by Sean Hinn
“Only when I sense your permission, Sire.”
“And what do you sense today?”
Sartean sat now. “I sense that the people of Mor grow dangerously restless, my king.”
“Bah, tell me something I don’t know.”
Fool. “I am aware that we do not see this matter through the same lens, my king. But I implore you to hear me, and at least consider that I may have valuable insight–”
“You implore me, do you?”
Sartean knew he had chosen the word poorly. He had crossed the line already, however; no sense retreating now. Perhaps this is the day that it comes to a boil, he considered. As good as any other. He continued.
“My king, there is no way to express the depth of my concern here without arguing against the position you seem to hold on the matter. But as you rely upon me to advise you, I humbly ask that you allow me to do just that, without fear of reprisal, this one time.”
Halsen poured himself another cup of wine, but did not yet drink. He reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth and beard, something Sartean had rarely witnessed. He regarded the wizard silently for a moment before he spoke.
“Never have you been this direct with me, Sartean. I do not like it.” A pause. “However, I am wise enough to appreciate that you must feel strongly compelled to do so. You may continue, for now.”
A small victory, thought Sartean.
“You are aware of my Listening stone, my king?”
“The whole damned kingdom is aware of that thing, Sartean. It’s not been a secret for many years.”
“Then you are also no doubt aware that I employ it regularly, and through its use, I have come to suspect – no, to know – that the seeds of a revolt are taking root.”
“You know this, wizard? And you have not had the upstarts arrested?”
“There has yet to be a specific threat, nor any organized gatherings my lord. However, I have access to extensive notes and journal writings in Kehrlia from my predecessors, from times far gone when similar rumblings have been heard among the masses, and I tell you with certainty, revolt is coming, and soon. I will present to you all of my evidence if you wish to see it, though to review it all will be a considerable task, one that I hardly enjoyed, and I am sure your Highness will find quite tedious.”
The king sneered at this. “I do not require your parchments and books, Sartean, I have you. Tell me then, how do we stamp out this spark before it becomes a flame?”
“I fear that it is already a flame, my king, and I do not believe that stamping it out is the best approach.”
“You would have me sit back then, and allow my throne to be overrun?”
“Certainly not, Sire. I would have you address the chief complaints of the people, to their satisfaction.”
Halsen’s eyes widened, and a sarcastic smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “You jest, wizard. Are you softening, truly?”
“I believe you misunderstand, Sire, or rather, I have not sufficiently explained myself.”
“Certainly that. Go on.”
“There are three primary issues that require resolution. The first, and most easily rectified, being the rations of food allotted to your soldiery.”
“Then I shall instruct my generals to increase them to the necessary degree. I care not.”
“Well, the difficulty there is that your treasurers do not feel they can pry open the purse sufficiently to do so.”
“Then I will arrest my treasurers and replace them. Simple enough.”
And where will the new treasurers find the gold, you fool, when no one wishes to trade with us as a result of your bloodlust and greed?
“I believe, with your permission, that I can save you the grief of hiring new bankers, and solve the problem more efficiently, which brings us to the second matter.”
“Do not assume my permission just yet, wizard, but do continue.”
This is going much better than I had hoped, thought Sartean, willing his face to remain impassive.
“The second issue is a matter of labor, Sire, as many of your subjects, particularly here in the city and in the direct employ of the kingdom, are worked for more than fourteen hours each day, and in some cases, eighteen or more, with–”
“How many hours in a day do you work, Sartean?”
Like a fish on a line, Sartean thought. “If I am not asleep, my king, I am engrossed in my work. I sleep little.”
“Then why should it not be the same for all, Sartean? Are you possessed of some strength of character that the people of Mor lack?”
“Character no, Sire. Magic, yes.”
Halsen chuckled derisively. “So you enchant yourself with a work ethic then, mage?”
“Not exactly, Sire, although you are near the mark. Magic allows me to tolerate more discomfort perhaps, and certain enchantments and potions can empower me to require less rest. Although I will say honestly, I do very much enjoy my work, Sire, not only because I am passionate about the tasks, but because it allows me to serve you and your–”
“Spare me, Sartean. You serve me to serve yourself, and I would have it no other way. But tell me more about these enchantments, could you, say, ensorcel my laborers to work longer, or faster?”
“Well, that was not the idea I had in–”
“Can you do it or not, wizard?”
Sartean hesitated for effect. “It would require some thought and research, my king, but I believe it would be possible.”
“Then I shall expect you to focus on no other task until you have found the solution.”
“As you command, Sire. Although there is one other matter…”
“The fires.”
Let him believe it is his own mind that leads him… “Yes my king, as you have certainly deduced by now, they are far from ordinary.”
“I have deduced that, have I?”
“Forgive me Sire, I did not realize that we were in disagreement–”
“Relax, Sar, of course I have concluded as much. How do you propose we address them?”
“I have not yet found their cause nor a solution, Sire, although, I fear that the real threat is not the fires, but rather their effect on your subjects. I worry that if we do not quickly address the matters of rations and labor, the fires and other oddities will turn the current flame of discontent into a full-fledged conflagration. Superstition and fear have been catalysts for many a war, my king, civil and otherwise. Perhaps, however, if we can find answers to the first two problems, it will buy us enough time to find a solution for the third.”
“So then Sartean, food and labor, gold and magic, and you believe you can deliver me all of it?”
“Without meaning to boast, my king, have I ever failed you in the past?”
“Do you still draw breath?”
“I do, my king.” And so, Sartean D’avers’ station is enhanced, the sorcerer thought to himself. Sartean finally allowed himself a small smile.
“Then let us hope your flawless record continues wizard, for both our sakes. You have my leave to do as is required. There is one additional matter, however.”
“Yes, Sire?”
“The elf knight will return in less than a cycle, and an assessment is expected, upon my word.”
“I shall prepare it myself, Sire.”
“You shall do no such thing. Assign the task to your subordinates. I wish for you to dedicate yourself exclusively to these matters discussed today.”
“I will not disappoint you, my king.” Sartean rose from his chair.
“No, you will not. Tell Yan to bring me more wine on your way out.”
“At your command, Sire,” replied Sartean with a refined bow to his mighty king, and he glided from the room.
The drunken fool doesn’t even know he just delivered me his own throne. And with enthusiasm. The wizard beamed as he cast the incantation to return to his library. Now what was that young man’s name? Ah yes, James. Perhaps I shall grant you a reprieve, James. Of a sort.
X: TH
ORNWOOD
“Why the hurry?” called Aria melodically, as Mikallis hastened down the flagstone path leading from the elven Citadel. She had not spoken to him at all the previous day, nor at all this day.
He halted at her voice, and turned to regard the elven princess as she caught up to him. “Your mother has requested that I gather her councilors, and so I do,” he replied, a chilled tone in his voice.
“She said she wishes to meet this evening, not an hour ago. Why the rush? What troubles you?” she asked, taking his arm.
“Do you not know?”
Aria led him ahead at a lazier pace. “Ah, my dear Mik, your pride will be your undoing. Neral chided me as well, you know.”
“He did not reproach you yesterday, Aria, as an overly young officer with the wisdom of a buffoon. And rightly so, for I had no notion of his insights until he laid them bare. Fury!” His arm stiffened in Aria’s grasp. “He and your mother must surely consider me witless!”
“You overestimate your mistake, Mikallis, or perhaps underestimate the affection they hold for you.”
“It is not a matter of affection, Aria, it is a matter of respect.”
Aria sighed, knowing better than to debate the topic in more depth, but instead offered, “Will you not enjoy this fine walk with me, friend? The leaves turn so colorfully now, the air is mild, the sun warm on our faces, it is not a day for such cares.”
Mikallis softened at this as they continued silently, his head rising to survey his surroundings. A beautiful autumn day it was, he found himself admitting, perhaps one of the few remaining before winter set in. The path gently rose and fell as they walked on, the diverse foliage among them dyed in tints of bright orange, leaves and plants displaying shades of red from pink to scarlet to deep crimson, the still-blooming violet lilacs and white peonies on either side of them scenting their route in sweet perfumes. No imaginable color was underrepresented, for the elves of Thornwood tended their land with talent and care, favoring the natural beauty of Tahr above most other worldly pleasures.
They reached a small vale within which sat the homes of the foremost families of the ‘Wood, segregated somewhat from the rest of the populace. The division was not out of a sense of oligarchy; rather it existed merely as a natural evolution, as here lived the oldest of the families of Thornwood, and their homes had been built first, when the Citadel of Thornwood was erected more than a millennia past. Indeed, these homes were more humble than many of those of some of their woodland kin, not much more than cabins in some cases, but they were certainly the oldest and comeliest, and none had suffered the passage of time.
A fountain lay in the center of the cul-de-sac, and within it a life-sized, petrified wooden likeness of two elves centered upon a stone dais, engaged in eternal embrace. The Lovers had been sculpted in the earliest days of Thornwood; a tradition had evolved over the ages wherein couples would float daisies in the waters of the font on the eve of their Joining and subsequent anniversaries, adding miniscule fragments of sustaining magics to the flowers. The minor charms would give strength to the petrified wood, and preserve The Lovers evermore. Upon reaching the effigy, Aria turned Mikallis towards her and took his hands in her own.
“Mik, you are dear to me. It saddens me to see you punish yourself for such small matters. You are a decade my senior, and I have no right to condescend, but promise me you will try to take your lessons from your elders in the spirit in which they are intended. Please?”
Mikallis was not certain of the nature of that spirit, but looking down into the bright azure eyes of Aria just then, he could find no unpleasant feeling in his heart. He brushed her long platinum hair from those eyes, and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
“Thank you, Aria. Only you can bring me from my gloom.”
“That’s what I’m here for!” she said cheerfully. “Now go, I wish to walk the gardens a bit more before we assemble at dusk.”
Mikallis inclined his head to her slowly, still keeping her gaze, and turned to complete his task.
---
“Ah, but she leads him so,” observed Neral, as he and the elven queen watched the pair depart the castle from the wooden balcony.
“Do you think?” replied Terrias. “It appears to me as no more than two friends sharing a stroll.”
“It appears the same to me, Terrias, though we both know it is more.”
“I do not believe she plays him as you say, Goodfather,” rejoined the queen. “She is not wicked.”
“No, far from it dear, but perhaps she does not recognize the depth of the young man’s affections.”
The queen regarded Neral at this, objection clearly displayed on her features. “Do you think Aria simple then, Neral?”
“Blissfully so in some cases, my queen, as we all were at that age.”
Terrias smiled at this. “As always, you are wise, Goodfather.”
“Not always wise, my queen, but certainly old, and these hoary eyes have seen much.”
“Well, let us rest your hoary eyes then, Goodfather,” as she took his arm and turned him into the castle. “I fear it will be a late night, and you have not had your doze today.”
“Hmph,” replied the aged elf in feigned outrage. “I find that age is much like infancy.”
“With your kin always urging you to take a nap?” asked Terrias teasingly.
“That, and the need to relieve oneself twice per hour.”
The queen chuckled at this.
“Perhaps I should install a bed in my privy, and save myself the walk.”
“Or a privy in your bedchamber,” replied Terrias.
“Fury no, child, could you imagine the odor?”
---
The assembly of elves in the council chamber, situated at the end of the central hall of the Citadel, included a representative from each of the sects of the kingdom. General Tobias, leader of their regular army, stood at the opposite end of the long table from Queen Evanti. On his left, the lithe and lethal Nishali, head of the Rangers of the northern wood, and on his right Captain Mikallis, representing the Citadel. Along the queen’s right side, in order, sat Neral first, followed by a standing Margris, the queen’s principal advisor on matters of trade, then Malkren, from Treasury. On her left stood Pheonaris, Mistress of the Society of the Grove, then Kender, Hand of Justice, and beside him stood Sir Marchion, Second Knight of Thornwood, present in Sir Barris’ stead. Beside Queen Evanti on her left, on the corner of the end of the Father’s Table, Aria stood with her hands folded before her respectfully, her task to listen and learn as the young Princess of Thornwood.
The queen raised her hands slightly at her sides, bowed her head, and prayed aloud tunefully.
“Kar enna spen ai den bestu Nü glahr ai blei.”
May our words and deeds give You honor and joy.
“Glahr ai blei,” answered the elves in chorus.
“Please be seated, my friends,” said the queen as she took her own chair.
One elf did not immediately sit. “Before we begin discussion of Barris’ parley, my queen, I would ask to speak,” this from Sir Marchion, who had been in attendance at these meetings more often of late.
“Of course, Sir Marchion, please do.” The queen nodded at the noble brown-haired elf, who was by the measure of all, the most physically imposing of any in the wood. Even seated, many elves would only meet his height, and now, standing beside those seated at the Father’s Table, Marchion was most imposing indeed. Tall and strong as he was, however, he did not lack humility.
“Thank you, Lady, and I request your pardon for the interjection,” he said with a slight bow. “As we all are aware, Sir Barris has been active and engaged in the south often this past season, and the Knighthood is poorly represented at this conference without him, particularly as it is his very experiences that we come here to debate.”
“Your voice is equal to Barris’ in his absence, noble knight, and none here dispute that,” this from Neral.
Marchion nodded towards th
e wizened elf. “You do me honor, Goodfather, though it is not from a position of modesty that I speak. I only wish to say that if there are to be decisions reached here today, that I be permitted to abstain the vote of the Knighthood until Sir Barris’ return, for his insights into these matters are born of firsthand experience, and my own would merely be judgments inspired by supposition.”
Terrias Evanti regarded the proud warrior as he returned to his seat, and through her periphery considered the pensive expressions of her councilors. They share his concern, she thought to herself, all but Neral. Despite this, she addressed the knight.
“Sir Marchion, you speak with logic and thoughtfulness, however, I respectfully deny your request.” Eyebrows raised from both sides the table. “I fear that time will not allow us the luxury of awaiting the return of Sir Barris, and I have the utmost confidence in your wisdom and care. Should a poll be required this evening, I will require the voice of the Knighthood.” The queen allowed her gaze to briefly settle on those present, particularly Nishali. A subtle nudge here, perhaps. “Yet, I believe we all share similar opinions on the difficulties we face, and I do not expect much division. I thank you, however, for your deference to Sir Barris, whom I am sure honors your loyalty and reverence.”
“As you wish, my queen.”
Evanti continued, speaking now to all. “As you know, Sir Barris met with the King of Mor yesterday morning, and by now I suspect that you have learned that four of us here bore witness to that audience.”
“Four, my lady?” queried Nishali.
“Yes, four. Myself, Neral, Princess Aria, and Captain Mikallis.”
All eyes turned to regard the young captain, who visibly reddened, Nishali immediately turning back to glare at the queen.
“Do not regard me so, Nishali. Would that I could have invited all of you here to witness the vision, but I did not wish to overly intrude on the privacy of Sir Barris.” She did not need to add that Captain Mikallis was as a son to the knight, for all well knew how close the two were. “Four to bear witness was enough, I believe, in order to ensure that no detail was overlooked.”