“Very good, your highness.”
~*~
Feenix snapped awake and reached for her dagger. Someone was leaning over her in the dark, and she reacted with lightning reflexes to the danger.
“Peace, Feenix,” the shadow spoke.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?” she yelled at L’Garn. “It’s the best way I know of to get a knife in your heart.”
“You have already pierced my heart, Feenix,” he said, bending down to give her a lingering kiss. She battled to hide her disappointment when he stepped back and elected not to take any further liberties.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and scratched her head after putting the dagger away.
“Is it time to go?”
“It is,” he answered. “Sarnett has a quick meal ready for us, and then we must leave. Zimpher will have eaten his breakfast by now, and is preparing for the coming night. I have requested an audience with him, and he has granted it, although reluctantly.”
“Fine. Just give me a moment, and I’ll join you in the dining hall.” Feenix needed a little time to check her weapons and tend to personal business. A good, brisk washing of her face wouldn’t be out of order, either, she decided, as she fought to clear the lingering drowsy cobwebs from her mind.
“Very well,” the prince said, moving to the door. “Do not be overly long.”
She poured water into a stone basin, then retied her hair back from her face. Her fingers worked quickly without any conscious thought on her part. The chore was one she had completed countless times, and her nimble fingers made short work of it.
“Feenix, can you hear me?”
She dropped the rag she had picked up to wash her face. Water splashed all over her shirt.
“By Mac Lir’s toe, Rendolin! I wish you’d give me some sort of warning before sneaking up on me like that!”
“I am not sneaking, and this is the best I can do for a warning. Now, report, Captain. What has been transpiring since our last communication? And please remember not to yell. I can hear your thoughts quite clearly.”
“Can you hear this?” she asked and then sent a thought stream of the most foul gutter language she could dredge up from her earliest memories.
“There is no need for vulgarity, captain. Just report. Time is of the essence.”
It gave her a tiny thrill of pleasure knowing she had upset Rendolin’s ordered thought process, and she smiled into the shadowed room.
“I have a lot of things to report, but the most important is that Zimpher is planning a massive attack on Shalridoor. L’Garn and I have an audience with the king in an hour or so to speak with him about Mac Lir’s plan for peace. However, we are not counting on Zimpher’s cooperation.”
“Mac Lir told me that you are to be his mediator. I have to confess, Feenix, I was rather surprised that you had agreed.”
“Never mind that now, elf. It’s a little hard to say no to a god when he’s saving you from a dragon.”
“A dragon?”
She smiled at Rendolin’s surprise. She decided to hold the telling of that tale until a more convenient time.
“Rendolin, we have collected more than one hundred elves who will back L’Garn over Zimpher. When we go to speak with the king, we are hoping to persuade more to Mac Lir’s cause.”
“That is a good start. I hear restraint in your tone, Feenix. What are you not telling me?”
She wished she could see his face when she told him of his father, but he needed to know now.
“What of my father?”
Rendolin’s voice was confused and troubled. Obviously, he picked up her worry even though she was not consciously projecting her thoughts to him.
“Feenix, I order you to tell me what you know about my father.”
“Easy, Rendolin,” she tried to calm him. “L’Garn has granted freedom to all the Sea Elves that have been held in Cragimore, and it seems your father, J’Laris, is one of them.”
The High Priest was silent. She knew he was trying to digest the information which must had been a huge shock. The quiet in her mind felt like a bottomless hole.
“I have spoken with him, Rendolin. He is a good man. The Night Elves did not know who he was all this time, and so he has kept your people safe.”
“What are you saying? Are you telling me that my father did not die in the attack on Cragimore?”
“Yes. He was wounded—he lost his hand—but other than that he is fine. He’s looking forward to seeing his family again. And he has pledged himself to Mac Lir’s cause.”
“He would,” she heard him speak quietly with pride into her mind. “Mother and Thelorin will be ecstatic!”
Excitement and joy began to bubble up and spill into the tone of his voice. Feenix could picture the small boy Rendolin had been, and the delight and enthusiasm with which he must have greeted each day, when his family had been whole and complete.
Then suddenly, it seemed as if the excitement hit a stone wall.
“This will change everything.”
She knew he thought of Thelorin and the change in his status the return of their father, the rightful Lord of Hiloris, would bring. She didn’t want to intrude on his thought. However, she couldn’t help but think that Thelorin would survive, and perhaps even be a better man for his father’s return.
“Do you have anything further to report, captain?”
Feenix felt him force his mind back to Mac Lir’s business. There would be time later, if all went well, for the answers to all the questions that filled his head.
“Nothing that can’t wait. After we have spoken with Zimpher we will know more. Is there anyway we can contact you?”
“J’Laris can contact me when you return from your audience with the king.”
“Rendolin,” she said gently, “his magic has been taken from him. He can’t contact you, nor can any of them use any of their magic.”
“Why? What has happened to prevent it?”
“They have been systematically fed some sort of food that dampens the magic. It’s built up over time, and their magic is completely useless.”
“That explains so many things,” the High Priest replied thoughtfully, after a long moment of silence.
“L’Garn told me that it’s not permanent, once they stop eating the additive. The magic should return in about six months.”
“Very well. I will contact you again in four hours. That should be enough time to determine Zimpher’s answer to Mac Lir’s plan. In the meantime, Thelorin and I will prepare for the attack here, in case the king does not call off his men.”
“There is one more thing.”
“Speak, captain.”
While she hadn’t discussed this with L’Garn, she was going to demand that the Sea Elves release all Night Elves that they held captive. It was a good faith action that she knew would go a long way in gaining support for the god’s plan. And, as the official mediator, she had the right to make the request.
“You must release any Night Elves you have on Sasheena and at Shalridoor, as an act of good faith that the Sea Elves will honor Mac Lir’s plan.”
“It shall be done,” the High Priest replied without hesitation.
Feenix nodded to herself in satisfaction. She had not thought he would be opposed to the move.
“Most are on Sasheena as slaves,” Rendolin continued, “but a few are here with us, as you know. I will send someone back to the island with orders to bring the Night Elves to Shalridoor. It will take a few days.”
“Thank you, Rendolin. I will inform L’Garn that his people have been set free. I’m sure the information will make him happy.”
“Take care, captain,” the elf replied. “I will speak with you in four hours. And thank you for the information about J’Laris.”
Before she could comment, he had broken the link to her mind and was gone.
Feenix quickly finished her preparations and joined L’Garn in the dining area. After a hasty meal, they mounted
horses to reach the lift.
It wasn’t until they were half way down the shaft that Feenix realized she hadn’t seen Eagnad since they returned Atop.
“Now where is that blasted troll? Mac Lir,” she mumbled, “I hope you don’t expect me to keep him out of trouble as well as mediate a peace between these arrogant elves! Because if you do, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I have my hands full with L’Garn and Rendolin, so you’ll just have to watch over the little guy yourself.”
“What are you mumbling?” L’Garn asked, giving her hand a squeeze.
“I just noticed I haven’t seen Eagnad for a long time. Do you know where he is?”
“No. Why?”
“Nothing, I guess.” However, a nagging fear hovered in the back of her mind.
What was the troll up to?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Feenix stood just inside the huge audience chamber, trying hard not to look like an inexperienced novice fighter with her mouth hanging open.
The entire trip through the lower caverns of Cragimore had grated on her nerves to the point that she was ready to scream. With every step, the dark menacing thrumming grew; the thrumming she had first heard when L’Garn had carried her into the stronghold all those days and nights ago. A prickling at the back of her neck and along her spine had been the first herald of the eerie sensation. A sound, almost strong enough to feel, danced along her nerves and through her brain, giving the warrior woman the feeling that ants were crawling around in her skull.
“By Mac Lir’s beard,” she had finally said to L’Garn, “what is that noise?” She rubbed at the back of her neck. “It’s driving me mad!”
“Aye,” he answered over his shoulder, never slowing his pace. “The deeper we go into Cragimore’s heart, the stronger it gets. You will become accustomed to it,” he reassured her. “Although, you will never be comfortable with it. I know I am not.”
By the time they reached the outer hall to the audience chamber, the thrumming had become a deep, dark hum that vibrated through the soles of her boots, penetrating up through her bones and setting her teeth to a grating buzz. A dull headache throbbed behind her eyes.
The chamber was massive, even larger than the laundry and cooking cavern. It was lit by those odd priest lights, which were everywhere. They hung from the ceiling, they were set into the stone walls on little shelves, and they glowed from the floor all along the circumference of the room. This was, by far, the best-lit place she had ever seen in Cragimore.
The only piece of furniture in the entire massive chamber was a large shining throne of black marble, set high above the floor on a five-tiered dais. No carpet graced the cold beauty of the black steps leading to the throne; not a smudge nor scuff mark marred the crisp clean lines of the hard steps which sparkled and gleamed in the light.
This magnificent throne was the source of the near-debilitating noise that had saturated every nerve in her body. She could almost see some great force of energy snapping and crackling around the empty seat, as if it were a living thing, impatient for its master to arrive and possess it.
What was the point of having such a huge room and only putting one chair in it, she wondered, forcing her eyes from the black marble seat and looking around the cavern. But, in truth, she knew the answer.
This king of the Night Elves wanted no distractions when his audience was before him. The lighting, the sparseness of the room, everything had been staged for the dramatic entrance of King Zimpher the Golden. The elf knew the benefits of total intimidation, it was easy to see.
Standing behind the throne and on either side were two tall personages, their faces hidden in shadow. They wore long, blood-red robes that were topped off with deep, voluminous hoods. She could see nothing of their features except some indistinct shading. They were like specters, silently waiting, poised as if expecting an attack; their long white fingers held lances at an angle from their bodies.
Beside each of them burned a raised brazier of incense. The pungent, sweet scent mixed with the damp mustiness of the cavern, adding to Feenix’s headache and discomfort.
“Who are they?” Feenix asked in a low whisper. “They look like emissaries from Death himself.”
“My grandfather enjoys setting the stage with threatening dramatics,” he whispered back. “They are his two closest advisors.”
“I’ll bet they’re lots of fun at celebrations.”
The tension of waiting for the king was beginning to weigh on her almost as much as the thrumming sound. Her attempt at levity failed like a flaming arrow shot into a bucket of water.
Scattered around the room, on either side of the dais, were other somber elves. Each wore a long sword sheathed at his side, and all appeared more than willing to use them. They stood watching Feenix and the prince with what she surmised was accusation and suspicion.
Altogether, not a very warm welcome, she thought.
By Mac Lir’s blue eyes, where was the king?
“I thought you said your grandfather was expecting us.”
“He is.”
L’Garn answered without looking at her. He seemed to be trying to fight some sort of deep emotion, and most of his concentration was trained on the empty throne.
“Well, he’s late.”
A strained smile slipped across the prince’s lips, but was gone in two heartbeats.
“No. He is right on time.”
A blinding flash of lightening split the heavy air above the throne. In the blink of an eye, the smell of fresh ozone and burnt flesh permeated the cavern, effectively smothering all traces of the cloying incense.
King Zimpher the Golden had made his appearance and now sat serenely upon the Throne of Meedrion.
“Nice trick,” Feenix commented out of the corner of her mouth.
L’Garn did not answer, but stood rock still, staring at the elf seated on the throne.
Zimpher was dressed in pure black silk, except for a flowing golden cloak that draped off his shoulders to spill over the sides of the throne. The Crown of Meedrion sat regally on his bald head, looking as if it weighed no more than a feather or two.
Feenix was impressed with the beauty of the crown. It was made of black crystal and laced with silver. With each movement of the king’s head, five large diamonds embedded in the front of the crown threw glistening sparks about the cavern.
It would garner a hefty pouch of gold coins if sold at some Port Marcus dockside fence, she wagered. Too bad she’d never have the opportunity to see exactly how much gold.
“Come,” L’Garn said to her quietly before striding to within a meter of the stairs. Feenix matched him step for step, although slightly behind him and to his left.
All right, Mac Lir, she said to the conveniently absent god. Time to tame the king of the Night Elves. You’d better be right about L’Garn leading his people to peace, because it looks like we’ve just stepped into a big pile of dragon dung!
“Your majesty,” L’Garn greeted the king with a formal bow.
Feenix placed her hand on the hilt of her sword and merely nodded in the direction of the throne. She would be damned if this old elf was going to intimidate her into a more formal greeting.
“What brings you into our presence, Outbreed?” the king demanded in regal tones. “And how dare you bring your human whore with you dressed in the garb of a warrior?”
“Whore?” she sputtered, taking a step towards the throne and beginning to unsheathe her sword.
Every robed elf around the room immediately pulled their blades and stood ready to defend their king.
“Peace, Feenix,” L’Garn said quietly while putting his hand on her wrist, preventing her from actually pulling the weapon from the scabbard. “I will handle this.”
She reluctantly seated the sword firmly back into the scabbard. L’Garn was probably right. He should handle his grandfather, but by the god’s toes, she didn’t like inaction.
“I see you have her well trained,” the mocking voice of the king r
ang in Feenix’s ears, raising her hackles even more. “That is something in your favor, I suppose.”
She wanted to blast the king of the Night Elves to the Seven Cella Worlds with a scathing commentary on his mother’s lack of morals, but Feenix swallowed the burning words and concentrated on achieving Mac Lir’s goal. She’d never realized how difficult it was to keep her mouth shut.
“Majesty,” the prince said, ignoring Zimpher’s rude and cutting remarks, “may I introduce Captain Feenix of Port Marcus? She as been sent here to speak with us on behalf of our god, Mac Lir.”
Feenix didn’t know how he could ignore the insulting words of his own grandfather. She knew it was taking all of her own will to keep from charging the throne in her usual way. But she supposed, now that she was Mac Lir’s mediator, she should make some attempt at restraining her reckless nature and try to talk reasonably rather than fight. By Mac Lir’s thumb, it was not easy!
“Our god has appointed Captain Feenix to be his mediator between all the silvan races,” the prince said. “She is here to warn us of a grave danger, and we need to listen closely to what she has to say.”
At L’Garn’s words, Zimper’s face darkened in anger. The power-laden air crackled through the cavern.
“Mac Lir is a weak, sniveling, insignificant excuse for a deity,” the king pronounced from his throne. “I do not recognize him as the god of the Night Elves.”
“How can you say that?” L’Garn asked in amazed tones. “You know that he created the silvan races, among which are the Night Elves. You can not simply state he is not our god.”
Zimpher stood and the force around the throne popped with a pent energy that raised all the hair on Feenix’s arms and head.
“You dare to tell me—King Zimpher the Golden—what I can say, Outbreed?”
It seemed to Feenix as if the elf standing before the throne on the dais blurred for a moment; his face became something from out of her worst dreams. The illusion was gone in a heartbeat, and she blinked her eyes against the pain in her head. The thrumming deepened and felt stronger.
THE CHOOSING Page 30