The others nodded their assent. Lord Demeter raised a hand to speak even though he wasn’t required to. The short, sallow-faced man smiled at Lucius warmly and began speaking in a deeper tone than he expected.
“Lucius, it seems to many of us that the Ellyllei would be someone of great upper standing in the world. A man whose reputation would precede him and, pardon any offense, but looking at you today, we don’t see the qualities of a person capable of fighting dragons. In addition, you are essentially from the peasantry and not royalty, as the Ellyllei is known to be,” he said gently.
Lucius took great offense at the man’s statement despite his attempt at being kind. He clenched his jaw as he thought of a response. Thankfully, Silas stepped in to address the matter. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. We know a little of the Ellylei, but it is precious little. Lucius has a claim to the throne by his lineage—”
“A contested claim,” Gryn interjected.
“Be that as it may,” Silas continued. “He is just as much qualified to be the Ellyllei as I am, or anyone in this room. It is not for us to judge based on outward appearances. Was Cervantes himself not a mere farmhand before he was chosen by Yesu?”
Murmurs of agreement and dissent followed Silas’ words.
King Alfryd pounded his chair with a balled fist to silence them. “Let us take this to a vote. If Lucius is the Ellyllei then he must wield the Requiem Sword, as is his divine right. But if he is not we will continue to dig into the issue of his parentage. All who believe the Ellyllei stands before us, raise your hands,” he ordered.
Lucius saw a few hands go in the air. Silas, Lady Georgine, and another noble he did not recognize raised their hands. The rest, six in all, did not raise their hands, which meant the vote had gone against him. He cursed inwardly, growing to resent this entire assembly and its bureaucracy.
“I am sorry, Lucius, but this council does not agree unanimously that you are who you claim to be with regard to the prophecy. But on the matter of your lineage I believe there is merit based solely on the crest you possess,” King Alfryd said.
Lucius stood silent, not knowing what to say. An entire body of nobles had effectively decided who he was in the world without his consent. It was as though his personhood meant nothing to them. He was a mere pawn they could inspect, move, and toss aside at their leisure. He felt a deep longing for the Cyngorell now. Despite his disagreements with the elven council, they had never treated anyone so brusquely or with such diffidence.
He looked up toward Silas and saw the prince of Aldron sighing inwardly when he met his gaze. His previous meeting with Silas was in Violet’s cottage in the woods, and he had misjudged him then. Jealousy for the beautiful Avani had caused him to resent the handsome and headstrong prince, but that judgment seemed wholly undeserved now. He realized that Silas had been his strongest supporter throughout these proceedings despite how little they knew of each other. Either he trusted Lucius more than he expected, or Avani must have convinced Silas that he was truly the Ellyllei.
“Now comes the matter of what exactly to do with young Lucius Nostra, your Highness,” Lord Brandewulf said, a smirk dancing on his lips. “He knows quite a bit about matters of state that the general public is not privy to. And we haven’t all agreed whether we can trust his claim to royal lineage.”
“Quite true, Lord Brandewulf,” King Alfryd replied. He stroked his beard and looked down at Lucius. He came to a decision. “Lucius, I see you carry a blade and bow. Are you proficient with either of these weapons?”
“Yes, your Highness. I fought off banshees in the Southern Passage of the Burning Woods a month ago,” Lucius said with confidence bolstering his answer.
There was a slight murmur among the nobles at the mention of banshees, but it quickly died down as the king spoke. “Banshees? I didn’t know they were haunting those parts. Peculiar,” he said, stroking his beard again.
“Your Majesty, I hope you are not considering adding this…boy to the ranks of our armies. He is not trained in our traditional military fighting, and probably unschooled in strategic warfare,” Gryn contested, shooting an unsavory glance at Lucius.
Lucius balled his hands into fists. He was growing tired of the constant putdowns he received from Gryn and the rest of them.
Almost on cue, Silas came to his defense. “Any man who can fight off banshees in the wilds of the north and live among elves has a place in my Drachengarde,” he said defiantly.
Everyone turned to the prince, incredulous looks on many of their faces. As far as Lucius understood, the Drachengarde were an elite group of trained warriors among the king’s army. They were not only effective in all means of armed combat, but also proficient in the slaying of dragons. Despite the absence of dragon attacks over the last two decades, the Drachengarde had gained a reputation for being consummate swordsmen who hunted Draknoir and kept the borders of Joppa safe. There was mystery surrounding the group, specifically the actual number of men who were members and where they were stationed in Aldron. This secrecy only fueled their status and intrigue among the common folk further.
“Silas, you can’t be serious?” Alfryd said, shaking his head. “We are not certain this young man is of noble blood, and being brave enough to defeat banshees is hardly a qualification for—”
“I’ll train him, Father,” Silas said bluntly.
More dissent broke out in the form of whispers among the nobles. Alfryd waved a hand to silence them. “Silas, are you certain about this?”
“I am, Father. I will train Lucius, and if somehow he proves not to be an heir of Nostra, we have only gained another capable fighter in our ranks and lost nothing in return.”
“We lose our respect and credibility among the people,” Gryn spat out. “Allowing a commoner to join an elite force in the king’s army is a mistake, your Highness. Surely you must see this.”
King Alfryd pursed his lips and thought for a moment. He cleared his throat and said, “It is my son’s decision. The Drachengarde are under his command, and I will not interfere in the matter.”
Lucius couldn’t believe it. He felt a surge of excitement and anxiety, and even a little satisfaction at Gryn’s dejected expression. Silas would train him as a Drachengarde warrior. The idea seemed so outlandish. Months prior he had been vying for a place among the Protectors of the Breninmaur, another group of elite warriors among the elves. Now a similar opportunity had arisen without any qualifying tournaments, just the simple request of a prince.
Lucius was ecstatic, but the excitement was tempered with doubts. He knew nothing of the Drachengarde save that they fought Draknoir and dragons with extreme efficiency. They relied heavily on sword mastery, which was not something he excelled at. Sure, he had defeated Kiret in the tournament at Evingrad in the summer, but that was nothing more than a sparring match. To use a sword against a dragon or savage Draknoir warrior was an altogether different affair. He sighed inwardly, knowing that intense training would surely accompany a place among the group. For some reason, he sensed being a member was a necessary step for him. After all, if he was the Ellyllei, he would eventually have to face Kraegyn, the lord of dragons. Better he learned from a man like Silas how to fight a dragon than fumble at it himself and possibly be killed in the process.
“It is settled then,” Silas said, pleased with himself. He rose from his chair next to the king’s throne and descended the dais. Coming face to face with Lucius, he extended a hand, and Lucius clasped it firmly. “Welcome to the Drachengarde, Lucius Nostra,” Silas said with a smile.
“Thank you, your Highness,” Lucius said, a thin smile spreading on his lips.
“Well, now that we’ve settled that matter, I think we should adjourn for the day. In the following days we should all discuss how we are to rid ourselves of these infernal Draknoir and their dragon overlords,” King Alfryd said, practically spitting out the last few words.
“Yes, I believe that will be an excellent topic to cover, your Majesty,”
Lord Demeter said, nodding. The other nobles agreed with the motion and the decision was settled.
“Before we adjourn, Lucius, I did not have the chance to express my condolences to you with regard to your homeland,” the king said.
Lucius frowned, entirely puzzled by the statement. “Condolences for my homeland? I don’t understand, your Majesty.”
Alfryd’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh my. You don’t know. I’m sorry to tell you this, Lucius. But the city of Evingrad has been attacked by the dragons. The Breninmaur has fallen.”
CHAPTER 12
ASSASSINS
The palace kitchen was hot, humid and uncomfortable. Servants and workers were preparing for the evening meal, and the small space was bustling with activity. Ravenmane tried her best to play the role of a cook as inconspicuously as possible. But the task was made difficult by all the teasing she endured from the head chef of Gilead Palace, Aldis, who found it comical that Lord Brandewulf should need a personal cook to accompany him everywhere. He joked that Ravenmane’s slender frame was a sign of her inferior cooking skills. She let the fat man’s insults roll off her, but his minions in the kitchen were always ready to taunt her.
She walked around the stove and placed a small copper pot on it, reflecting on how much she hated this current assignment. As an assassin and spy, her skills were crucial for all manner of subterfuge in the kingdom. Unfortunately, the trade did not lend itself to developing any traditional skills most women her age possessed. Cooking, sewing, and even washing dishes were simply not tasks she was accustomed to, but now had to learn quickly. Thankfully, her previous travels on the road had taught her simple recipes like soup and mutton, which she often cooked around a campfire.
She grabbed a handful of potatoes, then peeled and chopped them before tossing the bits in a pot of boiling water. Brandewulf had sent her a note requesting stew be brought up to his quarters before dinner. The maids were envious that she had the job of cooking and serving meals for the most handsome noble in the kingdom. As a result, they found it necessary to insult anything about her, from her plain-looking appearance to the way she wore her hair. They were young stupid girls who fit every stereotype men had about servant girls.
“Another stew for the duke, eh?” Aldis grunted from across the kitchen. The man’s stout belly pushed out his apron considerably, as though he were hiding a boulder. “Can’t imagine how he eats that tasteless slop so often. He keeps it up and he’ll have a belly as large as mine!”
“My lord has a voracious appetite,” Ravenmane said, a thin smile on her lips. The real reason she cooked so much was to have an excuse to leave the kitchen and talk privately with Brandewulf. It was the perfect cover for their clandestine operation.
She turned back to the pot and added chopped carrots to the mixture.
The giggling of two maids caught her attention as they drew close to her. She clenched her jaw, knowing their insults would be imminent, but she tried to be kind.
“Hello, Liesl…Gwendolyn. How are you both today?” she said passively.
The two girls giggled again and peered into the pot she was preparing. Liesl, the younger of the two, crinkled her pointed nose in a disgusted manner and shot her an incredulous look. “That doesn’t look very tasty, Rae,” she said.
“Taste is a matter of preference,” Ravenmane replied.
Gwendolyn laughed at the statement. Her auburn curls bounced around her head like a child’s rag doll. “And does your master prefer this tasteless gruel? I would think for being such a strapping man, he’d prefer a well-cooked venison steak or anything else Aldis could prepare,” she said, her upper lip curled as she watch the stew boil.
Ravenmane shook her head. “The duke enjoys an appetizer of soup before his dinner. Surely you won’t begrudge him that?”
“She’s not begrudging him; it just looks so awful. A duke could certainly afford a better meal from a skilled cook,” Liesl replied.
Ravenmane ignored the obvious barb. She sighed, desiring very much to stab both of the foolish hens with the dagger concealed in her apron. When they saw she wasn’t in the mood to bandy words with either of them, the girls giggled off and went about their duties.
Once the soup was finished, she grabbed a porcelain bowl from a cupboard nearby and ladled the hot liquid into it. Then she placed the bowl on a serving tray and made her way through the busy kitchen. One of the footmen asked her if he could bring the soup up for her, but she adamantly refused, reminding the lad that Lord Brandewulf only trusted her to do the job.
The eager footman shrugged and walked off as she continued to a stairwell on the rear of the kitchen. She ascended three flights of stairs to the second level of Gilead Palace. Over the last few days, she’d become accustomed to the route, and even counted the number of stairs. Thirty-eight. As a spy, she had always tried to be aware of all of her surroundings, even counting steps and strides to and from a location. In the event that she needed to make a hasty escape from a bad situation, memorizing the routes, the length of time, and the number of steps was valuable information. After all, an immediate escape could only be successful with sufficient planning, and that required being mindful of the details. Rekk, her mentor, had insisted upon that and drilled it in her head during their training sessions.
At the landing to the second level, she opened a heavy wood door and entered a carpeted hallway with golden lamps on tables placed every ten feet. The light helped her navigate through the hallway to the fifth door on the left, a guest suite for nobles, now serving as Brandewulf’s quarters. She knocked on the door four times based on their previously arranged signal.
“Enter,” a muffled voice said from inside.
Ravenmane slid the door open and found Lord Brandewulf sitting in a wooden chair in the corner of the room. He was studying a bundle of papers that looked to be dispatches of some kind. As she closed the door behind her, carefully balancing the tray on her palm, Brandewulf quickly stuffed the papers into a leather satchel on his bed. For a guest room intended for nobles, the room was rather small, spanning six feet across on each side. The walls were painted an off-white color that reflected the warm light from the narrow window at the far end of the room. A round table with two wooden chairs sat opposite the bed, which had a thick feather down mattress. There were tapestries hanging above the bed, a wash basin in the corner, and a mahogany bureau alongside the bed.
Ravenmane placed the tray with the soup on the table and sat in one of the chairs.
Lord Brandewulf raised an eyebrow at her. “The accepted decorum of a servant is to wait for the lord to give permission to sit,” he said wryly.
“Oh shut up, Brandewulf. I’ve been standing all day in that dreadful kitchen. That insufferable oaf, Aldis, is a slave driver. Peeling onions, washing plates, and helping those workers stack firewood for the stove has practically worn me out,” she complained.
Brandewulf chuckled. “You’re playing this role very well, Ravenmane. Gryn has been quite jealous that I have a personal cook at my beck and call.”
Ravenmane narrowed her eyes in frustration. “On any other occasion, I would throttle you.”
“Easy, Ravenmane. I’m only joking. In truth, your participation in this ruse is going to help me immensely. The past few days I’ve tried hard to gain the trust of Alfryd and Silas.”
“Oh? I imagine that must be going well,” Ravenmane said sarcastically. “Haven’t you been the black sheep of the Four Houses? Your family isn’t exactly loyal to the crown from what I’ve heard.”
“Of course not, hence our conspiratorial meetings. But gaining the confidence of my enemies brings down their guard and makes it easier to kill them,” Brandewulf said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
“So how much longer do you get to play nice with the royals while I slave away in the bowels of the palace?” Ravenmane asked with an edge of anger in her voice.
Brandewulf cocked his head to the side. “Not much longer, my dear. Tonight the king is holding a b
anquet with the nobles to celebrate our progress in creating a united front against Memnon and the dragons. It is an ideal opportunity to have the king poisoned in front of his entire court. I’ll be present at the head table the whole night, so any suspicion toward me should be deflected. How have you gotten along with Brinley?”
Ravenmane shrugged. Brinley was the royal cupbearer and spent most of his time in the kitchen tasting the king’s food and drinks. He also accompanied the footmen and servants upstairs during meal times to be on hand should the king be suspicious about any food set before him. At a moment’s notice, Brinley would taste the suspicious item and perform his intended duty diligently. He was a younger man, aged around his mid-thirties, but his clean-shaven face belied a youthfulness and naïveté that Ravenmane could exploit.
In their few interactions together, she had cast wistful looks his way and been more than friendly. She’d touch his forearm as they were talking, or smile more often than she should to appear interested in anything he had to say. Over time, she had noticed his face brighten at the sight of her in the kitchen. It was just another facet of her role as Brandewulf’s cook. They needed Brinley to let down his guard around her to make poisoning the king’s food less challenging.
“I think he’s warmed up to my wiles, but I wouldn’t say he’s going to marry me anytime soon,” she said.
Brandewulf stroked his bare chin and furrowed his brow for a moment. “We could delay it, but I think tonight is the best opportunity we have to carry out this plan. The king may become too busy in the coming days to dine openly with anyone outside of his immediate family.”
Ravenmane nodded in agreement. “We might as well cast the die now when the odds are better.”
Gauntlet of Iniquity (The Azuleah Trilogy Book 2) Page 12