Sovereign (The Gods' Game, Volume IV)

by Vider, Rohan M.

  The protector barracks was just that: a large, rectangular log cabin, with rows of bunks and ten closed rooms at the end.

  They had not had to travel very far to reach the barracks, as it had been conveniently located close to the refuge’s entrance. Other than the party and the four protectors, no one else was inside the barracks.

  Kyran looked over the rows of empty beds. The barracks was large enough to accommodate at least a hundred protectors, although by the scarcity of the possessions in evidence, he guessed that no more than ten protectors resided here.

  When he noticed Kyran’s gaze resting on the empty bunks, Lothar said, “The troop is out training with senior protector, Cian. You will have the barracks to yourself for the rest of the day. Choose any of the unused beds for yourself.”

  Mirien’s keen gaze did not miss the emptiness of the barracks either. “How many protectors are there, Lothar?”

  The old warrior shifted uncomfortably. “Including myself, and the four senior protectors, fifteen.” He sighed. “We are a dying order, Milady,” he said sadly. “Although, with your return, perhaps that will change.”

  Mirien winced at the hungry hope in the protector’s voice, but she said nothing as she moved towards the nearest bunk.

  Lothar stopped her. “Not you, my lady. You may have one of the officer’s rooms at the end of the hall.”

  Mirien shook her head. “Thank you, Lothar, but no. My place is here with the rest of the party.”

  Lothar’s face fell, but he nodded reluctant acceptance. “You will find the bathing facilities at the cabin’s far end, next to the officer’s rooms. You are of course free to make use of them. In the meantime, I will have food and clothes sent to you.” He pointed out the other three protectors. “Senior protectors Larien, Mhorr, and Bengyan will remain on guard outside with the great bear. Shout for them if you require anything.”

  “Aiken. His name is Aiken,” Kyran said. The barracks’ entrance was not large enough to accommodate the great bear’s bulk, and Aiken had been forced to remain outside.

  Lothar nodded in acknowledgement. “Then I will leave you to it. I will be back in three hours to collect you for your audience with the dowager.”

  ✽✽✽

  With both cold and hot running water, the baths were a welcome surprise. Discounting Kyran’s cold dips in the Labyrinth’s lakes and rivers, and his infrequent washing with summoned water, his soak in the protector’s barracks was his first real bath since coming to Myelad.

  Kyran had all but forgotten the marvel and luxury of modern plumbing, and he made sure to make the most of the barracks’ facilities. After his soak, he made yet another pleasant discovery: clean clothes.

  Standing next to the party’s bunks, he found four young elven lads with fresh clothes in their hands. The two women and Gaesin, he noted, were still busy in the other baths.

  “Sir,” squeaked the youth, standing next to his chosen bunk. The boy looked no older than thirteen. “Lord Lothar has asked me to provide you with these garments, along with his compliments.”

  Kyran took the bundle from the youth. “Thank you,” he said.

  But the boy did not leave. Shifting nervously from foot to foot, he waited.

  “Is there something else?” Kyran asked kindly.

  “Yessir! I am to collect and clean your armour.”

  After his soak, Kyran had re-equipped his by-now dirty—and somewhat odorous—mithril armour. He hesitated, uncomfortable parting with it. Yet if the elves meant them ill, there was little the party could do to stop them. “Of course, wait here one moment,” he said and returned to the bath chamber to change.

  A few hours later Gaesin, Kyran, and Adra sat eating in the barracks dining hall while they waited for Mirien. The three had been given plain but well-fitting sturdy green clothing, each emblazoned with an ancient oak. Protectors’ uniforms, the elven lads had informed them.

  The whiesper’s own package of clothing had only arrived a few minutes ago, and while the rest of the party finished their meal, Mirien had hurried off to get dressed.

  “She surely can’t still be changing,” Kyran muttered as he picked idly at his food. The appointed hour of their audience approached and he was eager to meet the mysterious dowager. What is taking Mirien so long?

  “Don’t be so impatient,” said an amused Adra. “These things take time.”

  Kyran grunted. From the size of the clothing package the elven youths had carried to Mirien, he knew whatever garments she had been given were nothing so simple as the ones the rest of the party had been loaned. Lothar, he suspected, was up to something. Resigning himself to patience, Kyran popped another morsel in his mouth. At least the food is delicious.

  The two protectors keeping the party company snapped to sudden attention, and Kyran looked up in time to see a stranger enter the room. Who’s this? he wondered, then froze. It can’t be. But it was. He blinked and looked again.

  It was Mirien.

  The whiesper was garbed in a luxuriant white silk blouse, form-fitting olive-green pants, and polished leather boots. A supple cloak that fell to the floor in a voluminous mass was draped around her shoulders, and her dark hair was held back by tiny, emerald ornaments cleverly crafted in the shapes of birds.

  Kyran realised his mouth was hanging open. He closed it with a snap and swallowed.

  Then choked.

  After a good few seconds of sputtering, and Gaesin banging unhelpfully against his back, Kyran regained his composure. “I’m fine,” he said, blinking to clear his watering eyes.

  “You sure?” Gaesin asked worriedly. “I can—”

  Kyran waved away the youth. He looked up, only for his gaze to be caught by Mirien again. It was the first time he had seen her without armour. In the elegant clothes Lothar had dressed her in, Mirien looked nothing like the lethal fighter she appeared to be most times.

  She truly is a princess.

  “What?” asked Mirien, a hint of a blush colouring her face under the weight of his gaze.

  “Nothing,” said Kyran. He reddened with embarrassment as he realised he had been staring.

  Gaesin was not so restrained as Kyran. “You look beautiful, Mirien,” said the half-elf, laughing in delight as he stepped around her and inspected her from all angles. Even Adra cracked a smile and nodded in agreement.

  Mirien scowled. “I knew I shouldn’t I have put these on. What was Lothar thinking?”

  Kyran knew exactly what the wily old warrior was thinking and silently applauded his efforts. Dressed as she was, Mirien looked regal. She wore the clothes with a quiet dignity that underscored her status as the scion of a house older than Crotana itself. The other elves will be hard-pressed to deny her lineage now.

  The door of the barracks opened, and right on cue Lothar entered. He bowed respectfully in Mirien’s direction. “Truly, Milady, you are a daughter of the House Tolyrandil,” said Lothar, his eyes glistening as he straightened.

  Mirien, though, was having none of it. Glaring at Lothar, she said, “You go too far, Lothar. I am not wearing that.”

  Following Mirien’s gaze, Kyran noticed Lothar held something in his hand. A thin mithril band, glittering with enchantments and with the crest of an ancient oak carved in its peaked centre. He cast insight over the item to confirm his suspicions.

  Found: Warden’s Wreath.

  Type: Enchanted item. Rank: Wondrous.

  Requirements: Only useable by a Tolyrandil.

  Special properties: Unknown.

  Description: The Warden’s Wreath is a divinely crafted relic forged by Eld himself, and last worn by Tanithil Tolyrandil, last rightful ruler of the Elder Forest. The properties of this item are hidden from all but its true bearer.

  “But—” said Lothar.

  “I am not wearing the crown,” repeated Mirien. “I told you I am not the heir, and Grandmother remains alive. It belongs to her or my elder brother.”

  “As you wish, Milady,” said Lothar, bowing again before hand
ing off the crown to Senior Protector Mhorr.

  “Where did you find it?” asked Mirien, her eyes following the mithril circlet. “Grandmother thought the crown lost, looted by the invaders.”

  Lothar nodded grimly. “It was, but we managed to recover it.” He said no more about the crown, but motioned the party outside. “Come, the dowager awaits.”

  ✽✽✽

  Lothar led the party through Eldervale and towards the town’s centre. Along the way, they were joined by Commander Talien and Gayla. Kyran still did not know the young elf’s rank, but by virtue of her birth, it seemed she too would accompany them to the audience.

  Unlike the protector, who remained in his plate armour, the two rangers had changed into simple brown leggings and tunics bearing the insignia of a hawk—their company badge, Kyran suspected.

  Both elves had started in surprise on seeing Mirien. Gayla had even gone so far as to bow to the Tolyrandil scion. And they were not the only ones whose attention was caught by the transformed whiesper. As the party progressed deeper into the settlement, the eyes and whispered comments of passing elves followed in the party’s wake.

  Mirien noticed the attention of the passersby as well. Lifting her chin, she gazed steadfastly ahead and ignored the curious gazes and murmurs.

  Soon, the party reached a grove of trees in what appeared to be the exact centre of the settlement. “Welcome to the Oak Briar Hall,” said Lothar. “The dowager and the council await within.”

  Kyran peered curiously at the ‘hall.’ It appeared to be a natural formation set within a circle of twelve ancient oaks. The walls of the hall were a briar of thorns. Many times Kyran’s own height, they looped around the outside of the living oak pillars, hiding those within from his sight. When he looked upwards, he saw that none of the vine-rope bridges crossed over the hall, nor were any log cabins perched in the branches of the hall’s twelve oaks.

  At the Oak Briar’s entrance, which was an arch cut into the manicured wall, two rangers stood stiffly at attention. Saluting their commander, and carefully ignoring Mirien, the rangers gestured them within.

  The party followed in the footsteps of Lothar and Talien, and entered the open-air hall. Inside, in the filtered sunlight streaming through the trees of the twelve oaks, Kyran saw that the hall was mostly empty. Its only occupants were the four figures at the hall’s far end, three seated in carved oak chairs and one standing. The rest of the hall was bare of furnishings.

  The party advanced through the hall’s grassy floor to the waiting figures. As they drew closer, Kyran started in surprise as he noticed one of the seated figures was human.

  Middle-aged, bearded, and slightly overweight, the man was dark-skinned and drumming his figures impatiently against the sides of his chair. He was the only human Kyran had seen since he entered Eldervale. What is a human doing in an elven town? And is he part of the council too?

  Seated to his left, in a chair larger than the others, was a hunched-over elven woman gripping an oaken staff. Her iron-grey hair was neatly braided, and her face was drawn and tight as she stared without blinking—and with disturbing intensity—at Kyran. Pinned by her hawkish gaze, Kyran fought the urge to cringe. That has to be the dowager.

  Pulling his gaze away from the fierce old woman, Kyran studied the hall’s other two occupants. The other seated figure was an ageless and dapper-looking elf. His long green hair fell down his shoulders in voluminous locks, and he was cloaked in silken robes that shone brightly in the ether. A mage.

  The last figure, a young elf dressed in leather camouflaged armour of the rangers, was the least noteworthy, but also vaguely familiar. Standing well to the right of the seated figures, and looking distinctly out of place, the ranger darted nervous glances the party’s way. Why does he look familiar?

  Grasping the opportunity granted by their slow approach, Kyran cast insight on all four figures.

  Name: Saven. Level: 34.

  Race: Human. Health: 402 / 402.

  Class: Administrator (rank II, apprentice).

  Name: Lera Vaynal. Level: 67.

  Race: Elf. Health: 730 / 730.

  Class: Mountain ranger (rank IV, adept).

  Name: Tehrilan. Level: 44.

  Race: Elf. Health: 402 / 402.

  Class: Mage (rank III, journeyman).

  Name: Gayen. Level: 32.

  Race: Elf. Health: 350 / 350.

  Class: Forest ranger (rank II, apprentice).

  “Finally!” exploded the human as the party drew to a halt before the council. “It took you long enough to get them here, Lothar!”

  “I brought them as soon as I could, Saven,” replied Lothar, unfazed by the man’s ire. Not giving Saven an opportunity to respond, Lothar turned sideways and introduced the party. “Kyran Seversan, free agent and unbound player,” said Lothar, waving him forward. Kyran inclined his head and did his best to ignore the scrutiny of the four pairs of eyes that suddenly locked onto him.

  “Adra Maeko and Gaesin Illineiros, vassals to the free agent,” continued Lothar. The pair’s introductions went unremarked, as none of the council looked away from their study of Kyran.

  Lothar paused before adding, with a barely perceptible hitch, “Mirien Tolyrandil.” A disbelieving gasp escaped the young ranger as the import of Lothar’s words penetrated. With admirable swiftness, three pairs of eyes cut away from Kyran and swung to Mirien. Only the dowager, her gaze not straying from Kyran, showed no reaction.

  Saven studied Mirien curiously, but with no particular animosity that Kyran could see.

  The mage Tehrilan appeared captivated. Leaning forward with his fingers peaked in front of him, he gazed keenly at the whiesper. Kyran scowled, but said nothing.

  “And finally, Aiken, jade bear and companion to Kyran,” concluded Lothar. At that, even the dowager reacted. Her eyes narrowed and flicked briefly to Aiken before returning to rest on Kyran.

  “Companion!” exclaimed the mage Tehrilan. He tore his gaze away from Mirien and leaned back in his chair. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Before Lothar could respond, Aiken huffed loudly, causing the insouciant mage to jerk erect.

  A second later, Tehrilan’s eyes widened as Aiken’s mental sending crashed into him. The mage recovered his composure quickly and inclined his head gravely towards Aiken. “Forgive me, revered guardian. I meant no disrespect.”

  Aiken huffed again before he dropped to all fours and closed his eyes, affecting a disinterest in the proceedings. Kyran shook his head at his companion’s antics. As he very well knew, despite the bear’s pretence, Aiken was listening with a keen ear. Catching Lothar’s eyes, Kyran motioned for the protector to go on.

  Lothar turned towards the seated figures and introduced the elven council. “Dowager Lera, commander of Eldervale’s rangers and leader of the council; Saven, civilian representative and second council member; Tehrilan, leader of the mage guild and third council member.” Lothar made his way to the vacant seat and sat down. “And of course, you know me already. I have the honour of serving as the council’s fourth member, in charge of the settlement’s defences.”

  Kyran’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t expected Lothar to be one of the council. Setting aside his surprise, he waited for whatever came next. But not without a last curious glance at the young elf again. It had not escaped his notice that Lothar hadn’t introduced the youth.

  “The council is assembled,” rasped the dowager. “We may begin.” She paused, then continued, “Welcome, free agent, to Eldervale, the last refuge of the elves of Crotana. We have called you here because we seek your aid.” Despite her words, the dowager spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.

  “Bah!” said Saven. “Let’s not mislead the boy, Lera!” He swung to Kyran. “We have not summoned you here—the dowager has. We don’t need your aid.”

  The dowager turned her head slowly towards Saven and gazed impassively at him until he was suitably cowed. “Forgive Saven,” she said, turning back to Kyran and ignoring the human
leader’s sputtered protest. “He is young yet and does not understand what we face.”

  “And if I may ask, what is it that you face?” asked Kyran.

  “Tell me your level,” said the dowager brusquely.

  Kyran frowned, taken aback by the abrupt demand. Perhaps she had not heard him? His eyes flicked to Lothar, but the protector refused to meet his gaze. Deciding to remain polite, he ignored the dowager’s slight and asked cautiously, “Why do you wish to know?”

  “Tell me,” she demanded before lapsing into silence again and waiting for his response.

  Kyran considered refusing to answer, but what purpose would that serve? After all, from his gear alone the elves should be able to correctly determine his rank. His gaze slid to Tehrilan. The mage likely had some means of divining his level, too. “Level thirty-five,” he replied reluctantly.

  The dowager’s impassive mask broke as her face scrunched up in disgust. “An apprentice!” she spat. She laughed, a hollow bitter sound. “It was all for nothing, then,” she murmured to herself.

  Even knowing little of her, Kyran could sense the self-recrimination in her tone. “You’re no use to me, boy,” she said, her voice filled with scorn. “Level thirty-five,” she repeated in disbelief to herself. “What a fool I am.” Standing up shakily, she pronounced, “This council is at an end.”

  “What?” Kyran said, staring at the dowager in amazement and hardly able to believe what was happening. After being dragged for four days through the forest just to meet the dowager, she was dismissing them after no more than a minute’s exchange! And with no explanation whatsoever!

  He cast his bewildered gaze across the rest of the council. They looked similarly confounded, but remained silent.