Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1)

by Caleb Wachter

  The herald schooled his features, but it was clear to Randall that the Federation rep had gotten under his skin. The Ambassador shook his head minutely before beginning, “It is hereby illegal, and considered a gross violation of these Accords, for any person—“

  “Or persons,” the herald interrupted smoothly, “to possess or harbor those who possess unlicensed artifacts, weapons, trinkets, charms, baubles, or other objects bearing enchantment without a duly-issued license. Such licenses may only be granted to those persons who have gained special dispensation from the Federation Senate, or who inherit such licenses by right of heredity. The willful violation of this statute will warrant severe reprisals, up to and including, but not limited to, the immediate and absolute dissolution of these Accords and every provision contained herein.” The herald paused and cocked his head quizzically, “Shall I cite the seventeen contributors to this particular article in alphabetical order, or would you prefer chronological?”

  There was a snicker near the front of the crowd assembled below, causing the Federation representative’s brow to lower thunderously. “Have you gained such dispensation?” the Ambassador snapped, turning to fix Randall with his steely gaze.

  Randall felt his throat tighten as Jarl Balgruf took a slow, menacing step toward the Federation representative. “You are out of order, Ambassador,” he rumbled, and the crowd behind Randall fell silent.

  The Ambassador bowed gracefully. “You are correct, Jarl Balgruf,” he agreed, “I apologize. Please conduct this affair as you see fit.”

  The tension in the air was so thick that Randall was certain it would burst if anyone moved so much as an inch. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” came a woman’s light, ethereal voice, and Randall snapped his attention toward its source.

  He wasn’t exactly surprised to see that it was the red-haired, half-elven woman who had authored the words. But seeing her move toward the two men with an eerie, hypnotic grace seemed to entrance him almost immediately. Shaking his head, he looked around briefly to see that he wasn’t the only person to have such a reaction but saw that he alone seemed affected.

  The Jarl nodded curtly, and the herald cleared his throat before saying, “The court recognizes the Ambassador from the Ghaevlian Nation, and longtime Radgiver to the court of Greystone.”

  The woman—who appeared almost doll-like with her extravagant, curly red hair and almost inhumanly wide eyes set above a tiny mouth—seemed to glide to the front of the landing. As she did so Randall could almost feel the throng behind him as it leaned forward to hear what she had to say. She stood between the two men and looked back and forth at them pointedly for several seconds before continuing, “I have only recently come into possession of evidence which might shed some light on this man’s identity.”

  “His identity is not in question,” the Ambassador said dismissively. “He has already given us his name as well as his place of birth—which we have each verified using the means independently available to us.”

  “That much is true,” she allowed expressionlessly, and her melodious voice seemed to carry effortlessly on the gentle breeze, “but while his words have been entirely true, they do not carry the entire truth.” Randall was immediately taken by the woman’s beauty, but also confused by her apparent age; the more he looked at her, the more childlike she appeared.

  She turned and made her way to the bottom of the landing, and Randall could see that her features were considerably more angular than the other half-elves he had known. Giving him a cold, indifferent look with her large, doll-like eyes, she turned and gestured for the Jarl and Ambassador to join her. “Please, I believe we can put an end to this matter once and for all.”

  The two men reluctantly did as she had bidden them, and when they stood before Randall he felt like recoiling from their combined gazes. Oddly enough, his scalp never went numb and it was probably for that reason and no other than he managed to stand his ground.

  Reaching up into Randall’s shirt, the woman deftly undid the string which bound it and pulled flap over his left chest to the side, revealing a deep, red indentation which matched the shape of the pendant his mother had passed down to him.

  “Do you see?” she said with a note of triumph. “It is as I suspected.”

  “Perhaps you will enlighten us,” the Ambassador said coldly, “as to why a half-elf’s taste in body art would inform this matter in the slightest?”

  “Certainly,” she replied agreeably as she reached up to her collar with her right hand. With just a few deft tugs at the strings hidden beneath the folds of her complex, impossibly bulky dress, she pulled the flap which covered her bosom to the side exposing an amulet which was identical to the one Randall had been wearing.

  Randall felt the world begin to spin as he wrestled with the connotations of her revelation. At the Ambassador’s continued look of annoyance, the woman lifted the amulet from her skin and reveled an identical marking to the one which she had unveiled on Randall’s chest. She reached up and undid the clasp which bound the amulet around her neck and then placed it against Randall’s chest, where it fit perfectly into the sequence of faint depressions.

  “I believe your agents confiscated my great grandson’s Flylrylioulen,” she said in a deceptively mild tone, “and seeing as such articles are permitted under the inheritance clause of the Federation Peace Accords, I must insist on its immediate return.”

  The Ambassador’s eyes narrowed briefly, but he stiffened slightly as he shook his head. “Of course; you have our apologies. I only wish we would have known his identity earlier, as it would have saved valuable time.”

  “Do not worry yourself, Citizen Ambassador, as I had not confirmed my suspicion until this very moment,” the woman said with a flat, yet piercing, look that belied her melodious voice. “I, for one, consider these past few minutes to be time well spent.”

  “Be that as it may,” the Ambassador retorted icily, “the issue of the unlicensed sword is still very much in dispute—regardless of his relationship to you, which is completely irrelevant to the matter at hand.”

  The woman pursed her lips and nodded gravely. “Indeed; you make a compelling point,” she agreed before turning pointedly to the Jarl. “But his relationship to you is very much relevant, is it not?”

  The Jarl straightened and looked down at Randall, and never in his entire life had he felt so very small—at least, not since he was an actual, small child.

  “Are you suggesting he is my…” Balgruf growled in a low voice, which Randall was quite certain did not carry beyond their immediate vicinity to the crowd below.

  “I believe the term is ‘Fourth Cousin’,” she said with a frown, “but then, my understanding of human genealogical terms is somewhat limited. Put simply, he is the bastard descendent of your Great, Great, Great Grandfather Bulwyf—and myself, naturally.”

  The Ambassador leaned forward with a barely-concealed sneer on his face. “You play a dangerous game, elf,” he hissed, and for the first time Randall saw a brief glimpse of the man’s true nature—and it was enough to make his skin crawl.

  “Why, Citizen Ambassador,” she blinked innocently, and her doll-like eyes seemed simultaneously hypnotic and terrifying as he lips formed the barest hint of a sneer, “is there another kind of game worth playing?”

  The Federation representative recoiled slightly. “The Federation will require more substantial proof than this,” he waved his hand contemptuously at Randall’s chest.

  “Of course,” she replied, and almost quicker than Randall could track with his eyes the woman’s hand brushed across his chest and he felt a mild, stinging sensation. He looked down and saw that he had a two inch long, shallow cut on his chest which was only then beginning to bleed, and he saw that the elven woman—who was apparently his Great Grandmother—had used a cleverly concealed barb on the inside of one of her rings to cause the wound. She then pricked herself on the thumb with the same barb, and almost as though it was an afterthought she produ
ced an immaculate, silk kerchief from beneath the folds of her dress.

  Dabbing her thumb on one corner of the perfect, white napkin, she then dabbed the opposite corner on Randall’s fresh wound and handed the cloth to the Ambassador. “You will need to ask the Jarl’s permission if you wish to include him in your inquest.”

  The Ambassador gave the Jarl an expectant look, but after several long, silent moments between them, he asked, “May I have a sample of your blood to confirm this man’s identity?”

  The Jarl appeared to consider the request before drawing a small knife from his belt and slashing his palm, which he held over the center of the cloth where it slowly dripped.

  “That will suffice,” the Ambassador said officiously after the center of the cloth had become a deep, red bloom. “I must retreat to conduct my investigation.” With that, he turned and made his way to the back of the landing before disappearing as he descended a nearby path.

  “He’s right, Phinjo,” Balgruf grumbled under his breath after the Ambassador had gone. Seeing the two of them standing side by side, with the top of the woman’s hat barely reaching halfway up the Jarl’s chest, was a striking contrast to Randall’s eye. The hulking man weighed at least four times as much as the woman, yet his body language afforded her more respect than anyone else present. “This is a dangerous game,” he continued, “…and one which you may yet be ready for.”

  “One which we may not yet be ready for, Jarl,” she retorted smoothly. “Besides, have you even once known me to overplay my hand?” she asked in a cold, hard tone that was quite unlike the musical voice she had used earlier, and Randall felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  The Jarl seemed to consider the question for a moment before sighing and shaking his head. “Take the prisoner back to his cell,” he said in a carrying voice, giving Randall a brief, assessing look before turning to ascend the staircase. He gestured to a pair of guards which had stood motionless behind the wooden throne to that point, “Post six of my personal guards to his cell—no one save the Ghaevlian Ambassador gets within ten paces of him without my expressed permission.”

  With that, the guards frog-marched Randall back down the curving path which led back to his cell. After the bars slammed shut, he slumped down to sit against the wall and do his best to digest what had just happened.

  Chapter XXXV: From One Cage to Another

  16-0-6-659

  Randall sat in silence for nearly an hour as he tried to parse meaning from the scene which had unfolded outside. Not only was he brought face to face with the Jarl’s brand of justice, but if both he and the enigmatic ‘Phinjo’ were to be believed then Randall was somehow related to the ruler of Greystone!

  He felt his scalp turn numb, and Randall opened his mind to contact the sword. Even without the Flylrylioulen’s assistance, he was able to find Dan’Moread’s voice in a matter of seconds.

  Are you alright? Dan’Moread asked.

  “Yeah,” Randall muttered, “I’m fine. It’s a little confusing, but I think I’m getting my head wrapped around it. How are you doing?”

  I will admit to being somewhat relieved that battle was avoided, the sword replied. But I doubt we are yet past danger in this place.

  Randall snorted in agreement. “Well, we are locked away in a prison cell,” he said sarcastically. “One thing that gets me though…”

  I would imagine finding a living relative in this place would be quite jarring, Dan’Moread said in its flat tone.

  “I guess…” Randall allowed, “but the truth is that I’m not really sure what to believe about her. I mean let’s suppose she really is my great grandmother like she says; what then? It’s not like she’s ever taken an interest in my life before, so why should she start to care now?”

  But she is your family, the sword argued. Such ought not be discarded out of hand.

  “You don’t get to be family just because of blood,” Randall retorted. “You’ve got to earn it; one thing I’ve learned in life is that every single thing of value needs to be earned.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” Randall heard a woman’s voice call from down the corridor, and he stiffened as he recognized that it belonged to the half-elven woman the Jarl had called ‘Phinjo.’ If not for the gentle, whisper-like swishes of her incredibly bulky and ornate dress, Randall would never have heard another sign of her approach before she came to stand outside his cell. She stood there considering him with her large, hypnotic, doll-like eyes for several silent moments before tilting her head slightly toward the nearest guardsman.

  The man turned and unlocked the barred door to the cell without delay, and when he had done so swung it open so the woman could enter. When she did so, Randall was once again struck by her incredible beauty—as well as her incredibly bulky red hair, which formed great curls that barely seemed to move as she did. The obvious curve of her tiny body beneath the dress was also more exaggerated than he had ever seen, at least outside of fanciful paintings—

  “Mind yourself; I am your great grandmother after all,” she said with the barest hint of amusement in her voice, and Randall felt himself flush from the neck up.

  “Is that true?” he asked as he struggled to keep his eyes locked with hers. Between the strangely inhuman look of her face and the outrageous line of her body, Randall found he was unable to look at her anywhere without becoming uncomfortable. So he averted his eyes and shook his head, hoping to clear it of the woman’s almost spell-like influence.

  “It is,” she replied simply, and at the sound of her voice Randall felt almost compelled to meet her gaze again, but he resisted the urge and kept his eyes to the side. “You are stronger than I expected, which is a pleasant surprise,” she continued appreciatively after several long, silent moments, “but if I am honest, I am more than slightly disappointed as well.”

  Randall felt his hackles rise as he looked up to meet her seemingly impossible eyes. “And why should I care about that?” he spat.

  She gestured to his ears with her tiny, pale hands. “You have mutilated yourself, and to what purpose? To ‘fit in’ with those who would enslave you?” She shook her head, and Randall only now realized she had yet to blink during their entire conversation.

  “It’s called ‘survival’,” he quipped acidly. “Not all of us are fortunate enough to live in a place where we’re actually treated like people instead of animals. I did what I had to do to survive.”

  The woman cocked her head to the side and gave him a curious look, which was merely exaggerated by her improbable facial features. “Are you truly that stupid?” she asked with what seemed to be genuine sincerity. It was as though she was speaking to a small child, rather than an adult, and Randall felt his blood begin to boil. “Is suffering a privilege shared only by yourself and those you have known? My dear, foolish boy,” she shook her head again, this time with more than a hint of disdain, “life is merely one vile, putrid experience after another. What we do with the moments between those experiences, and how we choose to impact the world around us in what small fashion we are able is what defines us.”

  Utterly unmoved by her words, Randall shook his own head. “Forgive me for not seeing the similarity,” he retorted icily, “between life here and life under the Federation’s boot-heel.”

  You must take care not to offend this person, Randall, he heard the sword’s voice clearly in his mind. She is likely more powerful than we could possibly know; we must tread carefully.

  “It is true,” the woman admitted with a look of sympathy, “that the Federation treats many of its subjects in a fashion unfit for even beasts of burden.” She fixed him with a cold, penetrating look as she shrugged indifferently, “I assure you that the Ghaevlian Nation takes great umbrage at their continued abuse of half-breeds like yourself.”

  “Half-breeds!?” Randall blurted, feeling his scalp go slightly numb as he did so. Whether it was Dan’Moread’s way of warning him not to lose control, or his innate danger sense, he knew he needed to cal
m himself in case something untoward was about to occur.

  The woman blinked for the first time in the conversation, and Randall was again struck by just how doll-like her features were. “Why of course; that is what you are, after all,” she said with a puzzled look.

  Balling his hands into fists at his sides, Randall took several measured breaths before feeling his emotions come back under control. “You know, until this moment I never really found the distinction that important,” he said in a voice that threatened to rise of its own accord, “but I’m only one eighth Ghaevlian.” Never in his life had he been so grateful to be mostly human.

  “More’s the pity,” she said with what seemed to be a commiserative look, either ignoring his point or missing it entirely. “But regardless of how little Ghaevlian blood flows through your veins, you are welcome to stay in this place.”

  Randall looked around pointedly. “You mean in this cell?” he deadpanned. He felt his scalp tingle slightly, and for a moment he almost thought he could hear the sword laughing before the ‘sound’ was gone.

  The woman blinked again, nearly causing Randall to squirm at the strange sight as she did so. “If you so choose,” she said airily. “Or at least in something approximating it; the Jarl does not keep prisoners past their trial date. Such incarceration is expressly forbidden in the sovereign state of Greystone.”

  “No jails?” Randall scoffed. “How does justice get served in a place without prisons?”

  She gestured to the corridor leading out to the place where Randall’s ‘trial’ had been conducted. “You have seen justice with your own eyes, have you not?” she said with an arched eyebrow.

  Randall felt the urge to gulp, but held it back since he had no desire to let this woman see him squirm. “If that’s the extent of justice in this place, it seems a little unfair,” he said stiffly.

  She shook her head and sighed in what Randall assumed to be exasperation. “Life is unfair, star child,” she said dismissively. “Why should justice be any different? At least in this place one stands a chance of winning freedom if they do not wish to accept the prescribed punishment, which is more than can be said of any other human state.”