“It means that a great many elven women have turned to human men out of a desperation to feel life grow inside them.” Arydni’s voice washed over him as she appeared at his shoulder. With delicate fingers, she straightened his surcoat. “Human men who come to the Kingdom are courted, and if they are desirous of a bride, they can doubtless find one.”
“I’ve seen a lot of human men with elven women,” he said, then nearly laughed. “Some of the men not nearly worthy of the look of the women on their arm.”
She stepped before him, making another minute adjustment to his armor. “In a time such as this, hope is harder to come by. Long have our peoples known friendship, but it is never far from an elf’s mind that in a thousand years, when we are still in the same positions, have the same King and government, your whole order could be completely different. And yet humans are the most like the elves of all the races. We share little commonality with the dwarves and gnomes, and the dark elves have been our longest and most hated enemy.”
She looked at him in the mirror. “I confess it myself, the curious draw toward human men. It is a predisposition that runs through our whole race now. I am a mother one hundred and forty-five times, yet I know I have time in me for a few more, and the desire as well. If I would have one, I have one place where I would need look—to the race of humans.” She admired her handiwork in the mirror. “Very good. You look every bit as dashing as a Knight of Vidara.”
“How would you know under the helm?” he asked.
“Why, General Davidon,” she said with almost a mocking air. “There is more to a Knight of Vidara than rugged good looks, just as there is more to a priestess than ample bosoms displayed openly.” She ushered him out of the tent as he blushed and failed to reply. The wagon was a simple vehicle, wood with overlarge wheels, the spokes made of iron. The sides were high and it had padded benches for sitting. This must be designed so the priestesses can travel in comfort.
“I will ride in the back with Vara,” Arydni said, climbing up. “As a paladin charged with my defense, you need ride up front with Nyad and drive.”
He nodded and helped Nyad up to the seat. “Everyone ready?” Nyad looked into the back of the wagon, waiting for a reply from Arydni, who answered in the affirmative. “Next stop—”
“Hush,” Cyrus said, grasping her arm. They were in front of the tent, and a crowd of ragged refugees stared at them; elves who only a few days earlier had been warm and well fed, finely clothed in the prosperous garb of Termina, the jewel of the elven empire. Now they were dirty and haggard and homeless, most of them having not so much as a possession to call their own. They didn’t deserve this. The whole Kingdom will be at war now, a war they can scarce afford since they can’t make up their losses. It may be wise for them to sue for peace.
Nyad’s hand was raised, and the glow of her spell encompassed them. Different than druid magic, the teleportation spell of a wizard came from a place of power and energy, crackling and coalescing around them with bright colors. There was a flash and the world grew bright then dimmed as Cyrus found himself somewhere completely different.
Chapter 38
Raised swords and spears greeted Cyrus as he appeared back into being. Soldiers of the Elven Army stood before him, a host almost as large as the one that had laid siege to Termina. Though they were clad in the winged helm and steel breastplates he had seen on the Termina Guard, their livery was different with heraldry that showed a city wall covered in green vines, with water flowing down it.
“Lady Nyad.” The officer standing at the forefront bowed before her. Thirty or so soldiers were gathered around the portal with their weapons in hand, ready to put down any potential invaders as they appeared. Easier than defending your city gates when the enemy armies show up, I suppose. “We are pleased to see you return.” With a waved hand, the officer commanded his men to lower their weapons. “Your father awaits your report.”
“Thank you,” she said as Cyrus took the reins and started the horses forward through a gap that the soldiers made. He watched as they reformed their line the moment the wagon had passed through. The road stretched before them and Nyad pointed him left.
They were in a clearing, and in the distance Cyrus could see the massive trees of the Iliarad’ouran woods. The last time he had passed through, he had marveled; some of their trunks were a hundred feet in diameter and stretched into the sky, blotting out the sun. They put the Waking Woods near Sanctuary to shame. It was a green and verdant land, and the air around them was warm, the sun shining down from above. The smell of fresh greenery was all about, the air bearing the scent of nature that had been so absent in Termina and, later, in the perfumed air of the tent of the priestesses.
Trees were all that was visible on the horizon. In front of him was a different sight, something he had not laid eyes on in nearly two years. Pharesia, the seat of Elvendom, was laid out before him, a massive, vine covered wall blocking all but the highest towers and minarets of the city from view. The wall stretched almost two hundred feet into the air, peppered with a window here and there, and complete with parapets, allowing defenders to fire arrows into any invaders while maintaining cover. The stones that made up the wall carried almost a white color, and shone in the sun.
The main gate was big enough that three titans could walk in on each others’ shoulders, and wide enough for fifty wagons. Was it this big when last I was here? Oh, that’s right, I met Nyad outside the city. They entered with a stream of other traffic onto a wide avenue. There were no street merchants but a great many shops on the boulevard. Bakers, armorers, a flower shop that offered a pleasing, familiar aroma were all there—but fewer than Termina or Reikonos, he thought.
Trees were in abundance, and every few buildings sat a garden filled with trees and lush grasses, flowers and the occasional water garden. Aquaducts flowed throughout the city, also vine-covered and with occasional offshoots that dumped water sluicing down the sides in waterfalls.
They passed one such garden, with water cascading down onto flattened circular rocks placed around a pool. Next to it was a grassy meadow sandwiched between two three-story buildings. It was a space bigger than two of the row houses Cyrus had seen in Termina, and it backed to the aquaduct’s waterfall. Moss grew around the pond made by the falling water, and two gardens grew to either side of it with rich purples and reds, yellows and blues of the flowers blooming in the mid-morning light. A few elves sat around the park, eating, talking and waiting, enjoying the shade.
They stayed on the same road they had entered the gate on, passing through squares with buildings covered in vines, trellises hanging next to every window with blooming flowers and every sill containing plants of some kind. The residents of Pharesia take their greenery seriously.
On their right came a large square, fountain at the center, in an odd design that threw off the symmetry of the street. At the far end of the square was a building larger than any other thus far in the city; a squarish structure with towers at all four corners, domed minarets atop each. “It’s the Museum of Arms,” Nyad whispered. “You remember, where—”
“Where they kept Ventus, the Scimitar of Air, until the Dragonlord decided he needed it more than the elves,” Cyrus said. “It’s an impressive building.” He looked up, where a large domed glass skylight rested.
The horses trudged along in silence. Cyrus suspected Nyad would have made an excellent tour guide, but the elf seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts. The noise of the wheels clacking against the streets precluded the possibility of conversation with Arydni, so Cyrus contented himself with taking in the varied and beautiful architecture. Though he was certain that most of it had been built thousands of years ago, every building in Pharesia maintained a look of good repair.
The road made a slight turn, and before them Cyrus could see a colossal building. That has to be the palace. At each corner of the grounds sat one of the massive trees that made up the Iliarad’ouran forest. They stretched above the walls that encircled th
e building. Dozens of towers jutted into the sky—some short, some tall, so many he found himself dizzy from the counting. They weaved in and out, asymmetrical, each topped with a minaret of a different color, giving the rooftop a rainbow hue.
As they grew closer, Cyrus saw that the walls surrounding the palace were only half as high as those around the city. The road carried them to the main gate, where they were ushered through with only a nod from the guards. Other wagons were stopped and searched, their occupants staring jealously at Cyrus as they passed.
Once through the gate, the world opened up before them; the palace grounds were even more luxuriant and green than the city. The palace was a mile distant from the wall, Cyrus reckoned, and the space between was all greenery, the only sign of mortal interference being the trimmed hedges, grasses, trees and the tended flowers arranged in beds. Streams flowed through the area and the colors were intoxicating.
“They’re beautiful at night as well,” Nyad said from beside him. “Father had the gardeners cultivate a night garden where all the flowers within bloom in the evening. As the sun sets above the wall, the colors reflect off the pools and the stone. He has a few plants and flowers from exotic places that glow phosphorescent in the moonlight.” She sighed. “I haven’t spent more than a week here since I left home; and only then when our exile was rescinded last year. It truly is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
“I thought the Sanctuary garden was impressive, but this...” He took a deep breath. “This puts it to shame.”
Ahead was the palace. Before them, the road divided to run on either side of a reflecting pool and the two roads reunited before a covered entry. “We’re going to the north wing,” she said, pointing to an offshoot of the main building that sat to the left of the massive central, towered structure. “We’ll have it almost all to ourselves.” Cyrus steered the horses down the path Nyad indicated, veering away from the main covered entry to a smaller one around the corner. There, a guard greeted them and two more opened the double doors.
A steward waited within, a man who was perfumed and scented, his hair gray all over in spite of the fact that his flesh was still youthful and unwrinkled. He wore silken robes of blue and green, and seemed to walk on the air itself. His eyes were alight with glee at the sight of guests and he bowed and harrumphed while leading them from the entryway into an open foyer four stories tall. A chandelier hung in the middle of the room, twice as big as Cyrus was tall, a circular arrangement filled with a thousand candles, light reflected by the hanging glass on each ring.
He ushered them through labyrinthine corridors. Cyrus carried Vara in his arms, Arydni and Nyad behind him. Beyond the smell of the perfumed man was a scent of a building in disuse. The air was stale and though the hallways were free of cobwebs, Cyrus could sense that they had not been used in quite some time.
“This wing was used to house the immediate members of the royal family,” the steward said, his finger running along the wall. “But the immediate family is not so large as it used to be even a thousand years ago, and thus the north wing sits empty.” An unmistakeable sorrow filled his words.
The steward led them to a suite, opening the double doors with a flourish to reveal a large living space, the central hub of several rooms. There was an open-air balcony before them, a fountain in the center of the room, and doors on each side. Cyrus set Vara upon the bed in the largest bedroom in the suite. Once he had set her down, he drew a blanket with care and covered her with it, reminding him of when he had done the same in Termina only days earlier.
“When will we see the King?” Nyad asked the steward.
“Mmmm,” the steward said, his voice high and equivocal. “He’s very busy.”
“I’m his youngest daughter,” Nyad said with a flush to her cheeks.
“What’s he busy with?” Cyrus asked, drawing an amused look from the steward.
“Whatever he wants,” Nyad said. “He has advisors that handle most of the affairs of state so he spends his time lurking the palace, prowling through hidden passages, listening to hear what people are saying, playing hiding games with the half-elven children here on the grounds, courting additional wives—”
Cyrus blinked. “Elves can have multiple wives?”
A voice came from the bed behind them; strong, though a bit hoarse. “A product of an archaic bygone age.” Cyrus turned to see Vara staring at him, eyes half-lidded. “The only elven men with multiple wives nowadays are royalty—and only because they marry highborn women so singularly useless that they can serve no other function but to adorn a man’s arm—and bed.”
Nyad flinched at Vara’s assessment, her ears reddening under her long hair.
Cy crossed to the bed, kneeling at the side. Arydni sat next to Vara on the other. “How do you feel?” he asked, his gauntlet finding her uncovered hand.
“Not half as poorly as you are dressed,” she answered, staring at his helm. “You look absolutely ridiculous, by far more than usual.” She cleared her throat and looked around. “What happened? Where are we?”
“The Royal Palace,” Nyad said, stepping up behind Cyrus, the steward a step behind her.
“Do you remember what happened?” He removed the helm from his head and felt his long hair cascade around his shoulders.
“My head feels a bit foggy,” she said. “But I remember...” Her voice trailed off and when it returned, it was hollow. “Everything.” She looked first to Arydni, who nodded, and then to the steward and blinked. “Who the blazes are you?”
He bowed again. “My most pleasurable greetings, shelas’akur, I am but a humble steward of the Palace—”
“You are no more a steward than I am a dancing gnome,” she said, her eyes narrow. “I remember your face from the days when I was in the Holy Brethren. You spoke with me the first week that I was there and I never saw you again afterward.”
He bowed again. “You have an excellent memory, since that was sixteen years ago and I looked much different than now.”
“I thought it curious at the time, as you seemed to be known to the elven members of the staff and yet I never saw you again after we spoke.” Cyrus listened to Vara but watched the steward, his hand already on Praelior, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “You asked questions no one else had the gall to ask—if I was happy with my parents, or if I was dissatisfied in some way with living in the Kingdom.”
The steward guffawed. “I suppose it would be curious; I came that day to discern your reasons for entering the Brethren so far in advance of what was expected. But it was not the first time we had met.”
Vara sat up in bed, grimacing as she did so. “Oh? Pray tell, I cannot recall any others.”
“We have a long association, you and I. I was present on the day of your birth, and have seen you many times throughout your childhood. In any of those times, I was not garbed in such a way as you would have paid any mind to my face,” he said. “In fact, I suspect that even those among you who would normally recognize me cannot do so outside of my customary outrageous attire.”
He nodded at Nyad, who was staring at him, curious. “Your mother, after all, taught you never to look the palace help in the face when you spoke with them; it’s unbefitting a highborn to look in the eyes of their lessers. I would never have taught you that, but this particular game of royals has helped me play my own game unnoticed for nearly three thousand years, so I dare not discourage it.”
Nyad still stared, puzzling at him. Cyrus looked to Vara, who frowned in confusion, while Arydni wore a serene expression, the look of a woman who had figured it out. “What?” Cyrus asked her.
“He’s the King,” she said.
“No,” Nyad said under her breath, “I would recognize...” A slight gasp of disbelief worked its way free from her, and she sat down on the edge of the bed in astonishment.
Cyrus looked to the wizard. “I take it you weren’t...close...during your childhood?”
“As close as any father who has fift
y children and a country to run,” he said with a sad smile. “Even when I’m with them, I’m trapped in the absurd attire of the King, so ostentatious and yet beautiful and intricate I would swear the craftsman spent their entire lives designing them. It tends to draw the eye away from trifling details like my face, which is plain enough.”
Cyrus looked to him and saw the truth of it; the King was plain. His cheekbones were average, but his eyebrows were more pronounced. He was not fat, but neither was he thin. The robes of the steward were bright enough to draw attention away from his average features; Cyrus could not imagine what the robes, crown and staff of a King could do.
The King’s posture had been the somewhat stooped bearing of a steward. That was gone now, and something more majestic had taken its place. His shoulders were squared, back straightened, and he looked like a soldier at attention—or a King, about to make a pronouncement.
“Why come to us now, your grace?” Vara said. “Why like this?”
He nodded, a slow, careful nod. “Because this is the only way I can come to you, where we can speak without prying ears. The problem with putting yourself at the center of a monarchy is that all your subjects in court put you at the center of their lives. They all crave a minute of my time, then another, and another—and when they don’t, you can be sure one of my wives does. There is no privacy for a King, no words or message that can be delivered that aren’t listened for and heard by as many ears as can catch them.”
He slumped once more, a subtle transformation, as the weight and gravity of the King disappeared and was replaced by the flighty, carefree spirit of the steward. “But no one cares about the pronouncements of the caretaker of the abandoned north wing. The members of the court and the viziers are too busy fawning over the King, trying to curry favor and hoard power to pay attention to me.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 30