Talan was unsurprised at Kylan’s admission. She, too, had been guilty of consorting with the doomed, gorgeous people. But although she admitted to seducing them, she had not forced them as so many had. The Arlanians were a gentle, artistic people. Dark haired, violet-eyed, they were neither male nor female until they came of age. They had thrived in obscurity, but once found, they were so sexually desirable that they were literally raped into extinction. Wars were fought over the last of them, and they did indeed consider their lack of reproduction a blessing. They did not wish their children to be born into the world of sexual slavery.
“And to mate with a Scinterian,” Kylan continued, “their polar opposites. How extraordinary is that?”
It was indeed extraordinary, Talan thought. The Scinterians were the deadliest warriors of all time, first lethal dragon-slayers then fierce allies of the dragons due to an alliance formed in the Great War. They, too, had passed into extinction, but they had gone down fighting. There could not be two races more different from one another.
“Raine once told me that her father was fierce on the battlefield and her mother was fierce in bed. I can attest that she has gotten the best of both of them.”
Kylan’s eyes glowed at the thought. She had bedded more than a few Scinterians as well, taking full advantage of the truce Talan had brokered during the war. The Scinterians had their own ferocious charms in the bedroom.
“I must meet her,” Kylan declared.
“I do not share this one as I have every other,” Talan warned.
“You are faithful?” Kylan exclaimed. “Impossible.”
“Impossible but true. I have had no other since I met her.”
Kylan laughed. “Now I must meet her. For this is more extraordinary than everything you have told me. My consorts will be greatly disappointed, as am I.” She grew curious once more. “So what is it that tears you away from the one you love above all others?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Talan said, her amber eyes glowing.
“Ah,” Kylan said. She was a master of subterfuge and could lie so convincingly that Loki himself would be fooled. But she would not lie to Talan. “You speak of the plot of Volva and Jörmung. The centuries have not lessened the sting of your victory over them.”
“And so they plot against me now.”
“You and all of Arianthem. They desire the return of the Hyr’rok’kin, even if it means the destruction of the world.”
“And what would they gain by this return?”
“Power. When darkness floods the world, the magic in their blood will grow strong.”
“A useless power it will be. The world they rule will be hideous.”
“Perhaps they prefer that,” Kylan said carelessly, “or perhaps they haven’t thought it through. But I’m sure revenge is also a chief motivation. You should not have let them live at the end of the Great War.”
“I will not make that mistake again,” Talan said. “But how do you know these things?”
“Rumors, tales brought back to me by lesser dragons.” Kylan lowered her tone dramatically and leaned forward. “And I have spies in the enemy’s court.” She glanced about the room. “And they in mine.”
“Both are advantageous,” Talan said, also glancing about the room.
“Agreed,” Kylan said, sitting back and returning to a normal tone.
“So you know where Volva and Jörmung are?”
“I do. In separate keeps in the mountains far to the north of the land of the Ha’kan, north of Baldur’s Peak. They went there to lick their wounds after the war.”
“I imagine they slept for a very long time.”
Kylan nodded. Dragons could hibernate for decades, especially if they were injured. And Volva and Jörmung had been near death when Talan and her Scinterians had finished with them. They may have slept for centuries.
“But they have been awake for some time now and have gained a following. Mostly lesser dragons, but some elders in the mix as well.”
“Even lesser dragons can wreak havoc amongst the peoples of Arianthem,” Talan mused, “and few alive today have even seen a dragon. So the numbers of our kind have increased?”
“To a degree. Nothing like our numbers before the war, and most are of minor stature. Alas, we Ancients are poor at reproducing, as much as we try.”
“That is probably a good thing,” Talan said, thinking of her own children.
“You have seen Drakar recently?”
“Yes,” Talan said, “I summoned him to engage his help.”
Kylan lowered her voice. “And you trust him?”
“Not entirely,” Talan said, “he is a slave to his appetites, much like his father. But he can be useful.”
“I hope your trust is not misplaced,” Kylan said.
Volva lie on her back staring up at the canopy of her great four poster bed, struggling to catch her breath. The white canopy was embroidered with gold thread, which matched the gold linens in disarray on the plush mattress, which coordinated with the solid gold vertical columns to which her arms were tied with a golden cord, a cord she could snap without effort if she desired. She caressed the elaborate carvings on the gold columns, which matched those on the gilded headboard, which matched the golden tiling of the immense room.
Volva’s skin sparkled with perspiration, as if dusted with flecks of gold. Firm breasts rose upwards to the ceiling, nipples stood tantalizingly erect, the soft golden fleece between her legs a shade darker than the long, golden hair on her head. Unlike her contemporaries, she did not manifest in a form consistent with her age, but rather chose to appear as young possible. She thought it ridiculous that skilled shape-shifters such as Talan and Kylan should look like old women.
The illusion of youth was profound, near-perfect as she appeared a golden goddess. But that near-perfection was marred by an inevitability. Time wrote its story on all creatures, regardless of what they wished to look like. It manifested as grace and elegance in one such as Talan, as knowing sensuality in one such as Kylan, and in a hardness to her very core in one such as Volva. The softness of her skin was a deception, for her scales were present in all but appearance.
Drakar did not care.
“By the gods you are beautiful,” he said, kissing her lips, her throat, then those marvelous breasts. He was already growing hard again. “I can’t seem to get enough of you.”
Volva shifted as he moved on top of her once more, then gasped with pleasure as he entered her.
“By the Divine,” she murmured into his hair, “you are your mother’s son.”
Chapter 6
Raine left Fireside by way of a secret tunnel, one of the many hidden entrances and exits to her residence, and slipped into an alley. She was always careful, but given Nerthus’ warning about the Emperor’s interest in Fireside’s owner, she was doubly so. Hopefully that interest would be extinguished, or at least redirected, today.
She was cloaked and hooded and passed unnoticed through the throngs in the marketplace. She started up the cobblestone hill toward the elven embassy.
Outwardly, the embassy was unimpressive other than in size. It looked much the same as the surrounding imperial structures. One of two things that separated it was the carved stone at the entrance, the one written in both elvish and the common language. The second thing was the imposing elven guards who stood at attention at the gate, their gold and green armor gleaming in the morning sun, their wickedly sharp spears glinting in the light.
They lowered their spears upon Raine’s approach, but she had only to move her hood back, just enough to give them a glimpse of her face, and the spears snapped back to their neutral position. This was one of the few people, in fact, perhaps the only person in all of Arianthem who was admitted to the embassy without question and without delay.
Once inside the embassy, the famed Alfar architec
ture was in evidence. The immense statuary dwarfed Raine as she passed through the inner gates, removing her cloak as she did so. An officious, well-dressed man met Raine as she entered.
“Greetings, Melwen, is the Ambassador available?”
“She is, and she awaits your presence in the library.”
Melwen escorted Raine to the library and when she entered the room, she was pleased to see a lovely young woman. The young woman was even more pleased to see her and ran and embraced her.
“Raine!” Kiren exclaimed. “I’m so happy you’re here!”
Raine disentangled herself from the embrace, but only so she could lean back to look at the girl. She smiled down warmly at her.
Melwen watched the two with misgiving, the striking, muscular creature who held the Ambassador’s petite little treasure. They were a study in contrast: Raine fair, tall, strong, a gorgeous specimen of physicality, Kiren dark-haired, tiny, a diminutive beauty. Melwen could not help but notice, however, that their eyes were nearly the same shade of dark blue. His misgivings were due to the fact that the Ambassador guarded her treasure jealously and a mere look at her young lover could bring her wrath.
It did no such thing as Maeva glided into the room. In fact, although she often felt jealous when Raine and Kiren were together, she was not certain which of the two was eliciting the jealousy. She was as attracted to the Arlanian as she was to Kiren. And in a logical sense, Maeva knew the jealousy was unfounded. Raine was so attached to her dragon lover she was oblivious to the attentions of others, and Kiren, for some strange reason, seemed immune to the lust that all felt in the presence of the Arlanian.
Raine turned to the lovely elven woman, admiring her exotic good-looks, the almond-shaped eyes, the gently curved ears. She bowed as the Ambassador extended her hand. Raine took the hand, then mischievously brushed a kiss across the back of the knuckles.
To outward appearances, Maeva did not react. But Melwen noted the slight flaring of nostrils, the imperceptible intake of breath, the physical indications that Raine was fanning a fire that would not easily be extinguished. Contrary to Melwen’s expectation, however, the glacial elven aristocrat was only amused by the mild flirtation.
“Raine,” she said in a tone somehow both acerbic and sensual.
“Ambassador,” Raine said.
“I must sign a few documents before we can speak. It’s growing difficult to run a country from a distance.”
“Of course,” Raine said, and the Ambassador left.
“She looks at you like she wants to eat you,” Kiren said.
The observation was made without a trace of jealousy or envy. It was a simple statement of fact, one Kiren found humorous. “Does it bother you?” she asked.
Raine poked her in the ribs, eliciting a musical little giggle. “She looks at you the same way. Does it bother you?”
“No,” Kiren said thoughtfully, “I rather enjoy it.”
And this made Raine laugh, for the gentle little creature was coming into her own, realizing the power she held over the elven Ambassador. For although Maeva was beautiful, wealthy, influential, proud, intimidating, coldly arrogant, and, for all intents and purposes, had kidnapped the young woman in front of her, the future Directorate of the Alfar was very much in love with the raven-haired girl.
“And how goes your studying?”
Kiren held up several scrolls. “Wonderful! These were sent here by Y’arren.”
“You met Y’arren?” Raine asked, surprised. The tiny, wizened leader of the wood elves kept secluded in the forest and honored few with her presence.
“Not yet,” Kiren said. “But I hope to. Elyara told her of my passion for language, and she asked for my help in a translation.”
That was interesting, Raine thought, for Y’arren was gifted as none other in the ancient tongues. But this girl in front of her was indeed talented and had been instrumental when acting as translator in the negotiations between the Alfar and the Deep Miners.
“What did she ask for your help with?
“Your prophecy,” Kiren said excitedly, “or at least the one they believe refers to you.”
A trace of melancholy crossed Raine’s features but Kiren didn’t notice.
“She sent me the original script. It’s a very obscure version of ancient elvish, and not the one that I know. But there are great similarities and I understand the first three lines. ‘The Dragon’s Lover—”
“—felled by the closest of allies,” Raine continued for her, “carries into death without dying that which saves all worlds. So you’re trying to translate the final line.”
“Yes,” Kiren said excitedly. “It must be something wonderful.”
“One would hope,” Raine said, and at last Kiren picked up on the trace of sadness that was in Raine’s voice.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Raine said, shaking of the feeling. “Destiny can feel like a heavy burden.”
“I imagine so,” Kiren said. She had never thought of it that way.
Maeva returned, and Raine’s countenance brightened. “Feyden is on his way and we are to accompany you to the Emperor.”
“You’re going to meet the Emperor?” Maeva asked, surprised.
“No, no. He wishes to meet the owner of Fireside. So I’m going to provide him with such an experience.”
“Hmm,” Maeva said, “this should be interesting.”
Chapter 7
The Alfar entered the imperial throne room with great ceremony. Maeva wore her ambassador’s robes, and although all Alfar finery was elegant, their formal wear was superlative. Feyden was also dressed in formal wear, a rarity for him, and he looked as stylish and imposing as his sister. Standing next to one another, his resemblance to his twin sister was striking. Kiren was at Maeva’s side, her cheeks rosy with excitement, a flush that made her even more beautiful. Raine stood near the back of the hall, trying to attract as little attention as possible. She wore a very plain cloak that was well-made but unobtrusive, and disappeared in the finery surrounding her. Her hood was pulled forward and she blended into the Alfar assembly, which allowed her to peruse the room.
There were numerous imperial guards, dignitaries and nobles in attendance. Nerthus stood at the Emperor’s side, dwarfing him. She was large for a human woman and in the bulky imperial armor, looked even larger. The Emperor himself was not large; his family had gained the throne through conquest but their skills leaned towards cunning and strategy rather than brute strength. There was a second Knight Commander, a burly, red-headed man who grinned at Feyden in recognition and would have done the same to Raine had he seen her. And next to the red-headed Bristol was the imperial bard, Dagna, who also smiled warmly at Feyden.
Raine was pleased. With all the threat of assassination, there were three in the room whom she trusted absolutely, for Dagna, Bristol, and Feyden had all accompanied her years before through the Veil to the Gates of the Underworld. Dagna had written her epic poem, “The Dragon’s Lover,” that chronicled the quest, and it had established her as a literary master and secured her position as official bard of the realm. She was also skilled with a sword and shield. Bristol had been a young imperial knight, cowardly at first, but one who had faced his fears and subsequently risen through the military to its highest rank. Raine noted that all three had positioned themselves in very good tactical positions to protect both the Emperor and the Ambassador.
Raine continued to scan the crowd, but nothing caught her eye. Nothing, that is, until her gaze returned to the Emperor and she noticed the figure standing next to him. The person was clothed completely in black, the robes disguising everything about the individual. When the figure leaned down to whisper in the Emperor’s ear, Raine had the impression she was female based upon her movement and gestures. There was also an air of confidentiality and familiarity between the dark figure and the Emperor, one that
indicated this was a very powerful person within the court.
The Emperor stood and Raine’s attention was drawn to him once more. The fact that he was standing was an excellent sign, for it meant he accepted Maeva as an equal, although Raine was not certain if Maeva agreed with this concession for she surely considered the Emperor her inferior. She was gracious, however, and took the gesture as intended, extending her hands. The Emperor took them in his.
“Ambassador, or should I say, Madame Directorate, thank you for your return to our fair city.”
The title of Directorate pleased Maeva for although she did not currently occupy the all-powerful position of the head of the elven high council, she soon would. The Ceremony of Assumption waited only for her return to Mount Alfheim, for her candidacy had been unopposed and the decision unanimous.
“Thank you, your Majesty. Your hospitality is appreciated. And may I present my brother, Feyden.”
The Emperor had done his homework. He glanced to Dagna. “This is your Feyden, is it not?”
“It is,” Dagna said proudly, her pride both for her literary work and for her friend.
The Emperor shook Feyden’s hand. “You are a friend and ally to the Empire.”
Feyden bowed slightly. “Thank you, your Majesty.”
“And this,” Maeva said, directing the Emperor’s attention to Kiren, “is the Head of the House of Storr.”
The title was significant, for Kiren had been called the “Heir to the House of Storr” until only recently. The House of Storr were the wealthiest landowners in all of Arianthem, possessing the entire swath of land bordering the Alfar high country. They were a gentle and reclusive couple who generously allowed both the empire and the Alfar to use their land, keeping border disputes to a minimum. They were so reclusive that no one knew that the Lord and Lady Storr had passed away years ago, that is until Kiren accepted an invitation to the Ambassador’s soirée, one that Maeva had proffered out of courtesy with no expectation of response. When the tiny, dark-haired beauty showed up at her party, Maeva became enamored with her, kidnapped her, and promptly set off a diplomatic firestorm. Perhaps what saved the entire situation was that Maeva, who valued little and discarded much, fell in love with the girl, and Kiren returned that love. And what helped was the young woman, who was outwardly languorous and passive, possessed a spine of steel beneath her gentle exterior.
The Shadow Games: The Chronicles of Arianthem VI Page 4