Hairem rebuked himself sharply for his shameful lack of focus. Work had not only dictated his recent social life, but he found his mind cluttered with more ideas than he had time to address. “I was speaking of Yulairm’s replacement, wasn’t I?” He raised his glass to the side as he spoke, allowing the servant to refill the drink before leaving the two alone. “I suppose the politics of your father are not a lady’s affair?”
“My father has no sons,” Ilsevel replied slowly, eye contact faltering as she spoke those words. “Not anymore. My brother died in the war with the sirens and since then, my father has pressed ever more urgently for me to be a lady for courting and nothing more. What I gather from the council is, perhaps, little more than the commoners do.” She hurriedly added, “But believe me, Your Majesty, the matters are of sincere interest to me.”
Hairem felt a smile twitch at the corner of his lips. “I certainly do not wish to overstep my bounds where your father is concerned,” Hairem began slowly, tauntingly. Truly, he did not care if Nilanis tried to shelter his daughter from the world of politics. The lady clearly had a mind of her own. He knew she could tell that he was provoking her with the information—she was watching his every gesture with undivided attention. And he lapped it up with an ostentatiously broadening smile.
Ilsevel leaned forward, bright eyes urging him silently, full lips parted slightly.
“Ah, what a look,” Hairem smiled, tossing up a hand. “As you wish, my lady.” He sipped his wine and set the glass aside with a soft tap, drawing her attention to his fingers as he extended them before her. “The Noc’olari have proposed five males for the council to choose from. One of the males—who appeared on all accounts as honorable, albeit revolutionary—became investigated shortly after raising his fury about the general’s mission to the south.”
“Investigated about what?” Ilsevel asked, raising her brows in curious inquiry.
“Accused of supplying arms to a rebellious faction of Noc’olarian outcasts about twenty-five years ago. Of course, with no survivors from the rebellion, it is a lengthy and difficult matter to pin on him. The council, of course, states that he cannot be appointed while under investigation.”
“Sounds like an illegitimate investigation to remove him as an option?”
“Aye,” Hairem nodded gravely, even as her thirst for knowledge drew him into her excitement. “Three of the elves are of dismal character and, not surprisingly, are under strong recommendation by the council. I believe one of them has recently been pressing the ridiculous notion of drawing and quartering as a form of criminal punishment! But the council loves him for his groveling regard for their political wisdom.”
Ilsevel’s eyes widened in shock. “By Sel’ari!” she spoke with a little gasp of repulsion.
Hairem continued with an inwardly amused smile. “The last male is very young, but had earned great fame as a soldier of the Droth Guard before a facial wound left him half-blind. He was discharged from the military. The council has refused to give him any consideration. It appears that his political beliefs are not aligned well with theirs, but as his record is unquestionably unblemished, they can’t truly ‘eliminate’ him.”
“The council votes on who they wish to appoint, is that correct?” Ilsevel inquired in a rhetorical tone. “So the first and latter of the council members are not truly options?”
“I believe any male whom I recommend will not be an option,” Hairem grieved.
Ilsevel reclined in her chair, thoughtfully running her finger along the rim of the glass. “Is it a law that the council must vote upon the new council member?” she tested.
Hairem’s brow knit. She must know the answer to that, at least. Such a thing was common knowledge. Hairem cocked his head subconsciously. “It is a long standing tradition not to be undermined.” Tradition… yet again the word left his lips. But was this Sel’ari’s tradition or was this the mortals’…?
She leaned forward as though to draw him in. “If I may be so bold, My Lord…” she began slowly. Hairem started, eyes flicking back to her face at the change to the much more personal address. He found himself listening more attentively, as though such a thing was possible. “You should appoint to the position the male who is best suited for the duties. I believe you have a strong opinion of who that should be.”
Hairem concealed the surprise he felt—and the inner elation at her sudden intimacy. Clearly she was sheltered from the politics of her father. Oppose the council? Refuse to acknowledge their vote and appoint his own council member?
And yet the thought tempted him.
‘Why not?’ he prodded himself. If change was to be effected, he would have to be the initiator. The traditions of his brethren must be pushed. Gods willing, if he succeeded, Sevrigel would remember him well for it. He had suggested the notion of being like one of The Seven: if he expected to achieve such a standard, then sitting passively by while the council trod over him was not an option.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice growing in confidence. Gods willing. “Lord Valdor—the ex-Droth Guard.”
“You—” she stopped, looking down at her wine glass coyly, dark lashes brushing her cheeks. “I must apologize, My Lord. It is not my business to intrude on your matters of state. I certainly overstepped my bounds. You wished simply to unburden yourself on me. Please, speak.”
Hairem regarded her with silent consideration. She grew more fascinating with every opinion she expressed. She was so unlike her father. There was a fire in her eyes, a passion for the political world that her father had shunned her from that was as tangible as the wine they sipped. He hesitated to encourage her behavior, feeling a certain level of caution against the opinions of a noble lady unfamiliar with the core of his world. “Your opinion is not below my consideration,” he ceded finally. “Although I would caution your rashness. Such spirit is not welcome where you wish to tread.”
Ilsevel nodded her head silently, as though humbling herself. Still, he knew the fire was there. She had learned to tolerate her father well.
“Lord Valdor shall make a worthy council member,” he continued slowly with a smile.
She looked up then, relaxed, and smiled.
Hairem leaned back and laughed. “By the gods, what did you do before your father became El’adorium?”
Ilsevel flushed. “I… I… I play the lyre and sing and write and dance and ride and sew…!” she stammered.
Hairem shook his head and took a moment to swallow. “It was a serious question,” he chuckled. “I am sure you possess all the qualities of an elven lady—I simply wish to know what encompassed the area that politics now fills.”
Ilsevel’s gaze fell and she let out a long exhale as though it was difficult to speak what came next. Hairem felt the light conversation grow heavy even before the words left her mouth and he regretted having trod so unabashedly forward. “My brother, My Lord. He was always around, getting me into trouble and teaching me how to get out of it…” She smiled. “And he taught me how to ride and how to dance. And perhaps a few un-ladylike qualities as well. …He tried to teach me how to wield a blade and how to hunt, though I never did have time to become well-versed in either. Since my mother died when I was very young, I do not remember her. Admittedly, my brother played that role for me. My father… well, my father is not that sort of male.”
Hairem’s brow knit. He yearned to ask her details, question her relationships further, to delve deeper into her story, but he held back his prying curiosity. Already the tone had grown far more serious than he had intended and he doubted further travel down the road would yield more cheerful results.
Ilsevel met his gaze and shook her head, as though reading his mind.
“A few hundred years ago, when Saebellus was ordered by the council to war against the sirens, my brother was one of his lieutenants. When Saebellus rebelled, my brother tried to resist him and bring him before the council for trial… but Saebellus was stronger than him. My brother was bested… and Saebellus had him e
xecuted.”
Hairem felt the pain etched across her face as her gaze lingered wistfully on the distance, grasping at some distant memory. “I am sorry to hear that. Your brother served his country well.”
Ilsevel smiled strongly—proudly. “Yes.”
Hairem forced a smile in return, though he spoke apologetically. “Well, this certainly is not what I expected when I asked about what you did before politics. Let us talk about something lighter…” He paused briefly, attempting to recall the list she had strewn to him of her activities at home. “Tell me of your writing,” he finally concluded.
“My writing?” Ilsevel turned her head aside, blushing. And Hairem wondered how much more terrible she could be at writing—that she should reveal embarrassment—when she had not had the sanity to refuse to allow him to hear her play that god-awful tune on the lyre several weeks previous. “Oh, I am no great writer, My Lord. But… I am fascinated with it—the historical literature is my weakness.” She looked back, smiling. “The Legends, you know? The tales of Shalah, Eraydon and his company… Those days when our traditions and religious virtue defined us! What it would be like to go back to those days—when we first came to Sevrigel! The Ballad of the Seven has been my favorite musical piece since I was a child. When the door to this continent truly opened to us. The possibilities for our growth seemed endless.”
Hairem gave a nod, trying not to smile at her over-enthusiastic excitement. “I know it only too well,” he agreed, recalling the tune his palace musicians had played just weeks before. “I cannot tell you how many hours I was forced to spend pouring over the ancient works. The True Bloods were obsessed with them—Darcarus perhaps not so much, but Sairel and Hadoream most certainly. And even when I was not at study, they would often bombard me with such tales—though I suspect with a level of embellishment to some of their stories.” He chuckled. “You know, Hadoream once told me that the entirety of Eraydon’s group scaled the mountain face of the Yilsavel in the Ӕntara Mountains with nothing but their bare hands. …But I agree—there is nothing like the heroism and adventure in their tales.”
“It is the spirit of it all,” she carried on, almost as though he had added nothing at all. “The fierceness of the warriors to resist fate—they defied every reasonable outcome. There are not heroes like that anymore. Sometimes, I doubt that they were even like that …”
Hairem had thought of this often when he passed their vigilant statues in Eraydon’s Square, wondering how, in ten thousand years, it was Eraydon’s group alone that had impacted those millennia. “I believe that every hero is exaggerated to a degree. But what they did… what they accomplished, even in the face of unprecedented adversity… That alone is legendary enough.”
Ilsevel eyed him with a subtle smile behind her wine glass, “Like what you do now.”
Hairem laughed, feeling a wave of embarrassment rush to his cheeks. He attempted to regain composure as she giggled almost silently at his flush. “Gods, no. I am nothing like them. I wish I was, but I assure you, I am nothing like them.”
“Oh, do not be so modest. You have many years of false traditions to fight against… and males who are so entrenched in their positions that force is required to remove them. Maybe it is not as grand as slaying dragons or fighting against Malranus’ servants, but I think, My Lord, that you are not just another pawn. You may be Sevrigel’s first real king.”
Hairem felt his smile falter as his mind whisked him back to General Jikun’s request for Darival—that bold confidence he had assumed with which Hairem could grant his request… if he had the courage to do so.
He was the king. Not just over Elvorium, but all of Sevrigel.
The council… The council may have voted against his decision, but Darival would see assistance: it was his responsibility. His duty. Even if he had to use his own personal guards to do so, Sel’ari help him, Darival would receive aid.
And that was just the start.
Chapter Nine
Nilanis raised a hand in order to shield his eyes from the harsh sunlight reflecting from the glassy surface of the lake before him. In the distance, white sails glared in the sunlight, engulfing the ship beneath them in their brilliance. He lowered his hand in consternation and turned to the nearest ship resting in his Port of Targados, watching as it rocked back and forth gently in the water that lapped against the wooden docks.
He frowned. It was getting late, but just a short while longer and he could return home to dinner with Ilsevel.
He glanced back out into the waters. Damn. Or he would be late. His eyes flicked optimistically down the docks. Perhaps his ship of interest had already made port without his knowledge…?
But only an endless line of rocking vessels returned to him, causing his stomach to twist anxiously.
“My lord, here is a record of the cargo from Her Mirelidontris,” a man spoke up loudly beside him, attempting to be heard over the noise that surrounded the crowds moving on and off the ships. He shoved a scroll into Nilanis’ outstretched hand, sniffing and wiping a hand down his dirty cotton pant leg.
Nilanis stiffened as the rough surface of the scroll drew his attention back to the matter at hand. He turned away from the distant ship and regarded the human down the bridge of his sharp nose. “Hm,” was the only acknowledgement he gave as he snapped the scroll open and scanned the contents with swift dissatisfaction. “And this is it?” He closed the scroll, pointing it knowingly at the man’s sun-burnt chest. “We simply cannot do business if you… lie to me, do you understand?”
To Nilanis’ dismay, the human took a step closer. He lowered his voice to become barely audible over the ruckus. “And Ulasum’s Tooth, of course. But you know we can’t have that written on parchment.” He gave a horrendously eye-scarring grin with his row of blackened, crooked, half-present teeth.
Nilanis recoiled at the offensive sight, pressing the end of the scroll against the man’s chest rather vigorously, forcing him to take a step back. It was a small triumph. “I expect the payment for this… oversight to reach my mansion this evening. If you fail to do so, you can expect that this is the last time your ship will berth here.”
“Of course, of course.” The human rolled his watery eyes, sniffed again, and reclaimed the parchment. He waved it carelessly behind him as he sauntered toward his ship. “UNLOAD!” he bellowed victoriously.
Nilanis turned away, walking briskly toward a newly docking ship across the docks and straightened the fabric draped over his arm as he went. He found his stomach twist again as his eyes searched the side of the hull for the ship’s name. The Sea …tch. He frowned. The paint was heavily faded and he could not distinguish the last word. He cocked his head as he turned over the possible words in the Common Tongue. Tch… What probable words ended in ‘tch’?
“My lord!” his thoughts were interrupted as a young elf hurried up to his side, bursting from the crowd in a shout. The youth paused for a moment to rest his hands on his knees, panting heavily—like one of those raggedy dogs from overseas that the sailors brought in an attempt to fill his docks with fleas. “May I see Ilsevel today?” the boy breathed as he straightened, wiping aside his thin blond hair as he attempted to appear dignified.
It was painfully futile.
Nilanis snatched a roll of parchment from a passing merchant and strove to appear busy. “How did you find me?” he muttered below his breath, daring to glance sidelong at the boy just long enough to gather his wide-eyed, giddy gaze of barely contained excitement.
The boy darted to Nilanis’ other side, attempting to rise above the edge of the weathered parchment. “You’re always here,” the boy responded, confused. He looked around, perhaps at the mass of crowds around him, stretching across the leagues of port along the east side of Elvorium. Was he searching for his daughter amongst this drabble? Hah!
Nilanis raised the parchment farther over his face, hoping that it would dissuade the boy from continuing. He was dismayed as the parchment was snatched back and the victimized
merchant muttered a curse below his breath.
The El’adorium found himself faced regrettably with the wide-eyed youth. ‘Persistent child.’ Nilanis attempted to make his expression as bored as possible. “Who are you, again?”
The boy glanced around in dismay, this time clearly searching for sympathy in the bustling herd around them. “Me? Why I’m Relais, My Lord. I come here every—” He broke off as he made to fall into Nilanis’ quickly fleeing steps. “I’m not giving up, My Lord. I shall ask you every day until you let me see her.”
Nilanis heaved an annoyed sigh and stopped. “Be gone with you. You may see her when you become a male of high regard and wealthy standings. Until then, we shall play this out again tomorrow, I suppose.” He pointed away from him. “Now go before I have the guards drag you off again.”
“My Lord!” came a sudden shout from his left.
Nilanis watched the boy strut off out of the corner of his eyes. Good gods. Finally. “Yes?” he called out in return, focusing his attention back to his work.
His brow knit. No one.
“MY LORD!”
Nilanis turned again. And looked down. Ah, a gnome. Of course. How easy it was to forget their existence.
“Lord Nilanis, I presume?” the gnome demanded after the elf lord, with his scowl of dismay, gave no attempt to respond.
“Are you the captain of The Sea …” Nilanis trailed off. “This ship?” He gestured pointedly to his right and wondered, briefly, if the abhorrent human scum had once written bitch across her hull. What unsavory creatures.
“First Mate…The captain can’t come on account of his being already occupied by… a someone else…” the beastly little creature trailed off awkwardly and shifted his weight to his left.
“Prostitution is not allowed in Elvorium,” Nilanis growled, glaring and forgetting, for a moment, his interest in the ship.
The gnome immediately adopted an air of indignation, strutting around his legs with convincingly wounded pride. He pounded his fat little chest once. “Why I never heard such a low assumption about my captain in all my days! To think, here we dock at the famed Port of Targados only to be jabbed at! The Sel’vi and their hospitality…! What a myth! I—”
Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1) Page 16