Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  Jikun frowned thoughtfully, wondering if that would mean something to him in a more sober state. But the noise in the room was rising once more and the words seemed even less important.

  “Ladies! Tell about the females in the army!” Jekum breathed excitedly, waving away the white thakish, leaning forward and knocking an unclaimed ale across a half-eaten plate of food. Jikun watched with a grimace as Lais picked up a piece of food from within the pool and popped it into his mouth.

  “Females…” Jikun looked up, catching Kaivervi’s eye down the table as she glanced away from Nalaen and Merkan. She smiled at him and he could see her cheeks redden.

  He found himself smiling back, his cheeks a little hotter, his heart a little faster.

  Jekum followed his gaze and leaned forward, his long, silvery hair trailing into the food before him. “You know,” he whispered conspiratorially. “She still loves you.”

  Jikun started, forcing his eyes away from Kaivervi. Was it obvious? Or was he theorizing? “Your hair…”

  Jekum sat back, wiping the ends on the sleeve of Lais beside him. They were apparently still very close. Lais merely swallowed the food he had found and wiped his sleeve back on Jekum’s shirt.

  “A song!” Rulan suddenly shouted out from his conversation with Daiki, interrupting Jikun’s thoughts to matters of a less interesting nature. “Daiki was just reminding me of your ceremony out of Darival. Gods, did you sing! The army must be full of songs! Sing us one!”

  Jikun laughed. Perhaps more sober he would have frowned on the request. But ale had loosened his lips and spirit and he found himself standing to oblige.

  “Valiant and daring,

  Light Ones, they fight,

  To push back the Dark God’s growing night,

  Far away, far away.

  Sel’ari bring them home!

  Quick and fleeting,

  Spirits they run,

  Over the hills to the setting sun,

  Far away, far away.

  Sel’ari bring them home!

  Sad and weeping,

  Their kin they rest,

  In the bosom of the Light God’s breast,

  Far away, far away.

  Sel’ari bring them home!”

  The words were not exactly rippling with cheer, but the melody made up for that. He raised his mug at the last line and the ground attempted to scamper out from under his feet. He toppled backwards through roars of laughter.

  A face appeared suddenly above his, blue-grey eyes creased with a smile. “Why don’t I help you home? If you keep drinking like that there won’t be enough for the rest of this room, let alone the dwarves of the Black Hills.”

  “Kaivervi…!” he let the mug fall from his hand and roll across the floor as she helped him to his feet—somehow managing to assist despite how unsteady she was herself.

  She turned to the rest of the room, her hand tightening on his arm. “I believe our general has had enough for this night, my friends. Bid him goodnight! I’m sure we shall see more of him in the coming days!”

  There was a clamor of boisterous and genuine honor as the room erupted with farewells. But their faces had become merely a blur of greys and blues.

  Kaivervi put a strong arm underneath his, balancing him against her sturdy frame. “They love you, don’t they?” she commented with a smile as she pushed the banquet hall’s door open.

  The comment sent a rush through his chest and words left his lips before he could catch himself, “Do you?” The door snapped shut at their heels and the sounds of laughter and music became muffled.

  Kaivervi laughed and stumbled slightly as she took the first step. “Oh my. I don’t think I’m very much more… much more… damn it… I don’t think I am any much more… ANY MORE sober than you are.”

  Jikun blinked as his mind tried to process her sentence. Was there an answer in there? “Do you remember where I live?” he asked finally.

  She chuckled. “How could I not?”

  Their feet trudged through the snow for several minutes as they talked about the food and alcohol they had just consumed: trivial chatter, but it was about as much as Jikun could muster.

  “Does your army really sing those songs? Do you sing with them?” Kaivervi asked as she turned him around a building to follow the narrow street.

  Jikun nodded his head as he took an unsteady step to the right. “You think I remember a song about Sel’ari without it being drilled into my sub…conscious through years of war? They are Sel’vi. They don’t stop singing. I listen. I… have an appearance to maintain… I’m a general after all… A general has… certain obligatoriations to maintain…”

  She grimaced. “Obligatories…”

  “Right. A general has certain obligatories to maintain.”

  She nodded and then giggled.

  “What?” he asked, finding that it was now he that had to catch her balance as they stumbled past another building.

  “I have no idea!” she replied. “It’s the ale. I mean, obviously it’s the ale.”

  “Obviously,” he agreed with a nod. “I asked you a question earlier…” It was suddenly coming back to him now. “I asked…”

  “Are there females in the Sel’varian army?” she interrupted, diverting his path to avoid a row of close-budded flowers.

  “Not in the Sel’varian army,” Jikun replied with a shake of his head, his mind losing the trail of his previous thought. He hopelessly abandoned retrieving it. “I have to get all my women with money,” he grieved.

  Kaivervi turned her head sharply, her surprise utterly plain, even through the ale. “Prostitution? Gods, there is a death penalty for that!” She seemed mildly sobered at those words and her smile vanished.

  Jikun laughed dismissively and waved a hand. “You sound like my captain. There is only a death penalty if you get caught.” He narrowed his brow. Something sounded ridiculous in his response, but his mind was too foggy to pinpoint what that was.

  Kaivervi shook her head. “You never were very good at doing what you didn’t want to do…”

  “You were never good at being the thing that I didn’t want to… that I wanted to…” he trailed off. “I don’t know what I was going to say.”

  She chuckled once more, the lines on her face easing. Gods, was his mother right… she was beautiful… Blue-tinted hair. Cerulean eyes. Cheek bones that jutted fiercely from her alabaster skin. “I don’t know either!”

  Jikun shook his head, determined to clear it somewhat. “What are you doing now?”

  Kaivervi cocked her head. “Walking you—Oh. I’m a hunter. Lais, Nalaen, Jekum, and I. We’ve been tracking the behavior of the white thakish since last fall.”

  Jikun looked back at her again. A hunter… She had filled out—sturdier than the Sel’varian females he was used to seeing these last few years. Maybe as supple as some of the human women he had bedded… Tall, lean, and muscular. He found his eyes had landed on her breasts.

  Kaivervi took a large step, forcing him to look away in order to not trip. “I see where your eyes are,” she spoke with reproach, but he saw the corner of her mouth twitch slightly. “We are here. Welcome home, General.”

  Jikun put a hand out against his door frame and stepped away from her support. He looked at her slight smile for a moment, thoughtfully considering her. She gazed back at him, silent and… expectant? “…You should stay,” he spoke softly, his mind feeling clearer than it had been since he had started drinking.

  Kaivervi took his jaw in her hand and kissed his cheek. “No thank you, Jikun. I would like to imagine our reunion as more substantial than that. You get some sleep.” Her hand dropped away and she turned, stepping swiftly down his steps.

  Jikun opened his door with a heavy exhale, not sure if it was the door or him who sighed more loudly.

  Kaivervi paused at the last step and glanced once over her shoulder. “Would you like to go on the hunt with us in a few days?”

  Jikun felt his chest lighten and his smile ret
urned. “Gods know you’ll have to remind me of this conversation tomorrow… But yes. I would like that, Kaivervi.”

  Chapter Five

  Elvorium: the seat of The Council of Elves, around which the politics of Sevrigel revolved. Hairem noted the fitting composition of the city, with its seven uniquely designed mansions circling the center of the city in arrays of color and design, yet closed off to the world around them. And his palace—balanced on the edge of a cliff. No great beauty in its majestically pearlescent and golden structure could allow Hairem to see beyond this fitting arrangement.

  The largest structure in the center of the city was the Council’s Hall. The building was enormous, with creamy white walls and plated gold along the roof. Eight columns supported a long archway over a steep staircase leading from the cobbled street to the carved, double ivory doors. In the shadows of the overcast sky, it presented a rather formidable atmosphere. Hairem knew that the building was far larger than the council members could ever make use of, but rather than allow it for public use, the unused rooms sat empty and useless, collecting dust, webs, and whatever city critters saw fit to utilize the taxpayers’ coin.

  On the left of the Council’s Hall was the second home of Nilanis. He did not use this home for himself, but it was a testament to his wealth and power. While his wife had been alive, she had used it for lavish entertainment with the high nobility of the city. Now, Hairem believed it primarily housed his guests and merchant captains when they came into port. As such, it was perhaps the busiest and gaudiest home in the city.

  The house to the left of Nilanis was that of Yulairm, the speaker for the nocturnal elves, the Noc’olari. His title, Nocalarum, was owed to the Noc’olarian worship of Noctem—a practice every bit as unseemly as the rest of their culture. They were unabashedly scandalous individuals, with a deep fascination for the humanoid body and other living creatures. Rumors would occasionally surface of research conducted by the Noc’olari that would be sacrilegious to a follower of Sel’ari, but the secretive nature of the race had prevented any proof from surfacing. Here, the line of Noc’olarian council members had seen fit to ensure no one forgot their risqué tendencies: the porch columns were naked dancing maidens, and the arches they upheld were crescent carvings of the night sky. It was, even by Noc’olarian standards, verging on shocking.

  To his left was Mikanum’s estate. Mikanum was, in addition to Yulairm, one of Hairem’s most consistent supporters. Mikanum was the speaker for the Darivalians and General Jikun had been his strongly recommended appointment—and as General Jikun had yet to lose a battle, this had helped to endear him further to the king. The home for the speaker had always been a rather jagged, incongruous mansion, taking after, Hairem imagined, the plain and simple tendencies of the Darivalians. Fortunately, recent renovations, on which Mikanum and his wife had spent their personal fortune, had toned the building out to a far less garish and more elegant palace. At night, it would shimmer like carved ice and perhaps could be named the fairest building in the city.

  Beside Mikanum was the speaker for the seafaring Galweni. The architecture of Fildor’s home reflected the ocean—the roof swept downward like a crashing wave and the pillars seemed to remain untouched beneath it. Having Fildor on the council was fittingly like a day at sea—one moment he was calm and the next he was a raging storm. Hairem pursed his lips; walking past the house gave him a sour feeling. Unwed and generally unliked, it was purely by the request of the Galweni that Fildor had found a place on the council at all.

  Then there was the home of Cahsari, the Kasan, or speaker of the Helvari. His home was made entirely of white stone and the entrance to his mansion was like that of a cave. Though the number of Helvari on Sevrigel was scarce—most of the elves of the mountains choosing to reside on Ryekarayn—Cahsari had slithered his way in with the right people—as had the Helvarian council members before him. He was, without a doubt, one of the fiercest opponents Hairem had had the displeasure of working with.

  The Eph’ven speaker’s home, now occupied by Heshellon, was perhaps the least appealing in its bland, sandy architecture, but the mere knowledge that one of his few supporters lived within somehow made the home seem remarkably agreeable. There were times when Hairem had heard his father’s bitter complaints about the Eph’ven need for outsiders to “prove themselves” in order to gain an Eph’ven’s cooperation, but Hairem had not seen this desert cultural insistence at work for himself. In addition, Heshellon had only been in his seat of power since Gilden had been murdered by the assassin two years prior. Yet, he had wasted no time in staunchly reverting to the Eph’ven cause previously aligned with the True Blood tendencies toward politics. To Hairem, this seemed perfectly agreeable.

  The last home was the smallest of the seven, making an impression like ripples on the water—which Hairem though fitting considering it was their race that held and traversed Sevrigel’s inner waterways. It had been the home of Leisum. Hairem paused briefly outside of it, bowing his head in respect, eyes flicking across the flowers still strewn about outside of it. He knew that within days of hearing of Leisum’s murder, the Ruljenari had appointed a new speaker. Ilrae, as he was known. With Hairem’s coronation having yet to be completed at Leisum’s death, Hairem had had no say in the appointment. He wondered what sort of male this new Ruljarian speaker would be.

  Along with the Council’s Hall, the seven other buildings created a circle around a cobbled courtyard and the statue planted at the center. As was his custom acquired from the True Blood prince Hadoream, Hairem made his final stop before it, bowing his head in respect to the memory of the six ancient warriors.

  Yet his pause was longer than usual that day.

  ‘Put in a word for me to Sel’ari,’ he prayed. ‘…That Ilrae is half the male… even half the male that Leisum was, and I shall build an even grander temple in your honor.’

  It was a rather lofty promise and he didn’t pause long to think whether he would actually tear down the temple for a larger one, but he imagined she would accept the essence of his words.

  Of the six stony faces, only one gazed back at him. Hairem felt self-conscious then, averting his eyes and giving another brief bow. He stepped past them, across the cobbled way, and up the wide stairs.

  “Welcome, Your Majesty,” his personal guards greeted before the door.

  But Hairem’s anxieties had drawn him inward and their voices fell deafly upon his ears. He glanced down at himself once, debating his particular color choice of such a passive white and gold. Red would have been better. Fiercer. Or perhaps it could be too closely associated with Malranus. Yes, bad choice. He probably should have worn a blue. Something darker. More—

  “Er… Haire—Your Majesty,” Erallus’ voice cut off his thoughts. “The council is waiting for you.”

  Hairem looked up sharply, realizing the doors had been thrown wide to his arrival and the hall had fallen into expectant silence.

  The seven eyed the door inquisitively.

  “Greetings, Your Majesty,” Nilanis finally spoke loudly, causing the males about him to scramble swiftly to their feet and fall into deep and respectful bows.

  Hairem’s eyes flicked from face to face and his brow raised faintly. ‘I thought I was early…’ Yet every member was already present. “Greetings, Nilanis,” Hairem finally replied, nodding his head toward the speaker in a strong, curt motion, attempting to project complete control over his expectations.

  Half of the game of politics was maintaining the appearance of control. He had been given this advice countless times by Sairel, but the eldest of the princes had never seemed to lack genuine power at all. Attempting to imbue himself with the male’s personality, he glanced stoically about the well-lit room as his feet padded softly across the marble floor. He took the stairs up to his desk and stopped before his chair. Even with his back toward them, he could feel all eyes boring into him, narrowed and scrutinizing, searching for the slightest suggestion that his countenance was anything less than assure
d.

  Hairem turned about to the males waiting for him to take his seat first. ‘Gods grant me patience.’ And he sat.

  “My lord,” Nilanis began before the other council members had even pulled their chairs in toward their carved desks. “This is Ilrae. He is the new speaker for the Ruljenari since Leisum—may Sel’ari grant him solace—is no longer with us.”

  The unfamiliar face to the left of Mikanum offered an otherwise expressionless half-smile, bowing his head toward the king. He seemed slightly older than the other elves in the room, with faint lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes suggesting he had climbed well into his years. His silvery blue hair was braided back sharply, pulling his eyes slightly at an angle and accentuating the sharp rise of his cheekbones. Hairem squinted, his muscles subconsciously sympathizing with the poor elf’s taut composure. “It is my great honor to join you on the council, My King,” Ilrae spoke softly, stormy eyes rising in expressionless affixation. There was something unsettling about the intensity of the gaze and Hairem found himself incapable of more than a mere nod in return.

  He drew himself up. ‘Half of the game of politics is maintaining the appearance of control,’ Sairel’s words rushed back to him suddenly. Hairem stiffened. “Welcome, Ilrae.” He rubbed his jaw, making sure to study the Ruljen with unabashed frankness. He knew little about the male and so far, Ilrae had given him no more than a cold gaze to work with. His face shifted expressions as though on etiquette’s queue, but his eyes had remained unsettlingly emotionless.

  ‘I suppose time will have to tell…’ Hairem gestured for Nilanis to seat himself as he prepared to conduct their meeting.

  The El’adorium opened his mouth to speak further, but changed his mind, pulling his seat up in exact proximity to the desk as the others had done. He straightened the already straight emblem on his chest, as though reminding Hairem of his position.