New Orders
All you have to do to keep relations peaceable with the Strae Crown is simply give them whatever they ask for. You may not like doing it, but it is an easy and reliable strategy.
From the journal of Grandmaster Fawn Maitre, previous Grandmaster of the Crux.
GETTING READY TO MEET with royalty is always a production, but it’s one I’m used to. My mother used to take me to endless conferences with Duchess Mahia, trying to curry favor with the upper echelons of Kenitkan nobility.
Preparing for it always took hours, but I’m not a naturally patient person. I’ve since managed to cut that time down substantially. Yet even that doesn’t seem to be quick enough for Arlon.
Grudgingly, he lets me trim his beard and hair before I help him coif it to perfection. His black hair has earned some extra grays recently, but he strikes a dashing figure, especially when he dons the deep purple robes of his station over neatly pressed trousers and shirt.
I leave most of my curls to hang free, though I braid the hair at my temples back over my ears before clamping silver beads onto the ends.
They match the silvery threads of the Strae-style gown, which isn’t my preference, but it’s far warmer than the outfits I have from home.
And with the storm that blew in yesterday, the cold has arrived.
Once we’re both as ready as we can be, we head to the front gates.
Symon has already pulled a carriage around for us, but a new guard is on duty today, a brick-faced man who gives a curt nod as we approach.
Nikolai, Teagan, and a few of the others will at least exchange pleasantries, but this one apparently has few things to say outside of the script of his normal duties.
“Do you have an estimation of when you’ll be back?” the guard asks.
Arlon gives him an imperious look, and the man seems to realize that was the wrong thing to ask.
It’s no secret that Arlon is barely tolerating the Royal Guard’s presence at the Crux.
Wizards are more than capable of protecting themselves, but he doesn’t have the authority to send them away, even as Grandmaster.
“Whenever our meeting with the King is concluded,” Arlon says coolly. “See that the gates remain open until we return.”
The guard clears his throat and offers a slight bow. “Yes, sir.”
“Grandmaster,” Arlon corrects, and going off the way the man’s face drops, he had no idea who he was speaking to.
“Y-yes, Grandmaster,” the guard says, throwing a salute across his chest almost reflexively. I fight back a smile as we climb into the carriage.
The trip to the palace is quiet, Arlon’s distant gaze focused out of the window. Yet the further away we get from the Crux, the deeper the furrow in his brow grows. The clatter of cobblestones passing under our wheels is only broken when I ask, “Are you alright?”
Arlon blinks, reeling his thoughts back in from wherever he cast them to. “I will be.”
The carriage pulls to a stop at the main gates before Symon opens the door for us. As we step out, I notice one of the two guards on duty take off into the palace. No doubt to warn of our arrival.
Arlon leads the way, and I follow just behind, trying to tamp down the anxiety that’s been conditioned into me over the past few months.
I’ve delivered and retrieved missives, attended countless meetings, but the tense talks between Straetham and Kenitka still rest heavy in my mind.
Though the two powers have landed on peaceable terms, it had been harrowing reaching them.
For a time, I even wondered if my tenure at the Crux might end if peace between the two kingdoms fell apart. That was avoided, thank the gods, but ever since, entering the palace never fails to fill me with an impending sense of dread.
We walk through the front gates and into the lavish courtyard that leads to the main doors.
Usually another guard is waiting to escort us, but it’s Captain Thora herself today.
She’s dressed in her armor as usual, but her helmet is absent, giving us a view of the scar that stretches down her jaw, her short-cropped silver-blond hair.
“Good to see you again, Captain,” Arlon says. “Are you going to ask me what I’m doing outside of the Crux, or do you already know?”
I bite back a sigh. It’s obvious that Arlon’s chafing under the Royal Guard’s heavy hand, but I sometimes wish he wouldn’t make it so obvious.
Thora gives him an unamused look. “If you would come with me? The King’s last meeting just finished, and he is eager to hear what news you have. He also has news for you.”
Ominous.
Arlon and I share a kindred look before we follow Thora through the halls of the palace.
She takes us to the same meeting room we have conferenced in before, and the door opens to show King Thermilious sitting at the head of the long polished table, one of his advisers already at his right hand.
Thora sweeps past us to take the seat to his left, and we bow before the King motions for us to sit.
“I hope you bring good news for us?” the King asks.
Arlon’s scowl deepens as he settles into the too-small chair. “It depends on your definition of ‘good,’ Sire. Lucien of Frostcliff is dead, in no small part because of the condition the Crown kept him in.”
I bite my tongue even as my hands tighten over the arms of my chair. Gods, is he trying to fracture the peace between the Crux and the Crown further? Of course I can’t condone how the Crown treated Lucien, disgraced or not, but Arlon’s like a guard dog where his wizards are concerned.
The young King doesn’t seem perturbed. Maybe after being subjected to Arlon’s growling so often these past few months, he’s simply gotten used to it. “When magic failed to get us answers, we pressed Lucien for information as we saw fit.”
“Are Demica and the others being treated similarly?” Arlon demands.
“Due to the reforged alliance with Kenitka, Demica is not,” the King says. That puts me at ease, but knowing that Jaret and the other confirmed traitors from the Tower don’t have that same immunity makes me feel ill.
I don’t care what they did; no one deserves to be tortured.
“Did we not provide adequate information?” Arlon asks tightly.
King Thermilious waves a hand as he says, “Lucien was the one person who was able to withstand your enchantment methods, which led us to believe that he had some information of Diran’s plans that the others didn’t.”
Hearing that helps me push my unease aside. There’s little need to torture information from someone if you don’t believe they have information in the first place, and Thermilious doesn’t strike me as the type of ruler who enjoys causing pain for fun or vengeance.
“But what he may or may not have known is irrelevant now,” the King continues. “You’re certain he’s dead?”
Arlon’s face is drawn. “His half-crafted conjuration landed him somewhere in the Hobokins. He couldn’t walk, at least not for any stretch of time. He was alive when I got Sight of him, but only just. With nothing more than the rags on his back, there was no surviving the storm yesterday.”
The room falls quiet before Thora says, “Ever since the Immen scouting party was intercepted near Airedale, Duke Targren has had his forces in Frostcliff scouting the mountains. They will confirm Lucien’s corpse once it’s found, Sire, and if the disgraced wizard somehow managed to survive, our own forces will be arriving in Frostcliff any day, if they haven’t already. ”
Thora and I share a common fear, then. If Lucien’s spell didn’t put him short of his goal, then that means he was aiming for that area of the Hobokins. Gods know Lucien spent plenty of time with Diran in the mountains. Time enough to set up some sort of storehouse.
But, he had been crippled. Had nothing but the rags on his back, and that storm moved in quickly. I’m not sure if it’s optimism or pessimism to hope that he died peacefully.
Even so, I will also feel better if we retrieve a body.
“Then the matter of Lucien is settled,” the King says. “Let’s turn to happier news.”
Thora gets up, taking up a piece of parchment as she does before she presents it to us. Arlon takes the missive even as he pulls his spectacles from the pocket of his robe. His eyes widen as he reads before he says, “Peace talks. With Immenbach.”
“King Luther has agreed to meet on neutral grounds to come to peaceable terms between Immenbach and Straetham,” the King says. “While I have no doubt that our magical might would lead us to victory if a skirmish arose, I am eager to avoid such an outcome.”
“As am I, Your Majesty,” Arlon says, his voice tight.
“Good,” the King says. “Then you will have no issue attending the negotiations with me in Marikadar. The messenger from the Shykhdar was delayed by storms, so I’m afraid we only have a few weeks’ time before the talks are set to take place.
Though with the teleportations the Crux has created, the entire delegation should be able to travel without issue, correct? ”
My stomach drops. Beside me, Arlon goes still.
“That won’t be a problem, Sire,” Arlon says. “But what exactly has the Shykhdar requested in exchange for hosting?”
The King’s smile is bright. “Only that we continue negotiations that Ambassador Feisal has initiated about what magic might be made available to the Shykhdar, and that the wizard Olammed bin Barric attends as part of the Strae delegation.”
Hearing Olbric’s deadname spoken so casually feels like a slap to the face. After years of trying to guilt Olbric into coming home, years of threats and pleas, a failed kidnapping attempt, it’s finally come to this. It’s a vice slowly closing, and Arlon has no way of stopping it.
He still tries.
“Your Majesty, I apologize, but that last request is not possible,” Arlon says carefully.
“Did I say it was a request?” the King asks. “Is Olammed dead? Last I heard from Ambassador Feisal, he was alive and well at the Crux.”
“No, Sire, but -“
“Then he will accompany you and the rest of the delegation to Marikadar,” the King says, his voice hardening. “Is that clear, Grandmaster?”
Arlon once told me that being Grandmaster feels impossible some days, and now I understand what he meant. I feel numb. There’s no denying this request. No getting around it. If there is even a chance to nip the budding conflict between Straetham and Immenbach... Olbric will have to go home.
Beside me, Arlon’s expression is hard as stone, so at odds with the warmth and openness I saw in him yesterday. Yet through the mask, I can see how much it hurts him to utter the words, “Yes, Sire.”