As Iladrul found his purchase, his mouth fell open.
The hut had been made around and out of the tree. On each of the walls were delicately threaded tapestries which were more beautiful and detailed than any oil or water color painting Iladrul had ever seen.
“So this is the famous elf.”
The deep voice forced Iladrul out of his reverie. He turned his gaze toward its owner and stared with open mouthed surprise. The creature was commanding. Very tall and very slender, he had long white hair that fell below his hip, which was littered with wildflowers. His thick lips were curved into a tight smile and his eyes—a vivid, and almost disturbing, shade of violet—were trailing with great curiosity over Iladrul’s face.
“Awfully small to be causing such a ballyhoo.”
Wisterian bowed low to him. “He won’t always be small, Emissary Lord Darklief.”
“No.” The fairy agreed with a crooked smile. “He certainly is well made.”
“He favors his mother.” Wisterian replied, still smiling tightly. “How fare thee, Emissary Lord Darklief?”
“I bide.” He shrugged and turned his attention to Wisterian. Iladrul was relieved to be out from under the scrutiny of his gaze. “And you?”
“We do the best that we can with what we have left.” Wisterian smiled dryly at him.
“I suppose that is all any of us can do.” Emissary Lord Darklief replied. “Jeanir. I am pleased to see you once again.”
“My Lord.” Jeanir bowed very low to him.
“We appreciate your allowance of our use of your Grove.” Wisterian said swiftly. Iladrul marked that Emissary Lord Darklief’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We must be a terrible inconvenience to you.”
“I’m certain I can find something other to do with myself.” Emissary Lord Darklief’s mouth became drawn in a taut frown. “In the meantime, I’m told you come to meet Jami in truce.”
“We do, my Lord.” Wisterian assured him.
“Good.” Emissary Lord Darklief replied. “I expect you to remember this. While you are here, I want no trouble to reign between you and Jamiason’s people.”
“We shall respect your rules and your borders.” Wisterian lowered his gaze. “I assure you that the peace you broker will not be broken by me or mine.”
“Very well.” The God nodded to him. “Then you are most welcome guests.” He granted Wisterian another one of his taut smiles. “I have just a few tasks to complete, and then I can vacate and leave you in peace.”
“At your leisure, my Lord.” Wisterian bowed his head. “We are, as you have said, your humble guests.”
-35-
Aiken didn’t really have anything pressing to do which wouldn’t wait for his return to the Grove. Anything, that was, aside giving Prince Iladrul the bauble that Paul Kinney had delivered to him.
He watched Wisterian by way of his peripheral vision as the angel hovered over his son, almost as though guarding him. Aiken wasn’t offended that Wisterian didn’t trust him not to manipulate the situation should he manage to get the princeling alone.
After all, that was exactly what he intended to do.
A crooked smile played at the left corner of Aiken’s lips as Jeanir and Balean cautiously approached Wisterian to beg a word with him. He watched guardedly and with curious interest as the pair of them led the angel away from the elf, taking him to the corner of the room so that they could speak with him in low whispers. The boy, no longer under the scrutiny of his father’s gaze, walked languidly through Aiken’s hut, passing out the back door and onto the balcony. Aiken, knowing he wouldn’t get a second chance to palaver with the child without the Wisterian overhearing, stood and followed.
He felt the cold glare of Wisterian’s eyes upon his back, but he ignored this. He cared little and less if he offended the angel. It wasn’t Wisterian that his people would, eventually, be beholden to.
The child stood at the edge of the balcony, his hand gripping the branch of the tree that Aiken’s hut was made from, leaning forward and looking downward with wide eyed wonder. The tree was the tallest in the grove and Aiken’s hut was built at the very top of it.
The fall, should the elf tumble, would break the child’s body and bring about his death.
“Careful, my Prince.” Aiken kept his voice low lest he startle the child. He didn’t want to have to fly after him to catch him should he let go of the branch. “It’s a long way down.”
“Forgive me, my Lord.” The boy swallowed as he turned to face Aiken. His gaze was slightly lowered. Whether from fear or respect, Aiken neither knew nor cared. “Your lands are amazing to me.”
Aiken smiled at that and nodded. His lands were beautiful, there was no doubt. Yet, he had once visited the castle where the elves resided and knew that, breath taking as his lands were, they didn’t compare to the wonder of those that Iladrul would, one day, command. Those lands consisted of the first castle built in the first forest ever, in the history of all time, created.
And by Noliminan and Lucias’ hands.
As he stepped toward the boy, Aiken was pleased to see that the elf did not cower. He was trembling; frightened. But he stood his ground. Aiken found himself admiring the child for his courage.
He flicked his hand, conjuring the talisman. Very slowly, he held it toward the boy.
“Take this child.” He commanded. “And wear it about your neck. Never take it off.” He smiled around the next words which were, for all intents and purposes, a pretty little lie. “You will not die so long as you keep it close to your skin. And you will find the courage you require to take action when you must so long as you trust in its magic. Your fear, you will find, shall leave you.”
Iladrul looked at the bauble, his eyes wide as they drank in the pink of the dancing light that pulsed from within it. He swallowed and, with a small trembling hand, reached for the talisman. He took it gingerly from the palm of Aiken’s hand, looked upward with his dark, emerald eyes and licked the right side of his upper lip with a nervous, pink tongue.
When he spoke, his tone was low and reverent.
“Will it really keep me alive?”
“Did I tell you that it would?” Aiken was unable to suppress his smile.
“Yes.”
Aiken shrugged at him as if to say, “well there you have it”, and the boy lowered his gaze.
“Thank you.” Iladrul whispered as he slipped the chain over his neck and hid the bauble beneath his shirt. “I shall wear it always.”
“Very good.” Aiken said as he turned to face Wisterian, whom he had just heard step into the corner of the door, “my business here is done, Wisterian.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Wisterian’s eyes narrowed as they darted between Aiken and Iladrul. He wanted, very much, to know what Aiken had said to his son.
“Remember.” Aiken raised his finger and pointed to Wisterian, “you are here for peace. Stay away from the vampires’ camp. And raise no rabbles which shall cause trouble for my peoples.”
He didn’t wait for confirmation that Wisterian would take his command seriously. There was no need. To raise the enmity of a God when one was merely an angel would bring about damnation.
-36-
Paul pulled his teeth from the neck of the pretty female fairy, swallowing the last gush of blood with greedy hunger as it flowed into his mouth. He bit his tongue and ran it, tenderly, over the wounds he had made before raising his face slightly to kiss her just beneath the lobe of her ear.
She moaned and pressed her body toward him, tempting him to bury his teeth into her vein once again.
He resisted the urge.
He had taken all of the blood from her that he dared. To take any more would put her life at risk.
“Must you go, Paul?” Her throaty tones made him shiver with a different kind of hunger; the kind he could no longer sate.
“I must.” He pulled away and met her gaze. Her eyes, like her hair, were the color of wheat. Looking into them, he desperately missed his father’s far
m. “If we are still here on the morrow, may I visit your tree again?”
“You are ever welcome, dear.” She replied, blushing prettily with the little bit of blood left within her. “Though it would be best if we take our courtship slow.”
Paul gave her a weary smile.
He hadn’t been aware that this was meant to be a courtship.
“As you wish.”
He kissed her cheek one last time and bid her goodbye. He wouldn’t, he decided, be visiting her before he and his party departed.
He had no interest in finding another wife and he didn’t want to risk that she would follow after him when he left the Oakland Grove.
He wandered through the village, stopping short when he turned a corner and saw five young elves standing at the base of one of the trees. Four of them stood in box formation around the fifth who, judging by his coloring, Paul assumed was the young Prince.
The boy had a very young, rather girlish look about him. The dark blue, ankle length skirt he wore did nothing to dissuade this image. Nor did the delicately made, bronze crown, which twisted into a teardrop of pulsing white light over his forehead.
Paul didn’t believe that the elf would always look so damn womanly, however. His chin was square and strong and his nose, while slender and delicate, had the potential of growing straight and rigid. Never mind the manner in which he carried himself, shoulders back and head held high.
He would be commanding, Paul suspected, given a century or so to age.
It was as this thought crossed his mind that the boy in the back to the elf’s left turned his gaze in Paul’s direction. Upon seeing Paul, he stiffened and muttered something under his breath which made the other boys, including the Prince, turn to look at Paul. Forcing a smile, Paul stepped out of the trees to walk toward them. As he did so, the four boys surrounding Prince Iladrul tightened their box around him.
“Prince Iladrul.” Paul nodded respectfully toward the boy. The elf nodded in response but said nothing. “I am Paul Kinney. I am Lord Scrountantine’s companion.”
“Of course.” The boy’s lips thinned. He raised his hand, holding it out to Paul. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Stepping forward, Paul took the child’s hand and gave it a good, firm shake. The moment he let go, Prince Iladrul flew his hand to his hip to wipe it against his skirt. The blood sweat that had come from Paul’s recent feeding trailed a line in the dark blue material of his skirt that would, more than likely, never come clean.
“The pleasure is mine.” Paul continued to hold his forced smile. He didn’t like the contemptuous glean in the young elf’s eyes. Nor did he like the set of his smile. “I hope I am not late.”
“No.” The boy said, his eyes holding Paul’s gaze. “My father and your Maker are holding palaver.” His lips twitched slightly. “It would seem my father trusts Lord Jamiason. Balean tells me that they fell asleep whilst chatting.”
Paul’s eyes flicked upward to the base of the hut. That Jamiason had spent the day there, rather than the lair, was disconcerting at best. Emissary Lord Darklief’s hut was open, exposing James to the rays of the sun.
No one was supposed to know that his veins ran with the blood of a God. Especially not someone who they were about to declare as their enemy.
“They are old friends.” He admitted to the boy.
“Perhaps.” The child’s eyes narrowed. “Shall we awaken them?”
Paul smiled wryly at that. “The first rule where vampires are concerned—even demon vampires—is that, when they are sleeping, it’s best to let them lie. We are far less than pleasant when we are disturbed from our deaths.”
The elf paled. The other four boys, who had been still as statues until that moment in time, began exchanging glances. The young Prince was clearly about to respond when the trap door above them opened and Aiken’s oldest daughter, Karma, leaned through.
“Lords Wisterian and Jamiason are ready to receive you.” She said. “The doxies are to stay on ground to advise Balean and Iykva that this palaver will be held only between the Princes.”
Iykva isn’t going to like that. Paul rightly prophesized.
Too bad for him. Jamiason’s thoughts bounced around Paul’s mind. Paul shivered and forced a smile. Bring the child up.
“After you.” He indicated the ladder to Prince Iladrul.
Granting Paul a mistrustful smile, Prince Iladrul reached for the ladder and began climbing.
Prepared for anything, Paul, reluctantly, followed.
-37-
When Iladrul reached the top of the ladder and stood before the door of the hut, he raised his hand and pressed it against his chest. His fingers curled around the bauble that Emissary Lord Darklief had given him, bringing him an unexpected sense of comfort.
He looked over his shoulder and shuddered as his gaze met Prince Paul’s. He couldn’t shake the disgust that he felt as he thought of the touch of the Prince’s slimy, blood stained hand. His nose curling, he turned to the door and knocked.
It was his father that bid him to enter.
He stepped through the door, not believing that anything else could surprise him in this strange, otherworldly place, and stopped short as his eyes fell upon an all too familiar face.
When his gaze met that of the blonde haired demon, his lips fell slack and his eyes grew wide. Of all of the demons in all of the worlds, this man—this creature—was the last he expected to see sitting at his father’s side.
“Iladrul.” Wisterian stood and swept his hand to the other side of the table. “Prince Paul. Please. Won’t you sit so that we might hold palaver?”
The demon’s thick lips curled slightly at the corners as he continued to hold Iladrul’s gaze. He said nothing, however. Rather, he merely watched Iladrul and waited for him to gain his senses.
Swallowing, Iladrul flicked his gaze to his father. He was shaking his finger, almost irritably, toward the seat that he meant for Iladrul to take. Iladrul nodded at him and returned his gaze to the demon, his fear intensifying as he met those cold, detached, cobalt blue eyes.
“Iladrul, this is Jamiason Scrountentine.” Wisterian flicked his eyes to the demon and then back to Iladrul. “James, my son, Iladrul.”
Jamiason Scrountentine bowed his chin slightly and the raised it. His eyes closed, and then opened, with the gesture. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly as his eyes flicked to Iladrul’s chest. They hovered on the bauble for a moment before raising again and meeting Iladrul’s gaze.
“Lord Wisterian.” The vampire, who had followed Iladrul, nodded to Iladrul’s father. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”
“And you, Prince Paul.” Wisterian’s lips thinned. “I do wish it had been under better circumstances.”
“As do I.” Paul muttered as he found his seat.
The demon’s eyes flicked to the seat that Iladrul stood before and then back to meet Iladrul’s gaze. Iladrul swallowed again, nodded at him and lowered himself clumsily into the chair.
As he did so, Wisterian turned his gaze toward his son.
“Jamiason has presented me with his demands.” He flicked his eyes to the demon, who sat motionless and staring at Iladrul with those terrifying blue eyes. “In order to avoid war with his people, I must hand him the keys to the gates of our city. The vampires and the demons are to be free to come and go at their whim and drink from whom they please.”
Iladrul snapped his gaze to his father. “Father, you cannot mean to actually—”
“I do not.” Wisterian shook his head. “However, I have negotiated us some time.” His lips thinned as he turned his gaze to Prince Paul. “You are to give my son fifteen summers to age and train an army.”
Paul’s eyes flicked to Jamiason, found whatever confirmation he required and returned his gaze to Wisterian. “A reasonable request.”
“In exchange,” Wisterian’s lips thinned, “we are to agree that, once war has been struck, we will only fight your people during the hours of the moons.�
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Iladrul frowned at that. The only advantage that they had over the demons and vampires was the burning light of day. They could destroy an entire village in one strike if they were allowed to breach their borders when the sun crested the sky.
He swallowed, however, and looked away from his father to meet Lord Scrountantine’s cold gaze. When he spoke, he somehow managed to keep the tremble from his tone. “Also a reasonable request.”
Paul made a strange sound from his chest, which Iladrul assumed would have been a snort if the vampire had been able to breathe, and turned to face the young Prince. Iladrul literally ripped his gaze from that of the demon and turned toward Paul. He realized, as he did so, that Paul had extended his hand toward him.
Iladrul looked at the hand, shivered, and then clasped it. This time it wasn’t wet, but it also was no longer warm. In fact, shaking the man’s hand was like shaking the hand of a corpse.
He forced himself to smile, however, when he saw Paul’s nostrils flare slightly and his chest rise as though he were catching Iladrul’s scent. He didn’t care for the hungry glean in Paul’s eyes or the surprised slack of his lips as he leaned forward to sniff a second time.
It was as he was leaning forward that Lord Jamiason stood and slammed his hand upon the table. The sight of his movement and the thunderous crash of his hand upon the wood made Paul spin and Iladrul cry out.
“Sit back.” He seethed, his gaze frozen on Paul. “Make no threats toward Prince Iladrul whilst in Aiken’s lands.”
“I’m . . .” Paul swallowed and leaned swiftly backward. His voice had a throaty, hungry quality to it that Iladrul didn’t care for. “Forgive me, my Lord. Something came over me. I don’t—”
“Silence.” Jamiason replied as he lowered himself back to his seat. He turned his gaze to Iladrul, his eyes flicking to the bauble around Iladrul’s neck and then upward to meet Iladrul’s gaze. “Ware Emissary Lord Darklief and his penchant to make mischief.” He cautioned. “But keep the talisman that he gave to you on tight chains around your neck.” He flicked his eyes to Paul and then back to Iladrul. “When the time comes, Aiken’s treachery will mean the difference between your life and your death.”
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