8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Sailing into Japheth was like sailing into another world.
An abundance of greenery softened two towers that sat nestled just beyond the seawalls.
Vines stretched across the rockface, blending green and brown with the bright sandstone.
Seagulls sounded overhead. The port wasn’t empty, like Pryam’s, but it also didn’t have the bustling trade Cyrus had expected.
Maybe he shouldn’t have expected it. He knew Japheth primarily traded with Tarsus, the small island kingdom in the heart of the Atolean Sea, as well as with the Shadowlands.
The thought of seeing a ship from the Shadowlands made his whole body tense.
But none of the ships in the harbor bore black flags.
He did, however, notice Japheth’s flag—a lion surrounded by six stars. “That’s what you were talking about,” he said to Everan as he nodded at it.
Everan snorted. “Yeah. He only holds Japheth and Hetahl, but he claims the four kingdoms of the Aleon Empire too.”
As he had in his letters. Gregor insisted they were his birthright. Perhaps that was true, but then he should go to war and fight for them, not put them on his flag and pretend.
Kord joined them on the bow of the ship.
His relief at the sight of land was palpable.
The journey hadn’t been an easy one. They’d hit a storm in the night that had made Cyrus wonder if they’d even make it to Japheth.
It had left Kord heaving over the railing and cursing Cyrus even more.
Cyrus had needed to use his blood to force the horses to calm.
By morning, the sun had come out with no more than a balmy breeze.
Compared to the heat of Rael, it felt like paradise.
It looked like paradise. But it wasn’t paradise.
Gregor wasn’t at the docks to meet him, although, after gaining a little insight into royal visiting practices in Pryam and having been better prepped this time by his council, Cyrus had learned that was not unusual.
However, unlike in Pryam, here there was a rather large group of people who did await him.
They looked to be primarily people to help with unloading, with the exception of a well-dressed dignitary of some sort in front.
As Cyrus walked down the gangway, the dignitary bowed low—lower than a man ought to be able to bow. Cyrus had never gotten comfortable with people bowing to him, although he’d at least grown somewhat used to it. However, this prostration brought a whole new level of discomfort.
“King Cyrus,” the man said, still not rising. “Welcome to Valour. I am Moran Siefer, lord governor of Valour.”
Cyrus paused. “Valour, as in the capital city of Aleon?” But this was Ivera, the capital of Japheth.
“Aleon belongs to King Gregor by birthright,” said the man. “We’ve temporarily established Valour here as coterminal capital, until we can drive the usurper from our northern lands.”
It amused him that they referred to Phillip, king of Aleon, as a usurper, as though his father hadn’t granted him reign.
He glanced around. “But… this is still Ivera?”
“This is Valour,” Moran corrected. “ Temporarily , by coterminal trans-city establishment.”
Cyrus narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what any of those words meant, but he got the gist of the message. Gregor was calling this the temporary capital of the empire—an empire that he claimed but did not actually hold.
“And how long does it temporarily stay Valour before it just becomes permanently Ivera?” he asked. Apparently longer than ten years, which was how long Gregor had been bickering with his brother.
Kord delivered a sharp poke to Cyrus’s back.
“Thank you for the welcome,” Cyrus said, moving on.
“King Gregor is very much looking forward to meeting you,” Moran said, still holding himself low and not raising his eyes.
“Where is he?”
“In the throne room, Your Majesty. It would be my pleasure to take you there now.”
Cyrus would be meeting the king right away, then. That was good. “Lead the way,” he told the man.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Somehow, Moran bowed even lower before finally rising and starting down the dock toward the port city.
Cyrus and his men followed to where a large carriage waited.
Moran opened the door and bowed again. “After you, Your Majesty.”
“We’ll follow,” Cyrus told him.
The man’s head bobbed, but he still kept his eyes down. “It-it’s a long way, Your Majesty,” he stammered.
“I brought horses, and a ride would be nice after so long on the ship. We’ll follow.”
Moran had nothing to counter with. “As it pleases Your Majesty,” he said finally, before climbing into the carriage himself.
Cyrus’s men brought the horses for him, Everan, and Kord, who mounted and then followed the carriage deeper into the capital.
It really did prove to be a long way, and Cyrus found himself thankful for the horses instead of the carriage ride. He glanced back at his men marching behind him and was proud to see them smoothly keeping up.
As the streets grew more elaborate, the buildings more ornate, the greenery more carefully kept, Cyrus sensed them getting close. It wasn’t much longer until a palace came into view, and when it did, Cyrus couldn’t take his eyes off it.
Colorful mosaics of interlocking stone ornamented the outside walls. Greens, blues, and yellows wove patterns of delicate florals and winding vines in meticulous symmetry.
A congregation of people standing out front drew his attention—more specifically, a man who could be none other than King Gregor, as evidenced by the too-large crown that sat atop his head.
He wore a thick embroidered doublet under an even thicker embroidered cloak, which was lined in furs that were not fitting of the climate.
Japheth wasn’t hot like Rael, but certainly no one should be wearing furs.
“I thought he was waiting in the throne room,” Cyrus said as they drew nearer.
Kord shrugged. “Maybe he’s excited.”
“Or desperate,” Everan added.
“Ah, King Cyrus!” Gregor said as they reached him. “Welcome to Valour!”
The capital name still needled Cyrus. He wasn’t sure why he cared. It was Gregor’s kingdom—he could name things whatever he wanted. But pretending one capital was actually another just seemed silly and petulant. Still, he forced a pursed smile and nodded before dismounting.
“King Gregor,” he greeted him. “Thank you for the warm welcome.”
“You must be travel-worn after your long journey.”
It actually wasn’t that long—only slightly longer than it took to get to Pryam. Gregor made no inquiry to how the journey had gone, which didn’t bother Cyrus, as he wasn’t one for small talk.
“I’ll show you to your residence, where you can freshen up before dinner.”
Upon entering the palace, Cyrus was first struck by the clash of culture.
Old-world beauty mixed with… whatever Gregor considered his gaudy style.
Golden tapestries covered much of the intricately sculpted reliefs along the walls.
Under the beautifully mosaiced ceilings hung cast-iron chandeliers that Cyrus was fairly certain were not part of the original design.
Waist-height pillars lined the hall between the tall arabesque-topped windows, each holding a tawdry bust of various men.
Drawing closer, Cyrus realized they weren’t various men.
They were busts of Gregor. All Gregor. He almost chuckled—Gregor did not have shoulders like the muscled ones sculpted here.
Cyrus was fairly certain not even in his youth, however long, long ago that was.
The route to Cyrus’s chamber felt almost as tiresome as the ride from the ship, and circular, as Gregor boasted about various things throughout the palace. Cyrus was starting to wonder if they’d ever reach it.
Gregor swept into a large hall that was not a bedchamber. In fact, it was very much a throne room. Gregor strode quickly and seated himself on the throne.
“I added these beams,” he called, waving to arched ceilings above them. “They were carved from the original battering rams that my grandfather, High King Mathias, used to take Japheth.”
Great , an unsolicited history lesson to go with the unsolicited tour. Cyrus wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting for the first meeting with Gregor, but it wasn’t this. Still, he obliged.
“Come, come,” Gregor said, sliding off the throne. “I’ll show you the rest.”
“I can’t wait,” Cyrus said dryly.
Through two more halls they walked, under Gregor’s grating voice, and Cyrus was just about to ask how much longer when they paused in front of a portrait. A king, not Gregor, posed with what appeared to be a young queen and three sons, one of which was Gregor.
“I would love to get rid of this,” Gregor said, “but you see, it fuels me.” Spittle had gathered in the corner of his mouth.
Cyrus was familiar with the history. Gregor had been set to inherit all six kingdoms that comprised the Aleon Empire, but his father, on his deathbed, had split the kingdoms between his three sons.
Gregor, feeling robbed of his birthright, had killed his youngest brother and now was actively trying to kill the other to reunite everything under his singular rule.
Gregor pointed to the king in the painting. “My father, High King Horvath.”
The woman looked younger than Gregor. “Is that your mother?”
The king snorted. “Gods no. My mother—may the gods hold her close—died in childbirth. My father remarried.” He scowled at the painting. “To a lower noble woman.” He pointed to the young man on the left. “That was Aston.”
The brother he’d killed.
Gregor dropped his hand, but his bitter eyes moved to his other brother. “That is Phillip.”
“Happy family,” Cyrus said.
Gregor stiffened, and Kord poked Cyrus again.
Gregor looked back at the painting, frowning. “There were rumors that Phillip and Aston were bastards, that their father was a man in the guard. I would have believed them if we didn’t look so much alike.”