You can do this, Livna repeated over and over in her mind to control the fear that tightened around her like the smoke curling through the room.
“Welcome, stolen Dwarven and human princess,” said the prince. His voice did not boom, but every Dwarven inclined their heads in his direction. Even Livna felt a sudden need to bend before his imposing presence. A massive black crown ringed his brow. “I am Maor, Prince of the Dwarven Council.” He gestured to the Dwarven around him. “We have gathered to hear your plea. I foresaw your arrival and summoned my brethren so that we may determine a suitable course of action. Now you may address the Council and tell them why you’ve come.”
Livna folded her hands to disguise their shaking as she stared first at the prince, then at the Council members, and finally back at Oren, unsure how to begin. She felt very aware of her travel-stained robes, her cloak still muddy from the heavy mountain rains through which she’d trekked. What a small, foolish figure she must seem to these mighty people.
Oren, who seemed to sense her reticence, squeezed her elbow and spoke. “Good day to you, brethren. My name is Oren, and I was stolen from these mountains years—”
“We expect the girl to speak,” Prince Maor intoned frostily, his face as stony and cold as the mountainside, “for she is the foreigner in our midst.”
Several breaths of the sulfurous air did not calm Livna’s racing pulse. But Oren took a step closer to her and whispered in her ear, “I am with you.”
With him in the corner of her eye, Livna found herself able to speak. She could almost pretend they stood alone in their quiet garden. Closing her eyes momentarily, she focused on those she loved instead of all that she feared. She was here for a purpose, and she would see that purpose through.
“Good Prince and gentle Council,” she said, opening her eyes and facing them again, surprised at how steady her voice sounded. “I have traveled far to seek your aid. People I love are in danger, and you alone can help us. I am Livna, Princess of Carpatta, daughter of King Ehud of the United Tribes. I am one of the women favored by Emperor Vandrus from across his great Empire. My father, tribe, empire, and emperor face dire danger.”
As she spoke, her words came more easily, filling that open space. She even dared to meet the eyes of several Dwarven. All listened closely, some with stony expressions, others with pursed lips and furrowed brows. One or two leaned forward, listening intensely.
She told her tale, simply but effectively. Part of her wished she could diminish the truth of the Dwarven enslaved by her people. But though she might feel ashamed, she knew allowing that shame to influence her words would help no one in the end. So she spared no detail, speaking with complete honesty. When she had finished, she stood silent, her hands folded but her head high as Maor led the Council in questions.
“So, you say this woman, your stepmother, is trying to take over your United Tribes and the entire Empire as well? What makes you think she could succeed?”
“Stepmother does not yield when she sees something she desires. Her will is strong, and the creature she has summoned is even stronger. I—”
“So,” the prince interrupted in a frigid voice, “you’ve no idea whom she’s contacted through her scrying? Her ‘dark advisor’ could be harmless!”
“If I may, sir”—Oren spoke from beside Livna—“Nava has proven herself resourceful in the past, and her constant hunger for more is insatiable. She has blinded herself to everything else in her quest to become greatest in the eyes of all. Now that she’s found a dark guide, I fear even her final grasp on her humanity has been eclipsed. To kill Livna, her father, or the Dwarven in her service would not upset her conscience.”
The prince’s face remained unmoved as he opened his mouth to speak, but Livna gripped Oren’s arm and rushed to defend to his claim. “He speaks the truth. You need only see the scars on his back to recognize the strength of her rage. Now, in her reckless use of magic, she’s fallen under the influence of a power darker than she realizes.”
Oren nodded beside her as she looked desperately around the semicircle of seated Dwarven, wondering how she could convince them. To her relief, Oren continued speaking. “She’ll never stop clawing for more, even if she brings the Tribes and the Empire to their knees. I personally know what she has done to our own people. I have seen how she abuses our people. I have been among those she’s used to summon her daimon. She drains their power, leaving them weak and caged until they regain enough power to be useful again. She must be stopped. We must stop her!”
As he spoke, Livna saw several Dwarven clench their fists in response to his impassioned words. Their prince, however, moved only to cross his arms over his chest. “I believe I made clear my desire that the human alone was to speak.”
Oren’s jaw clenched, and his eyes widened. Livna had never known him to back down, yet before his prince, he bowed his head and remained silent.
“While I do not deny your preeminence, my prince,” said one of the more aged Dwarven on the Council, a man with many wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, “I must say, Oren has a right to speak. He is one of us, after all, but with firsthand experience of the lands outside our borders. Long ago we had ties to humans and their affairs and even profited from trade and the exchange of ideas. Now we know little of their doings, and the number of our people taken increases almost daily. This Dwarven is the only one to ever return. Surely he can offer a perspective and insight which would benefit us in our deliberation.”
“It is true that he’s the only Dwarven to ever return, but,” a finely dressed Dwarven beside Maor countered, “he could be indoctrinated. We cannot know how the experience may have affected him. There is no precedent to look to.”
“Then ask the girl.” It was the agitated voice of a stout Dwarven in slightly rumpled robes.
“She’s a human!” a female Dwarven with a stately coiffure shouted. “Just like the hunters who snatch our young from the edges of our borders. What care has she for us?”
Livna cringed and sidestepped closer to Oren’s reassuring presence as their voices echoed around her. Her hopes seemed to be going up in smoke before her very eyes.
At last the prince lifted his arms slowly, and the room quieted. At another gesture from him, a pair of Dwarven guards drew Oren back to the room’s edge, leaving Livna to stand alone. The prince returned his iron gaze to her.
“Answer truthfully, Princess of the United Tribes. What have you seen of the Dwarven among the humans? And why do you care?”
With Oren beyond her line of sight, she could not lean on his supportive presence. She could only stand on her own. But her knees felt weak, and she feared they might buckle.
Though she longed to help the Dwarven and everyone under Nava’s thumb, how could she hope to convince the Council members in their obsidian chairs? She stared around their circle at their proud pale faces. Her words might not be enough. They could refuse her, and given their frowns and the prince's expression, they likely would if she did not say exactly what they needed to hear.
“Well?” Maor snapped in impatience, and Livna tried not to cower like a fool. Her fears whispered in her ears, and she knew without doubt she could fail. But . . .
She could also succeed.
Livna straightened her shoulders and met Maor’s quicksilver eyes. “I care because they are people. People in need, just as my own people are in need. They are being used against their will.” Once more, her voice gained strength as she stared into the eyes of various Dwarven, some old and wizened, others youthful and enthusiastic. “I may be a human raised among humans, but Oren is the truest friend I have ever known. He is a Dwarven, but he has also been my rock even when the humans around me have failed or turned their backs on me.”
Tears formed in Livna’s eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to accept defeat now. She stepped closer to the Dwarven who held her future and her hopes in their hands. “I admit humans have wronged your people, but the Dwarven and the Tribes once helped each other.
The first patriarch of my United Tribes came to your ancestors and trusted their word. We worked together for common causes. That is what we need today. If you help us now, we could restore our unity by showing humans that you are far more than slaves. You do not deserve to be stomped upon.”
She gulped, and despite her efforts, a tear escaped and raced down her cheek to splatter on her robe. Swallowing hard, she continued. “I would not ask for myself, but for my kingdom, I must dare. Help us free our people from Nava’s darkness. I ask . . . No,”— she fell to her knees before them—“I beg for your aid. We cannot succeed without help. Please. I simply want to see a world in which both our peoples live together in peace, without robbing each other of joy, life, or self. Please lend us your aid in making it happen. Since childhood I have heard tales of your great power. Please do not leave the world in darkness now.”
Chapter Twelve
Oren tapped his fingers against his knee as he sat cross-legged on a cold stone bench in a small alcove beside Livna. Nearly an hour had passed since a servant led them to this ceilingless antechamber as the Dwarven Council deliberated.
He looked across at his friend, who clasped her hands until the knuckles shone as white as the snow drifting to the floor from high above. Her glossy hair fell forward to blend with the obsidian on which they sat. He still could hardly believe how passionately she had spoken before the Council. In the years he had known Livna, he had often glimpsed the fervent fire she locked away within herself. But now that he had seen her compassion and verve on full display before the Council, a deep pride warmed in his chest for the woman who now sat so prim and anxious beside him.
The urge to wrap his hand around her knotted fingers passed through him as he, too, struggled to remain calm. No matter what happened today, Livna could have nothing to regret, and he would ensure she knew it.
“The Council has made its decision.”
Oren turned to see six of the Dwarven Council standing in the snow before them, their eyes solemn and mouths grim. Realizing Prince Maor was not among them, his heart plummeted. The oldest Dwarven spoke for the others.
“After deliberation, the majority has reached a conclusion. Princess Livna, given the threat on your life, your noble heritage, and your moving speech, you will be granted asylum in the Dwarvene Mountains and are free to come and go as you please. Oren, as a Dwarven, you remain welcome in your homeland. However, the Council has decided to deny your request for intervention.”
Oren ground his teeth, angry and disappointed by turns. Catching Livna’s eye, he shook his head when she opened her mouth to question the ruling. No amount of argument would make a difference now. A pronouncement from the Dwarven Council could not be withdrawn.
Still . . . the Council had granted Livna asylum here, in Oren’s homeland. Perhaps, with time . . .
“Nevertheless,” the elder Dwarven continued, “the six of us were moved by your story and wish to help. We offer two gifts to Princess Livna. Here”—he lifted a pair of sandals—“are thousand-league sandals. You need only envision a place, and they will bring you and anyone you touch there immediately. And this”—he untied a pouch from the rope at his waist—“a special pouch which can store Dwarven magic.”
The aged Dwarven loosened the drawstrings, and the six councilmembers took turns placing a hand over the bag. Something like golden sand fluttered into the pouch beneath their hands: a small portion of their magic.
Oren’s eyes widened. He could scarcely believe what he saw. This was unprecedented generosity, especially coming from those he had believed to be entirely unyielding. Now, behind the stern masks of their faces, he glimpsed something he’d missed before. Their gazes, fixed upon Livna, gleamed with confidence.
They believed in her.
“While we cannot travel with you,” said one of the younger Dwarven, a female with yellow robes, “we can give you some of our power to use for good. But it cannot be used lightly. You must surrender something meaningful to you and sprinkle it with the powder from this bag, for the magic requires sacrifice.”
Uncertainty welled up in Oren’s breast as he watched the sixth Dwarven added his share. “Is this not the same as defying the prince?”
The leader of the group smiled, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. “We are not defying him directly. He said not to intervene in this affair of humans, and we will not be going with you. And he himself agreed to the gift of the sandals.”
“And the magic?”
The older Dwarven startled Oren with a mischievous wink. “If he doesn’t know it exists, he cannot say no. You may add some of your own power if you truly believe in this cause and your human.” He offered the pouch to Oren.
Holding the older Dwarven’s gaze, Oren placed his hand above the pouch and felt a portion of his magic join the dust from the others. The sensation was entirely different from the siphoning he had endured under Nava’s spell. With a gentle tug, the magic was gone, freely given rather than ripped from him.
The elderly Dwarven stepped before Livna and placed the pouch and sandals in her hands. “Use these wisely, good Princess, and rescue both our peoples.”
Pride for Livna thrummed in Oren’s heart as he watched her grip the gifts tightly and bow her head before the aged spokesman. “Thank you, for your generosity,” she murmured, swiveling to face each of their supporters with tears in her eyes. “Thank you all. I know it must be difficult to assist us without support from your brethren.”
“It can never be too difficult to do the right thing. I only wish we could do more. We will leave you now to rest and decide a course of action.”
The Dwarven each paused beside Oren and Livna and wished them well before filing from the open chamber.
When the last of the Dwarven exited the room, Livna sank onto the seat behind her, shaking her head as she held their gifts before her eyes. “Those six were so generous.” She turned to Oren and struggled to keep the panic from her voice. “But still I failed. Even with their gifts, what am I compared to the Council and your prince? I can’t defeat a daimon.”
“Livna.” Oren knelt by her feet, resting his hands on the bench beside her. “I won’t deny the task would place you in great danger.” Fierceness shone in his eyes, and she wished she could draw directly on his strength and make it her own. “There is little I desire more than your safety. Yet I know you and your empathy. It’s what makes you so beautiful.”
Livna half-choked at his words. Her pulse sped at the earnestness in his gaze. “But I—” She struggled for control of her voice. “I’m afraid I won’t ultimately be able to help anyone.”
“Livna, you’ve heard the prophecies.” Oren leaned closer, his expression determined. “The Fairest One will save the Tribes in their time of need. If ever there has been a time of need, it’s now. Be the Fairest One you were meant to be.”
Livna dropped the Dwarven gifts beside her and pressed her hands together in frustration. “But Oren . . .” She shifted away from him, leaned against the wall of the alcove, and whispered, “Snow falling on the day of my birth doesn’t make me special.”
When his hand covered hers, Livna gasped. She wanted to turn to him, but she could not bear to let him see the terror raging within her.
“Livna.”
She felt him tugging gently at her fingers, urging her to face him until she had no more will to resist. At last she shifted back to meet his eyes with all the fear in her soul laid bare.
But she saw no disappointment in his eyes. Her heart thudded to see nothing but hope, pride, and . . . something more . . .
“You’re right, Livna,” he murmured. “Snow doesn’t make you special, nor does a prophecy.” His grip on her hand tightened, and she could not look away. “You weren’t the only babe born in the Tribes that day, and if you remain here, another will eventually rise up against the darkness in your land. But tell me, Livna,”—his voice lowered to a whisper, and a regret-tinged smile touched his lips as if he already knew the answer to his
question—“would you be able to live with yourself if you did nothing?”
His words penetrated her wall of fear, pressing against her heart. Livna bowed her head, and Oren, seeming to sense her need to think, did not stir.
The crisp air tore at her lungs as her breathing and her thoughts deepened. Standing in front of the Dwarven Council and begging for aid was one thing. Confronting Nava and her daimon with nothing but a pouch full of dust was quite another. Panic seized her lungs as she sought to breathe and just think.
All her life, fear had clung as closely to her as ash to fire: fear of failure, loneliness, and loss. Her mind drifted to the phoenix on her mother’s sash, the magical being with wings of flame. It might be born in soot and ashes, but still it rose in beauty and power.
Livna clenched her jaw. She knew fear as well as she knew the blood pounding through her veins, so who better than her to march through a valley of terror and charge into Nava’s lair? Who better than a princess who had daily endured fear—fear of another riot, fear of her beloved people turning on her father, fear of never truly knowing his love before it was too late?
Pressing her feet against the solid stone beneath her, Livna stood, and Oren rose beside her. Fear still clung about her, but somehow it no longer mattered. She would soar above her own weaknesses to protect those she loved.
Livna met Oren’s expectant stare and nodded. “I will go.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Are you ready?” Livna stood in the snow beside Oren, the thousand-league sandals laced around her feet. Over her shoulder stretched the strap of a Dwarven-made satchel holding the pouch of magic and the few belongings she had carried on her journey from home. She could almost feel her mother’s sash and her father’s comb inside, filling her with purpose. After resting and planning she was eager to begin her mission, knowing a week had already passed since she left her home and everyone she loved in Nava’s grasp.
Five Poisoned Apples Page 24