Chapter 27 #2
“You thought I was long dead. You thought yourself a daemon. You thought, even after Queen Arden’s daughter arrived with understanding of who we are, that she was wrong. That you couldn’t be half-seraph, not like Daryatla’s queen. Because you are no king.”
Daemon clenched his jaw. On the one hand, he appreciated that his father could see him, know him so well. On the other, he put words to things Daemon would have preferred to keep on denying.
Fodur turned to face him, clasped Daemon’s shoulders in his enormous hands.
“Sigmann, hear me. I know you always felt as though you were passed over. Your mother died, I was there so rarely, your brother made a family of his own, Tuva chose hardship to provide for her family instead of building a life with you. Elianne clung to her memories, and now to her son.”
More truths that made him look away, reduced him to ash. Or worse, back to that man-child he was so long ago. Sigmann, chosen by no one. Sigmann, unwanted and unloved.
Fodur’s fingers dug into his shoulders. “Elyon loves you with a soul-deep love. He loves you enough that he has sacrificed his only-born for you. He loves you enough that he let you choose whether to follow him, whether to believe, whether to put your hand in his—even you, who have so much raw potential in your veins. Even you, who could do such harm if you turned away from what is good and holy.”
His father shifted to intercept his gaze.
“I could not be there often when you were young, not because I didn’t want to be, but because taking this form is not easy, and holding it for long is impossible.
But every time Elyon bade me come, I came with the deepest joy.
You and Thorin—you showed me a new dimension to love, one I’d only witnessed until then, never experienced.
What a profound honor it was, to get to be your father.
To watch you grow and know you are part of me, something so few of my kind ever experience.
To feel this love and partake, for the first time, in that very love between Elyon and his only-born, a love so fierce that all creation flowed from it. You are the most amazing gift.”
Daemon had to work to swallow. “Then why do you only come now? Why didn’t you find me years ago, to tell me what I was? And what I wasn’t.”
“I was not given leave to come to you before now.” Fodur’s hands squeezed his shoulders. “Because as long as you chose slavery inside that volcano, you were not ready to hear anything I had to say.”
“I did not choose slavery.” Fire swept through his veins, and he let it erupt over his skin.
Fodur, of course, didn’t flinch away. Didn’t even seem to feel it. “Of course you did. You could have broken free at any time. What is a wall of ice in the face of your fire?”
“If I’d tried it, he’d have taken it out on the other thanes. He’d have—”
“Maybe. And so, you chose. I didn’t say you made a bad choice.
But it was a choice.” Fodur let his hands fall back to his sides.
“More choices lie before you now. Many of them. There are countless paths you could take—nearly all will lead you to the same place. Elyon wills a bright future for you, Sigmann. A future with the one who has already chosen you. With a family of your own.”
He blinked. “No one has chosen me. Elianne—”
“Was never the one Elyon intended for you. That doesn’t mean there is no one.” Fodur grinned and took a step away. “Take your time in realizing it, though. She’ll be there. But now?” He pointed to Reykstoll. “Raise a High Council. Help save your queen and your nephew, and all Fjordlandi with them.”
Raise a High Council. Not something he’d have thought he had any right to do, even if he was officially the highest ranking Awakened left in the capital. But if it was what he could do… He nodded.
“Good. I’ll see you again soon, Sig. Although…” He paused, tilted his head as if listening to a voice only he could hear. A smile flashed over his lips. “Not before Ellas.”
“Ellas?” Why in the fire would he ever see his father in Ellas?
But Fodur laughed, backed up a step, and then took off at a run down the steep mountain. He went only a few steps before he leapt, wings of flame jumping out from his shoulder blades. A dive, a roll, and then he shot upward, a column of light.
Daemon granted himself a moment to stare.
Then he shook himself, that urgency blazing bright inside him.
He, too, ran down the mountain—no help from wings for him—and into the palace.
The Vektors all knew him by now and saluted, no one getting in his way as he barreled toward Kyrja’s study.
Perla appeared from the wing he knew housed her quarters, falling in beside him and matching his stride.
Her brows were set in a worried frown. “Isidor is on the move. Heading toward Kyrja, I think.”
Daemon let out a long breath. “Anything you can do?”
She spread her hands. “When it comes to the sea, I could help. But all this snow and ice—it would take me longer to get a handle on it than the queen likely has. You need Blessed on your side. They know the snows.”
He wasn’t about to tell her that his father agreed—they didn’t have time to get into that conversation, not given the fact that they were already at Kyrja’s study. He simply nodded and stopped.
Perla kept walking, though she pivoted to keep facing him for a moment longer. “I thought it might be useful if I locate Stefanos. If you agree?”
It was rather handy to have someone who could scout from the sky. Daemon granted it with a tilt of the head. “Stay out of cannon range.”
She smirked. “Aw, you don’t want me dead. I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
His snort sounded way too close to a laugh, but the amusement faded as she spun around and kept stalking. There was no time for that.
Viggo stood at the door as always, even without the queen inside.
He’d been injured the other night, but it apparently hadn’t kept him from his duties.
He saluted as Daemon turned to him. “My lord. The Blessed are here again. I told them the queen was indisposed, but they demanded to speak with someone. I just dispatched a messenger to Helviti—did you intercept him?”
“Not the one you sent, no.” He stared at the door as if he could see through it. “Who came today? Laila Magnusdottir again?”
Viggo nodded. “And the other four who have been coming with her.”
“I’ll see them.”
It was no doubt a testament to Viggo’s lingering pain from his injury that Daemon actually noted the way he sagged in relief.
“Good. I’ll announce you.” Without even a moment’s hesitation, he reached for the door, swinging it wide.
As he stepped in, he boomed, “His Lordship, the First Seat of the High Council, Daemon of the Aflame.”
It could have gone to his head, the way the five Blessed inside the antechamber of Kyrja’s office all leapt to their feet, looking nervously at him as he entered. Probably would have, a few decades ago. Certainly a century ago.
He’d have been a monster. He could feel the certainty of that other-self under his skin, a silent condemnation. He’d have taken joy in crushing the oppressors, grinding them into dust. He’d have made life miserable for the Fjorders. Locked the Blessed into cells in their Ice Prison.
Today, he could make a different choice.
He strode into the center of the room and turned to face them, keenly aware of the differences between them, yes.
He with his black leather, scrollwork burned into it, sulfur no doubt coming off him in waves even after his run down the mountain.
The black tattoos on the shaved sides of his head, the long tail of blond hair.
Then them, dressed in icy pastels, even the men. Whites and silvers and blues and lavenders, layers so thin they might as well be made of frost.
Laila stepped forward, her face in the hard lines he’d always associated with her kind.
Only…not quite. Harder, in a way. Not so unfeeling—though the feelings seemed to be negative.
“My lord,” she said—and he had to give her credit, she didn’t choke on the words.
“Though the Vektor Guard will tell us nothing, we know the queen is in danger. She completely let go of the tides and the snows the other evening, and though she’s taken them back up since, her magic feels distracted. ”
“And Isidor’s in play again,” one of the men said.
Daemon blinked at him. “Remind me of your name.”
“Magnus, my lord.” He set a hand on Laila’s shoulder. “Laila’s brother.” He introduced the other three—Laila’s friend, their cousin, a niece.
Daemon folded his arms across his chest. “The queen was clearly won over at least in part by your pleas the other day. I admit I was less convinced.” And though he needed them now, he had to be sure. Truly sure, before he let them into his queen’s High Council.
Laila’s nostrils flared. “Your doubt is understandable. But as we have been trying to tell Her Majesty, our loyalty is not to Isidor but to Fjordlandi—the Fjordlandi that the Giver desires for us. We have all lived under the tyranny of the former king, and we all wept with relief when we heard that Queen Valkyrja won a Challenge not only against him, but against his High Council. Too long they rigged the Proving. Too long they punished any who wished to pursue faith. Too long they threatened us and called us weak for daring to love our parents or spouses who are thanes.”
A jolt coursed through him. Of course the Blessed all had thanes in their families, just as Dania had pointed out at the gathering—it was necessary. And yet, he’d always assumed they all viewed them as Isidor and his ilk did.
A necessary evil. The soil—the dirt—from which the best plants grew. Something to be used and then cast off, hands washed clean of them.
“Please, my lord.” Magnus inclined his head, all respect. “We are not the only ones who felt Isidor’s return. Those loyal to him are on the move, determined to find him and lend their aid.”
“Let those loyal to the queen lend her our aid.” Laila spread her palms. “We had been maintaining all she allowed us into the other day, but we haven’t dared to do more without her permission. We could, though, if you allow it. We could help more.”
“We will help.” Magnus lifted his chin. “However we can. But if we go out with the High Council’s backing, we’ll be able to sway those who are undecided.”
Daemon surveyed each of them, holding each gaze for a few moments before moving on to the next.
None looked defiant—all looked determined.
“Very well. Consider yourselves all interim members of the High Council. Take over whatever you can of the queen’s usual tasks, to free her to face down her father.
Sway any Blessed you can to our cause and have them help too—or at the very least, counter any who would aid Isidor. ”
They looked ready to leap into action. Which was good—but he held up a hand.
“Make something very clear. Isidor has been stripped of his title and office, which is legal and binding and non-reversible. He is an escaped convict, not a king. Which means any action he takes against the queen is treason. Any who side with him will be guilty of treason as well.”
He let his hand fall. “Go. When our queen returns, we want her to find her people faithful.”