Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  Navon was ready immediately with a counterargument. “Suppose it is demonic, Jikun. What old traditions are of value anymore? This country has been changing since Eraydon’s time. Necromancy is just a step further down this road of progress. We discussed this the last time we spoke of the beast.” Navon did not need to remind him—Jikun remembered every time the word necromancy had been breathed. And yet, his captain’s tone seemed to prod Jikun further along as though, by the general’s words, he had opened the conversation. “And I have been thinking… reading, as it were. Demonic entities will not fall to our magic or weapons and—”

  Jikun turned sharply before his captain could continue further. Gods, why did he insist on provoking him?! “NO.” His voice was raised and sharp, echoing across the stone walls around them and vanishing into the vaulted ceiling above.

  Navon fell silent once more, his teeth snapping back together with an audible clack. Jikun could see the muscles tense along the jaw line, incensed once more from the rebuke.

  Jikun walked briskly past him, brushing against his captain’s shoulder as he made no move to step out of the way. “Let’s try this again,” he breathed slowly. “Demonic entities…” He paused, waiting for his captain to continue their oft-repeated conversation.

  “May be susceptible to obsidian. But the only elves on Sevrigel who possess that material are the Malravi. And obsidian is simply not a practical weapon in battle against those wielding steel or elsteral blades… or armor. If Eraydon let Tiras—”

  “You are not Tiras and I am not Eraydon. Libraries only for you,” Jikun replied firmly, straightening from his boots and feeling that he had given him more than a fair chance to express his stance. “Do you understand me? If you dare touch…” he hesitated, forcing the word out with almost fear-filled venom, “necromancy, so help me Navon…”

  Navon protested, turning back toward him. “This is the problem with this damn country, Jikun! Tradition upheld in one realm is wholly dismissed in another. The lines are just a blur now, even in you! The Sel’vi are notorious for upholding virtue when they fear progress and abandoning those same customs when it benefits them. Banning necromancy is just another one of their conjured ‘traditions’—it holds no historical weight! More importantly, it’s our best chance at fighting a demonic entity!”

  “If tradition is a virtue and the lines are too blurred now, I’d rather err on the side of the Sel’vi on this one,” Jikun replied stiffly. This was the one area he could agree with those arrogantly naïve bastards. The elves of the mountains had been dabbling in the dark magics with terrifying consequences long enough for tradition to mark that with due negativity.

  Yet Navon persisted. “History defines what traditions are virtuous: it separates the old traditions from these new frivolous ones. The ban on necromancy is just some new ‘tradition’ created out of fear, not an old tradition that upheld the framework of the just society under Sel’ari where—”

  “Well, soon this history will create the ‘virtuous tradition’ of banning necromancy as well. We’ll find another way to fight this ‘demonic entity.’ If that is what it is,” Jikun replied calmly.

  “Very likely that it is.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Probably.”

  “No.” Jikun spun back suddenly and grabbed Navon sharply by the front of his shirt, his anger rising, his icy eyes meeting the Helven’s coldly. “You keep your eyes open while I’m gone and you do not touch… that cursed magic. Do I make myself clear? This is general’s orders… not just the law of Sevrigel.”

  He saw Navon cast his eyes to the side, the stubbornness fading even beneath the resentment at the command. Gods could Navon be a fool! A stubborn, persistent fool! “Yes, General,” he muttered stiffly.

  Jikun dropped his hand and smoothed down the ruffled fabric. He gave Navon a hard smack on the chest, forcing himself to smile. “Now, I’ll be back in a few weeks. Relax. Enjoy yourself. Bed a woman. Dream of Sel’ari. Whatever it is you do in your free time.” He tucked a few spare clothes beneath his arm and journal. “I’m off for home.”

  He saw Navon smile despite himself, his eyes flicking pointedly to the leather-bound book. “Just go. And stop your worrying. Somehow I’ll manage without your overbearing eyes for a few weeks.” His smile broadened. “But no more than that.”

  Chapter Three

  Hairem slouched in his seat, groaning, his arms hanging limply over the sides of the chair. “Why must the gods hate me so?” he moaned.

  The girl brushing his hair folded her hands against her abdomen patiently as his hair disappeared beneath the back of the chair, not bothering to hide her exaggerated eye roll. He was such a sloucher. His father had been one, too. Even now, over the din of her own thoughts and Hairem’s complaints, the handmaid could hear the late king’s hypocritical rebuke toward his son. “Sit up straight. Shoulders back. You’re a prince, not a pauper.”

  She eyed the ceiling, attention flicking from the chipping gold paint to the webbed center of the dome. She would need a very tall ladder to reach that one. Perhaps there was one in the cellar. She glanced once more toward the king, who seemed to have slipped further down the chair.

  “I will tell you that this is the worst. The worst—no, no, I take that back… that damn council is the worst… but this is damn close. You understand how these things work, do you not?” He tipped his head back and she saw his brow knit as he found the web at the center of the dome. “Ah… forgive my language, Alvena… You are not a male, you are a gir—a lady.” He gripped the sides of the chair and pulled himself straight, flicking his hair behind his head again. “Carry on.”

  His fit paused, the girl raised the brush again and worked it through the now static ends of his hair. A lady. Ha! If she was a lady she would not be a handmaid. She pulled a little on his hair absentmindedly. She had just begun to bleed two years ago and that, in the eyes of the elves, hardly made her more than a child and certainly not a lady… but she liked when he used that word. She stood a little taller.

  “I will have to sit there with a sweetly sickening smile the entirety of the time,” he suddenly groaned. He turned his head, hair yanking from her hand, the brush still caught in the ends. “Does this smile look false to you?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Maybe I shall simply not smile.”

  She shrugged.

  The king slumped back into the chair and she pried the brush from his hair. He had a lot of hair. Not as much as his father, but it was so frizzy now!

  “I know… It is just that… Nilanis has the greatest influence over the council. If I sit through a dinner with him, perhaps I can create a more amiable atmosphere at the council… which is something I desperately need if those meetings are to go anywhere at all.” He was quiet a moment. “Are you almost done? It certainly is taking you a while this morning.”

  *****

  The carriage ride to the estate of the El’adorium was long, rolling gently along the winding roads of the city. When Hairem’s mood was agreeable, he would call it scenic—when his patience ran thin, it was superfluous. Nilanis’ home was located on the west side of the city, along the bank of the lake, which was located in the exact opposite direction of the palace. Yes, this ride was superfluous.

  ‘And,’ Hairem mused, ‘what an ironic reflection of the supposed close relationship that the El’adorium holds with the king.’

  For all the expectations that the El’adorium was supposed to work closely with the king, Hairem actually knew very little about Nilanis’ life. Personally, that was. Economically, it was impossible to not know the male. Nilanis seemed to own the Port of Targados and the lake itself: it was usually his ships and his trade that came in to port. The male had acquired most of his fortune off of the trade that both came and left the capital, and subsequently his power derived from the wealth and control of the majority of Elvorium’s commerce. Stripped of his powers as the El’adorium, Nilanis would still hold a potent influence. His reach could be
felt as far north as Darival and as far south as even the coastline of Dragon Wing. Even before he had become the El’adorium three centuries before, a lord of his status and economic influence had been in no short supply of power.

  Even the True Blood King Silandrus had struggled with the non-royal regime…

  The carriage bounced suddenly and Hairem’s face smacked against the side of the carriage wall, drawing him sharply from his thoughts. ‘Ouch! What in Ramul are you doing out there?’ he muttered internally as he rubbed his brow. ‘Excellent. That’s a mark.’

  The carriage drew to a stop and the door swung open, an apologetic carriage driver leaning sheepishly to the side.

  “What did we do, hit someone?” Hairem jested, though he half expected something to be lying behind on the road after that jolt. He stepped out onto the cobbled steps of the estate grounds, eyeing the street behind them.

  “No, Your Majesty!” the carriage driver quickly exclaimed. “Just a toy some children threw into the road. Erallus has reprimanded them—”

  “And warned them of the dangers, I hope,” Hairem interrupted. “Lucky it was their toy and not one of them.” ‘And now I sound like my father… Gods know how many times I played in the streets…’

  He saw a tall, heavily armed male wrap around from the back of the carriage, on queue to respond. He drew up stiffly to the king’s side and offered a half-bow. “Of course, Your Majesty. They have been warned and sent away. Is there anything else you require? Or shall we wait for you here?”

  Hairem’s eyes abandoned the sparsely occupied road and flicked to the estate grounds where the cobbled path led to a set of intricately-carved mahogany doors. “Here will do,” he replied slowly to his personal guard, letting the carriage door swing closed. “And pray that this dinner goes quickly,” he added with a mutter below his breath.

  “What was that, My Lord?”

  Hairem patted the guard affectionately on the shoulder. “I will see you shortly, Erallus,” he dismissed before taking several brisk steps up toward the estate. Before he had progressed farther than that, the doors swung wide and two thin servants pressed back against them, as though trying to make themselves invisible.

  And it was hardly a difficult task, for there between them, framed in the opulent doorway, was Nilanis.

  “Good evening, Your Majesty,” the Voice of the Elves greeted boisterously, sweeping his elegant bow low before the king. Nilanis straightened beneath the glowing light of a lantern swaying gently above him. “No escort this evening?”

  Hairem offered a soft smile and nodded his head in greeting, wondering if the evening light around them was enough to render the mark on his head visible. “Good evening, Nilanis,” he replied as he reached the top of the steps. He glanced back once, longingly, to the comfort of the carriage. “I do not need an escort to see a dear friend,” he spoke as he faced his host, lips twitching into a practiced smile.

  Nilanis smiled in return, broader and far better versed in deceit than Hairem could ever hope to manage. “Welcome to my humble home. I hope we can serve you most adequately this evening.” The elf turned and led him into the estate, his long, gold-hemmed robes dragging across the polished wood. His clothing seemed all too warm to be worn in the mid spring, but Hairem imagined that it was a gesture of his wealth and status to be so heavily—and luxuriously—clad in the silks, velvet, and gold of the offshore elven cities.

  Hairem found himself looking rather drab beside him. He subconsciously ran his hand down his chest to smooth his shirt.

  “Our dining room is just over this way,” Nilanis was saying. He must have said something prior to this statement, but Hairem found himself now overly focused on the strange statue of a naked female arched back against a large tree. With one hand on her inner thigh, she taunted males to stare. Hairem felt it was in rather poor taste, especially for a Sel’ven of Nilanis’ class.

  Nilanis paused his steps to glance at the statue. “My wife—may she be at peace—was rather fond of that work. It was one of the surviving pieces found in the Farvian Realms after the Cataclysm. I feel it defines quite well the risqué nature of their elven people… But I cannot bear to remove such a nostalgic symbol of her memory.” He sighed briefly, almost, Hairem thought, longingly.

  He grimaced slightly as the carved female took on a more personal tone.

  “And that chandelier is from Eraydon City—a new design, actually. Exquisite, is it not? No doubt you have a dozen such chandeliers in your palace.”

  Hairem turned, his grimace growing. He, in fact, had none. Not simply because he knew nothing about such décor, but because it would inevitably look gaudy in any elven room. As it did here. He stopped beside where Nilanis had paused, looking up at the golden chandelier dangling from the ceiling of the dining hall, light from the candles reflecting off of its countless crystals. “Exquisite,” Hairem replied, attempting to weave interest into his tone. Fearing he had failed, he flashed a sickly sweet smile.

  A servant hurried forward from the shadows at their right, bowed low, and drew out the head chair for the king.

  Hairem sat, giving his thanks as Nilanis carried on about some specially carved maiden etched into the chair in which he now sat. He only stopped to beckon the servant away after being seated himself.

  “How are you, as of late?” Hairem interrupted before Nilanis could continue.

  The elf tapped the table and a servant hurriedly returned. “There has been minor pillaging of ships bound for my ports by southern human pirate scum… but I knew this was inevitable, what with the news of the famine spreading across Ryekarayn… This winter will be brutal for them. They’re lucky to have such generous allies as ourselves or no doubt they would never survive.” He sniffed and stroked the rim of his golden goblet.

  Hairem muffled a snort. ‘Generous? I would never go so far as to call you generous…’

  Nilanis seemed not to notice and merely raised his empty wine glass to eye it reproachfully, as though it ought to fill itself. “And a male has begun residence in the estate to my left. He has two children as wild as Faravi who have unfortunately been cluttering the street outside with their toys. They like to lay siege to the wall around my estate, it seems. Ah, but I can’t complain. No, I can’t complain. His wife is gone to the same illness that took my wife and your mother. Pity on the poor males who must raise their offspring without the guidance of their wiser half.”

  Hairem’s brow knit faintly. He liked to think he had turned out fair even without his mother’s assistance.

  Nilanis paused, briefly studying Hairem’s face as though attempting to gather his nonverbal response. When Hairem offered nothing, he reluctantly abandoned his search. “So overall, quite well, Your Majesty. Fortunately, a male of my trade profits even in times of war. I certainly am not suited to the life of a pauper.” He gave a private laugh and then spoke quietly to the servant. “I apologize, My Lord, for my daughter’s late arrival.”

  Hairem’s brows rose in confusion and for the briefest moment, he wondered if he had missed something earlier. “Your daughter…?”

  Once again there was a flurry of movement as a servant rushed from the room, his departure then heralding the entrance of a dozen males bearing large silver platters of delicate foods and wines. For a moment, Hairem’s bemusement overshadowed his confusion at Nilanis’ comment, and he wondered if the El’adorium realized that his servants’ frenzied activity conveyed more agitation than grace.

  “Yes, my daugh—ah, finally!” No sooner had the table been laden with luxurious foods than the door was once more thrown open, and Hairem had to repress a sigh as he turned to greet the new arrival.

  In the doorway stood a lady, her dress shimmering softly in the candlelight as each delicate strand of silk vied for attention on her lean form. And to Hairem’s surprise he found his tension ebbing as his muscles relaxed, the bustle of the servants all but fading from his mind.

  All elves were fair. This, no person could argue. But even amongst
elves, this female was enchantingly beautiful. She entered timidly, as her class found proper, with hands folded in front of her. Hairem had never met Nilanis’ wife, but given his daughter’s radiance, it seemed at least, to Hairem, that she certainly did not take after her father. Most pleasantly, her demeanor exhibited all the elegance and unobtrusive grace that the rest of the household lacked.

  “Your Majesty, this is my daughter, Ilsevel,” Nilanis spoke, taking her hand and passing it to the king.

  Hairem stood, aware of his unblinking stare, and yet, he couldn’t manage to take his eyes off of her. He watched as her lean form bent into a graceful curtsy and he raised her pale hand, kissing her smooth and unmarred skin. “My lady,” he spoke with a faint smile, nodding his head in acknowledgement.

  She looked up shyly, green eyes flashing with a flicker of interest. “Your Majesty.”

  Hairem released her hand, reseating himself and watching as she took the seat at his left. She jostled her thick, golden hair slightly from her shoulders, adjusted the sleeves of her almost shamefully-flattering dress, and picked up her fork. Hairem glanced at Nilanis as though to be certain that the lady before him was in fact related to the weather-beaten face of the councilmember. And the king’s smile abruptly faded.

  Nilanis was looking quite satisfied with his level of interest.

  ‘Of course that is what he wants,’ Hairem thought irritably, picking up his fork and quickly resubmitting his smile of polite company. He forced his eyes to return to the grandiose meal—as though it could hold any interest after her appearance—and reprimanded himself for his shameless gawking. Even worse, her presence closed off the topic of politics.

  And so it was, as Hairem expected, a long dinner. There was mostly the clanking of the silverware, the flickering of far too many candles, and the pitter patter of the constant comings and goings of servants at Nilanis’ beckoning. He made sure to use them at every opportunity, as though to demonstrate his authority and wealth.