiding his bandages and bruises as best she could, she nestled against his side and rested her cheek on his chest.

  Elias could hardly breathe. It wasn’t the feeling of Rhona’s body against his that did it. Though warm, soft, and tantalizingly bare, her cloak shielded enough of her near-nakedness to keep unwanted arousal at bay. Rather, it was the sheer, simple intimacy of the act that affected him most. His eyes had been dry throughout their conversation, but now he found himself forced to blink away the start of unexpected tears.

  Gingerly stretching out an arm, he held her close. And within moments, sleep found him.

  ***

  Somewhere, lost in unconsciousness, Elias must have heard the approaching footsteps. He woke several seconds before the tent flap opened. The person on the other side did not enter. Instead, Avans stooped with a soft grunt of pain and peered inside.

  “Eli—oh!” Avans said. His grimace twisted into a smirk. “Sorry to interrupt. I can come back.”

  Rolling his eyes, Elias tried to slide free of the slumbering Rhona. With her head still resting on his chest, however, it was a pointless effort and she stirred with a mumble. One of her eyes cracked open, widened as it spotted Avans, and she lurched upright with a heated blush.

  Elias sat up as well. His back throbbed and burned as he moved but he masked his discomfort with a yawn.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “The head-elf is back. They asked me to fetch you.”

  “Is Kyra—?” Elias asked, then faltered.

  Fortunately, Avans understood. “Aye, she’s awake,” he said, nodding. “She was talking to a few of them last I saw. You want me to go get her?”

  Elias shook his head and gingerly found his feet. Exiting the tent, he cast a surreptitious glance at Avans as the man moved aside. Much like Elias, Avans was wrapped in an assortment of bandages and looked on the verge of collapsing. He was, however, very much still alive.

  “I’m glad you’re alright,” Elias said. He didn’t have to force his smile.

  Avans stiffened a bit at his words then flashed a grin of his own. Carefully aiming for an uninjured spot, he swatted Elias on the arm and gestured at the array of tents.

  “Likewise,” he said. “I assume you had something to do with getting us here? Gods know I didn’t. Last thing I remember is one of those damned nereids pulling me under.”

  “I didn’t do much,” Elias admitted. “The elves—er, trow did pretty much all of it.”

  Avans grunted skeptically but didn’t contest the point. Instead, he nodded to a small fire burning outside one of the larger tents near the cluster’s center.

  “They’re over there,” he said. “Hopefully you can talk them out of eating us or whatever they’ve got planned.”

  Elias fought the urge to squirm in discomfort, especially as Rhona emerged from the tent and sidled unnervingly close. He couldn’t blame Avans for his poor opinion of elves but the last thing he wanted to do was cause problems where none needed to exist. And so, with only a diminutive nod, he limped toward the light.

  Rhona walked beside him, not quite taking his hand but occasionally brushing hers against it as she looked about warily. Elias couldn’t blame her for her caution, either. The camp’s population seemed to have doubled in the hours that they’d slept and the dark, curious faces of the trow made them hard to spot in the waning light. Paired with the near-total silence, it lent the entire meadow a strangely ghoulish aspect.

  Kyra spotted them as they neared the elves standing round the fire. Begging leave of the trow she’d been speaking with, she hurried over and wrapped him in a painfully firm embrace.

  “Thank you,” she whispered before he could say a word. “The trow told me what you did—fighting that marsski. You idiot! You probably saved our lives.”

  Her abrupt, zigzagging tone startled him at first. Then, as she released him, he shrugged with a laugh.

  “It wasn’t my first choice,” he said. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Better than okay,” Kyra said. Her eyes gleamed with both firelight and her usual, half-frantic energy. “I’ve been talking with the trow. Everyone here came from the elven capital barely a fortnight ago. It’s not that far. Less than a week if you know the way.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Elias tried and failed to sound enthusiastic. Truthfully, the news should have cheered him. But between the pain of his wounds and the narrowly averted catastrophe of Rhona’s threats against Lucasta, he couldn’t bring himself to hope. At best, he hoped the trow might return his sword before they expelled them from the camp.

  Kyra’s brows rose curiously. Before she could question him, however, Gilla interrupted by approaching. There was no sign of her sister.

  “Elias,” she said flatly. “My mother will speak with you now.”

  He nodded and made to follow her, then froze. “I… don’t know your tongue well,” he confessed. “Does your mother—”

  “She will understand. Come.”

  He looked at Kyra and Rhona in turn. The former fidgeted, obviously wishing she could accompany him, while Rhona looked relieved to be omitted. Rather than risk offending with further delay, however, he took a deep breath and turned back to Gilla.

  She led him past the crowd gathered at the fire and ducked gracefully into the large tent. The interior was moderately well-lit, but the entrance was rather shorter than he was used to and the discomfort of stooping low was so acute that he had to drop to one knee and half-crawl inside.

  The floor of the tent was layered deeply with so many blankets that it felt to Elias as though he’d climbed atop an enormous bed. This impression was furthered by the lack of any furniture or equally bulky possessions. The only sort of belongings he spotted at all, in fact, were a small pair of tightly bound satchels tucked neatly into a corner and a large, unstrung bow that lay atop them.

  The next thing he noticed was his sword. The blade lay across the trow matriarch’s lap, who had pulled it halfway from its scabbard and was caressing the edge with thoughtful fingers. Though he’d scarcely even noticed its absence since waking the first time, the sight of the weapon in unfamiliar hands reminded him suddenly how very at their mercy he was.

  “Bare, Elias-Sha’nijur,” she said.

  Welcome, Elias the Ambassador.<
br />
  Elias froze, mid-crawl. The trow’s words had been familiar to him thanks to Kyra’s lessons, Rhona’s practice, and the bits and pieces he’d picked up along the way. And yet, there was more to it than that. Though his ears had recognized the foreign and lightly accented syllables, there was no delay between the hearing and understanding. He hadn’t had to think about their meaning; he’d simply known.

  Nor was it an unfamiliar experience. The memory of Rhona’s prayer as she petitioned her goddess for unnatural, sorcerous vision returned to him at once. He’d understood her then, instinctively, just as he understood the seated woman before him now.

  Fighting to keep the suspicion from his face, Elias folded his legs beneath him in imitation of the trow. Doing so must have been some breach of protocol. Gilla bristled instantly and took a step toward him. Before she’d gone further, however, her mother shifted ever so slightly. Gilla froze, ducked her head, and dropped obediently to her knees beside her.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ah, Gwydas?” Elias said, leaning forward in a slight bow.

  The corner of the trow’s mouth twitched into a knowing smile.

  “How courteous,” she teased. “But how very wrong. I am no priestess. I’m merely a decrepit old woman with a pair of headstrong daughters. You may call me Lucasta—or, Lucasta the Elder if you need to avoid confusion.”

  Elias bowed again, still slightly dazed by the ease with which his mind understood Lucasta’s words. And yet, that wasn’t the only reason he found himself flustered.

  For all her self-deprecation, he could have sworn that the trow matriarch was not a day over forty. Although, given what he knew about elven appearances, that likely meant she was nearly a century old, if not older. In a brief moment of insanity, he nearly voiced the question aloud.

  From the way her smile persisted, Lucasta clearly guessed at least part of the reason for his struggles. Sliding his sword back into its scabbard, she set the weapon aside and casually reclined.

  That, in its own way, was almost more distracting. Although she wore a pair of plain trousers indistinguishable from Elias’ borrowed ones, Lucasta’s upper half was clothed in nothing but a loose vest. Thanks to the hue of her ebony skin, much of her was cloaked in shadow. The dangerously inviting curve of one flawless breast, however, glowed brightly in the firelight and it was only by subtly digging his nails into his knee that Elias managed to keep his gaze on the matriarch’s face.

  “If I may ask,” he said, desperate for an appropriate distraction. “How is it that I can understand you?”

  “Oh? You noticed?” One of Lucasta’s brows rose slightly. “Many years ago, I visited the temple of Iyanoss. He is the god of scholars and tacticians. And, in his wisdom, he saw fit to gift me with the blessing of All-Tongues. This is how I know your tongue and you hear my words clearly.”

  “I… I see,” Elias stammered. It was oddly disconcerting to hear such things discussed so casually and he scrambled to formulate an appropriate reply.

  Mercifully, Lucasta did not leave him to do so alone.

  “I think,” she said delicately. “That you have not traveled all this way just to speak with me? You seek Dan Tien, the elven capital, yes?”

  “That’s right,” Elias said, nodding. “I understand it’s not terribly far. I—we would be indebted for any help you could offer. Well, any additional help. If not for your people, the marsski would probably have killed us. I hate to ask for more, but—”

  “But you would like us to guide you to Dan Tien,” Lucasta finished for him. Grimacing, she dropped her gaze. “I am sorry, Elias, but such a thing is impossible.”

  “What do you mean it’s impossible?” he demanded. “Why?”

  The change was immediate and impossible to miss. Compared to the gracefulness and humor with which she’d begun, the discomfort with which Lucasta squirmed was so obvious that Elias nearly apologized for causing it. Instead, he leaned forward.

  “I’m trying to stop a war,” he said almost pleadingly. “Please, I need your help.”

  “It isn’t a question of offering help,” Lucasta said. Sighing, she turned to Gilla and affectionately cupped her cheek. “A fortnight ago, the primarch of Dan Tien drove my people from the city on penalty of death. I can think of no other reason for him to do this save that he is readying the city for war. And now, my daughter tells me that Cotora hunts you? This is further proof. Cotora is known for her aggression, yes, but she would not dare such boldness without Tereus’ approval.”

  Elias froze, every muscle in his body tightening as if in a sudden cramp.

  “What did you say?” he asked, practically choking on the words.

  “The elves are preparing for war, Elias. I do not think you—”

  “Not that!” he spat, storming to his feet. Gilla tensed at her mother’s side, eyes darting to the discarded sword, but Elias looked at neither it nor her. His gaze was locked on Lucasta’s face. “What about Tereus?”

  Lucasta cocked her head slowly, her eyes narrowing pensively.

  “Cotora would not act without his approval,” she repeated. “Tereus has been primarch of Dan Tien since last winter.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was all Elias could do not to storm from the tent. His mind raced, pain forgotten as he paced the width of the tent and gnawed at his fist. He was dimly aware of Lucasta and Gilla watching him but his thoughts were so scattered that he didn’t even try to listen to their hushed, worried conversation.

  Tereus wasn’t dead. He was alive—alive and ruling over untold thousands of elves. Elves that, at that very moment, were likely preparing for war.

  The prospect of which might soon bring him face to face with his father’s killer.

  “Elias!” Lucasta called, in a tone that suggested she’d repeated herself several times over. “Elias. Sit, please. What has disturbed you?”

  He didn’t sit. He did, however, slow his pacing somewhat and glance in the trow’s direction.

  “I thought he was dead,” he growled. “I—my people thought Tereus died of his wounds years ago.”

  “That’s not surprising. He was gravely wounded. He was taken to the temple of Ve’echa and even with the aid of their most blessed healers, it took over a year before he recovered.”

  “He killed my father.”

  This pronouncement had nearly the same effect on the trow as theirs had had on him. Gilla stiffened, eyes widening, and hissed a reverent curse. Lucasta on the other hand, slumped slightly and hid her mouth behind a loosely clenched fist. It was a long time before either trow spoke, long enough, in fact, that Elias had begun to feel the growing ache in his legs and back before they broke the silence.

  “I am… sorry to hear of it, Elias,” Lucasta said delicately. “But, perhaps that is for the best.”

  He whirled, stunned and outraged, but Lucasta lifted a soothing hand.

  “You misunderstand,” she continued. “As I said before, I do not believe your goal is possible any longer. War is too near to be avoided with mere words. But… could you not return home now? Your people live shorter lives than ours, but surely many of your warriors will remember Tereus. They will know his temperament and strategies. Such knowledge may save many innocents.”

  Elias wanted to nod in agreement but resisted the urge. His pacing slowed further. And, for the first time, he noticed the bits of dust flaking from his boots onto the blanketed floor of the tent.

  “Furthermore,” Lucasta said. “Cotora may continue searching for you. My daughter explained this, did she not? This place is no longer safe. And if Cotora suspect that we had aided you… she will need no other excuse. We shall leave as well. Perhaps, we could escort you and your companions back to familiar lands.”

  This time, Elias did nod, albeit without much thought. He fidgeted, unexpectedly desperate for a bit of solitude. It wasn’t that Lucasta or Gilla’s company had become insufferable. He simply wanted to be alone, to think, and to work
through the multitude of emotions threatening to overflow at any second.

  “I need to speak with the others,” he said wearily. “Can I—do we have time to…?”

  “There is time,” Lucasta assured him. “It will take several hours to prepare. If necessary, we might wait until dawn. But to delay longer than that…”

  She trailed off and Elias nodded again.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, neither knowing nor caring if they heard him. Limping slightly with renewed aches, he slipped from the tent.

  Kyra and Rhona spotted him the instant he emerged and hurried toward him. He spied them nearly as quickly and tried to escape but hadn’t even made it past the first row of tents before they were upon him.

  “Elias! What did they say?” Kyra asked, catching him by the wrist. “Are they going to help us?”

  He pulled free of her grasp and continued. He was in no fit state for conversation. The claustrophobic feeling in which he drowned was growing more intense by the second and he knew without any consideration that he was mere seconds away from fleeing outright. Fortunately, Kyra did not pursue him further.

  Stumbling, he made for the trees. The ground underfoot was treacherous with roots and detritus but he hardly felt the danger until he located a particularly broad tree and dropped limply on the far side of it. His vision blurred and his eyes burned with hot, directionless tears. Growling, he wiped them on his sleeve and strove to calm the trembling of his fingers.

  He hated this feeling. The unstable and unpredictable fits of emotion made him feel like he was more beast than man. Even worse was the reminder they provided. He’d lived continuously in that state after Catherine’s death. To fall back into it now after so long, and for so paltry a reason, was unsettling.

  It took several long minutes before the feeling passed. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he slumped forward and buried his face against them.