Downward they climbed, one foot in front of the next. Their muffled steps echoed off the stone encasement. Apart from an occasional grunt or groan, it was the only sound to be heard. The stairwell finally opened into a small antechamber housing a large iron door. Unlike other entranceways, this one was uniquely shaped. It was circular, like a great iron disc. The front of the door was decorated with a raised arrangement of intersecting lines, similar to a cartographer’s charting of a city’s streets. Ayrion knew it to be a complete mapping of the underground tunnels within the Warrens.
Two sentinels flanked either side of the entrance, guarding what lay beyond. They spared a quick glance at Ayrion, taking measure of the newcomer’s potential risk. With each man standing at least a head or two above him, the assessment didn’t last long. Ayrion was disappointed by their nonchalant view of his stature. However, it was understandable, as their attention was quickly diverted toward the open stairway where Amarysia was just stepping into the room’s light. She had a gift for drawing attention.
The angular man at the front took a step toward the door and both guards drew their swords. Sweat-stained muscles glistened in the dancing light. Ayrion gawked at the size of their falchions, each twice the width of a normal blade. They looked more like troll cleavers than weapons, that was if there were such things as trolls. One of the sentries raised his blade and pointed at the skinny, dark-haired man.
“Password.”
The head of their small troop crossed his arms and tapped his foot repeatedly on the floor. Tap tap tap . . . tap tap tap. “You’re kidding.”
Neither guard budged.
“We just came through here, dimwits.”
Still no movement.
The lanky man turned to look at Ayrion. “You would think as long as I’ve lived here, these two nincompoops would have the good manners to recognize my face and let me through.” He took a moment to glare at each guard in turn. “Oh, very well,” he groused before straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat.
“When hope is all but lost,
And light has turned to dark.
There will a sign be given,
The rising of the marked.”
Ayrion recognized the passage from a book his parents had read to him as a child. He had lost it years ago, back when he had run the streets of Aramoor. How odd that it would be used here, in the middle of one of the deadliest places in Aldor.
The spokesman combed an impatient hand through his straight hair and huffed, clearly embarrassed at having to recite a silly children’s rhyme.
The two guards slid their weapons back into the sheaths at their waists then grabbed a large lever connected to the outer edge of the door and flipped it back. There was a loud metallic clicking sound as the locking mechanism was released.
Ayrion felt a twinge of dread as the rusted-out piece of hinged-metal started to open. The Warren Underground was not known for mercy. They had their own set of laws, carried out by tribunal, where the heads of the clans would meet to exact their own form of justice.
Ayrion couldn’t imagine what the clans would possibly want with him. Sure, he was the High King’s protector, but what did that have to do with the Warrens?
Over his shoulder, he could see that Amarysia was watching him. He was proud of the way she held herself, not showing any fear. It was quite the accomplishment, considering their present circumstances.
Ayrion cast a quick glance to the left of her at the man holding his swords. He wanted to keep him in sight at all times in case the opportunity arose for him to make a play for his weapons. Ayrion knew the barbarism practiced in this place, and there was no way he was going to let them do to him or Amarysia what he’d seen done to others in the past. He’d kill Amarysia before he let the men down here get their hands on her, and she would thank him for it.
The giant guards each placed a shoulder against the door and shoved. Light poured from the opening and bathed the small antechamber in a warm glow. As best he could, Ayrion craned his neck to see around the men and get a peek at what lay beyond.
Their tall, slender guide took a few steps into the next room and then bowed toward a raised platform with five seats. The platform had three tiers. Two high-backed chairs rested on opposite sides of the first rise, two more chairs sat atop the second rise, and a solitary throne-like seat, much larger and grandiose than the others, sat at the top.
The Warren Tribunal was similar to the political structure of Aldor and its five kingdoms. Each clan had a single head or representative that held one of the ruling seats on the tribunal, and just as Aldor had a High King, there was a Clan Chieftain whose rule stood above the rest. The only way to negate a chieftain’s order was by a unanimous vote from the remaining heads.
The downside to being chief, however, was that unlike the civility of a king’s ordination, the clan’s chieftain was chosen by the Right of Oktar. Any one of the clan heads could challenge their chieftain to combat for the throne. Some found the exercise barbaric, but when you are vying for the right to lead the less civilized members of society, all polite considerations are thrown out.
The five seats were unoccupied at present, which meant Ayrion wasn’t being brought before the council. However, the assembly chamber, which was more like a throne room than a tribunal hall, was beginning to fill.
It had been a number of years since he had stepped foot in this place, but he didn’t think it had changed all that much. Maybe a bit more decorated than the last time he was there, but then again, the last time he was there, the room’s décor had been stained with blood and viscera.
Stepping through the doorway, there was an arched set of pillars lining the outer perimeter, holding back the untold amount of earth above them. Ayrion had always wondered by whose hands these underground lairs had been constructed. By the wear of the stone, they looked to have been created centuries ago when magic was readily used as the foundational building blocks of such edifices.
Colorful tapestries rimmed the outer walls, bringing a sharp contrast to the mellow gray of the stone room. The heavy woven material bore the markings of formal crests. Each one was set apart by different colors, emblems, and symbols. Gathered around each of those banners were men and women, adorned in garments fashioned of similar color and design. Although not apparently hostile, each group kept a wary eye on the others as they waited for whatever proceedings they had been summoned for to commence.
The tension of those gathered could be seen in the shuffling of their feet, in the stiffness of their movements, in the way their eyes darted from one person to the next, watching the placement of each other’s hands. You couldn’t have found a more cutthroat looking assembly in all of Aldor than what was now gathered in this underground room.
Each of the members was heavily armed. Ayrion could have used a few of these gruff underbellies during his recent battle with the creatures outside of Aramoor, had he not been more worried of getting a knife to the back than a claw to the front.
On the streets, whether in the Warrens or not, Ayrion knew the ultimate code was survival of the fittest, and life balanced on three things: the size of your arms, the smarts in your head, and your supply of luck. Of the three, the last proved, more often than not, to be the most valuable.
From inside the doorway, Ayrion continued to struggle with the metal cuffs. The edges cut into his wrists, but still didn’t budge. He was going to have to figure out a way to defend himself with his hands quite literally tied behind his back.
Amarysia was moved forward and placed to his left.
Angling away from the guard, Ayrion pressed his shoulder against hers, hoping to relay a little reassurance in her direction. Now if he just had someone to do the same for him. He noticed they had removed the gag from her mouth.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” She glanced around the room. “What do you think they want?”
“I wish I knew. We’re not dead. I guess that’s something.”
Ayrion’s eyes widened. His head shot up as he looked around for their lanky captor. Surely that isn’t? Their guide’s back was to him as he talked to a group of angry looking clansmen near the front. But then, he shifted his stance to point in their direction. When he did, Ayrion was afforded enough time to really study the man’s face.
Po? He couldn’t believe it. His heart raced. It was him. At least he thought it was. That small, chubby boy that used to follow him around everywhere he went, emulating everything he did, was now this tall lean man who appeared to hold some kind of weight within the Warren Clans. How did that happen?
There had always been something about Po—a hidden gift—one that even Po might not have known existed. Whenever his former childhood friend came within a certain distance, Ayrion’s magic disappeared. It was as if Po had the ability to negate the magic of others. Ayrion had always found it unsettling, but figured it was what made Po such a good negotiator. There was always a level playing field whenever he was around.
“Bring them,” the grown-up-version of Po said as he motioned for the men guarding Ayrion and Amarysia to follow. They left through one of the tunnels at the back which had been blocked by the free-swinging draperies holding another of the colorfully designed crests. Each of the other banners held similar tunnels behind them, each clan with their own entrance and exit.
Pulling the heavy material aside, Po waited for the others to pass. “She wants to see them,” was all he said before turning around and marching down the dark corridor.
Ayrion decided to put his theory to the test.
“Po?”
The young man’s shoulders flinched. “So you finally figured it out, huh?”
“Well, give me some credit, the last time I saw you, you were waist high and three times as wide.”
“Amazing what a little time and a life on the streets can accomplish.” There was a clear undertone of disdain stemming from his words.
“Hey, it wasn’t my choice for the king to give me—”
“No!” Po spat, turning completely around to look Ayrion in the eyes. “It was your choice to leave!” Ayrion was unsure how to respond. Po didn’t give him the chance as he turned around and moved into another tunnel.
“I haven’t changed, Po.”
“Hah!” Po lifted the tips of his fingers to his mouth.
“I see you still bite your nails when you get upset.”
Po quickly dropped his hand.
They came to a stop outside a wooden door. There was a shield with a brightly colored red crest on the front just above the latch.
“Don’t pretend like you know me, Ayrion, Guardian Protector of the High King.” Po’s last words felt like daggers being jabbed into him.
Po took a deep breath and knocked on the shield.
“Enter,” said a muffled voice from the other side.
Po pulled back on the latch and slid the door open. He handed his torch to one of the guards waiting in the hallway. Ayrion and Amarysia followed him in. The room was larger than Ayrion had expected, with an almost royal feel to it. Expensive furnishings were strewn haphazardly around the space. Large swaths of satin, silk, and velvet were hung and draped across every inch of the room so that the colors of red and gold inundated its occupants.
Walking across the fur rugs lining the cold floor, they made their way to a standing hearth where a fire was busy snapping and popping as the smoke meandered its way up the flue. How the engineers had managed to forge out a chimney so far underground was truly amazing. Oddly enough, even this far beneath the surface of Aramoor, the room carried a strong scent of burnt pine and cinnamon. It was a rather provocative mixture, one Ayrion would not have expected to find amid such a tumultuous sea of cutthroats. And yet the smell was oddly familiar.
Ayrion scanned the room for the source of the voice. Nothing about the place gave the impression of a meeting hall. It felt more like someone’s personal chambers. Mounds of soft pillows lined sections of the outer wall. A hefty four-post bed sat near the back, covered in fur. There were no lit candles, no lamps, no torches of any kind, just simple firelight. It gave the impression of a campfire where friends would gather and talk of times long past. Only now, Ayrion wasn’t sure if talking was what his former friend had in mind.
“What’s going on, Po?” Ayrion asked. “Why have you brought us here? Who is it you want me to see?”
“Well, he hasn’t changed much, has he, Po?” a voice said from somewhere in the back behind one of the hanging tapestries. “Always looking for answers.”
Ayrion recognized the voice immediately. It was somehow deeper, fuller, more seductive, but still the same. “Kira?”
Chapter 41 | Ayrion
OUT FROM BEHIND one of the crimson draperies, a slender woman proceeded into the firelight. “I would recognize those gray eyes of yours anywhere, Ayri,” Kira said as she unashamedly batted her long lashes at him. Her deep hazel eyes reflected the light from the hearth. She had grown into quite the woman. She wore brown leather pants and a white laced tunic, but it wasn’t her tight fitting trousers and top that grabbed Ayrion’s attention. It was her long leather overcoat, an exact replica of his apart from the color. Unlike Ayrion’s, hers was a deep red.
Ayrion felt embarrassed at the unexpected attraction. He remembered the first time he had seen Kira in red. It had been the day he first set foot in Aramoor as a twelve-year-old boy, the day she had beaten him unconscious and stolen, quite literally, the clothes off his back.
With Ayrion and Amarysia’s hands bound behind them, Kira ushered the guards out of the room. One of the men handed Ayrion’s swords to Po before shutting the door behind them. Ayrion could hear the latch flipping back into place.
Po moved off to one side of the hearth and proceeded to nurse a half-empty glass of wine as he busied himself studying the unusual black steel. “I’ve always wondered what these looked like up close. Amazing work. Who made them?”
“A smith in Rhowynn, I was told.”
Kira, like a lioness having her den intruded upon, slowly circled the two.
“It’s been a long time, Kira,” Ayrion said, watching the oil from her leathers glisten in the light of the fire. “You going to say something, or just dizzy us with your prowling?”
Kira finally stopped and turned to Po. “Why are there two people here? I told you to get Ayri. Was there a sale? Kidnap one and get a free hussy on the side?”
Amarysia shuffled her feet with a huff.
Po swallowed his wine. “He was right where you said, Red. He just wasn’t alone.”
Ayrion was confused. “How could you have possibly known where I would be? I hadn’t even planned on leaving the palace this evening.”
“Well, we didn’t. That’s why I had people watching at all hours over the last two days, waiting for you to come out. It just happened to be tonight.” Kira walked over to look Amarysia over. “So, who’s this pretty little strumpet, huh?” With a harsh glare, she reached out and flicked a lock of Amarysia’s blond hair with her finger. “I never imagined you wanting a blonde, Ayri. Your taste always ran a little . . . darker.” With that, Kira swung her own long, raven hair around the front of her shoulder and ran a hand through the waves just to add to the tease.
Amarysia planted her feet and arched her shoulders. “Like a fine wine, a man’s taste betters with age.”
Ayrion could see the fires building behind Kira’s eyes, and he knew from experience it was best not to get her riled up. But instead of placing a piece of cold steel through Amarysia’s breast bone, Kira stepped in front of Ayrion, wrapped both arms
around his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth.
Ayrion was left speechless. Something about Kira’s lips sparked a repressed desire and distant passion he had long since forgotten existed. Kira separated to catch her breath. Licking her lips with the tip of her tongue, she savored the moment while smirking at Amarysia.
Apart from the embarrassment he was feeling at having just been taken complete advantage of in front of the woman he was building a relationship with, Ayrion was feeling guilt for not only enjoying the short-lived connection, but not wanting it to end.
Amarysia kept her eyes locked on Kira, matching her stare for stare.
“So why am I here, Kira?” he asked, hoping to douse some of the tension building between the two women.
Kira ended their competition to look at Ayrion. “The name’s Red. Only my friends can call me Kira.”
“I thought I was your friend.”
Kira’s eyes darkened. “You thought wrong.”
Ayrion remained silent. She was right. He had been the one to leave. But when the king offered him a position in the royal palace, how was he to refuse?
“Things change,” she said, breaking his dismal reminiscing.
He nodded. “I’d say. Look at you . . . Clan Chieftain. I mean, how does something like that happen, anyway?”
“Let’s just say that after you left, it didn’t go so well for the rest of us. And when you’re living on the streets without home or family, and you don’t have anything else to lose, you’d be surprised what you’ll do to survive.” Ayrion could hear Po grunting his agreement in the background. “Ruthlessness is a commodity held in high regard around here. Turns out,” she said with a nonchalant wave of her hand, “I seem to have a knack for it.” She smiled. But instead of warmth, Ayrion felt a cold tremor crawl up his spine.
“More than a knack, I’d say,” Po added, waving his goblet to her in salute before downing the last remaining gulp.
Ayrion was stunned. Here he was, reunited after such a long time with his childhood friends and instead of emotional hugs and tender words, he was standing—bound—in front of two people he hardly recognized.
The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1) Page 33