Chapter 34 #2
“You met him?”
“I saw him once or twice, as a boy,” Irashe said, the corner of his mouth curling with the memory. “He did business with my father. Always insisted on eating with his hands. Horrified my grandmother beyond reason. Naturally, I adored him for it.”
Alaric smirked, sipping his wine. It went down easier now, the edge softened by warmth and company. In the main hall, someone laughed too loudly, a glass shattered.
Irashe exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with precision.
“No offence meant, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled when the summons came.
A royal wedding, they said. As if ceremony might thaw what frost has settled in these courts.
Meanwhile, the wind bites like insult.” He glanced toward the paneled windows, voice dropping slightly.
“I hate the cold. Always have. It gets into the joints. Lingers in the silences.”
“Same here,” Alaric said, mouth twisting. “But apparently they needed a groom.”
Irashe gave a low chuckle, the sound warm. “So I heard,” he said, tilting his head with courtly curiosity. “And how fares thy betrothal, if I may be so bold?”
Alaric hesitated, turning the glass in his hands. The light caught in the curve of the rim, a shimmer like hesitation made visible. He didn’t answer at first.
Irashe nodded slowly, not unkindly. “Ah. Edrathen and Varantia. The great cultural exchange. I imagine it’s been… educational.”
“Something like that.”
“I know what you mean. I had a lover from this side once,” Irashe added, more amused than wistful. “Beautiful, unreadable, could dismantle a man’s pride with a single sentence and never so much as lift her tone. I was in awe for a fortnight. And utterly wretched for the six that followed.”
Alaric laughed again, shaking his head. “I think I’m betrothed to her sister, then.”
Another sound stirred from the main hall beyond the partition—glass clinking against a tray, followed by the low hum of more arrivals. Irashe’s brow furrowed, the line between irritation and something more thoughtful etched just above his eyes.
“Look at them,” he said softly, gaze tilting toward the room they’d left.
“Once, their scholars at the College of Leycraft rivaled Kaer’Vosh.
Before the Sundering, their mage-lords ruled beside kings.
Their towers floated.” He took a measured sip of wine.
“After everything collapsed, they convinced themselves it could all be solved with rules. Orders. Prohibitions. Iron bars around a shattered mirror.”
Alaric studied him over the rim of his own glass. Bold words. Especially here. Especially to a stranger. Speaking about the arcane in Edrathen was like walking barefoot over frost-rimed glass.
Irashe glanced his way, eyes gleaming with a very specific desperation. “Tell me, friend—does it gall thy spirit as it does mine?”
Alaric sighed, rolling the stem of his glass between thumb and forefinger.
“The truth,” he said, “is always far less tidy. Before the Sundering, Kaer’Vosh and Edrathen were equals.
Equally ambitious. Equally reckless. Equally enamored with their own cleverness.
They didn’t fear magic. They wielded it like empire. ”
Irashe nodded once, then leaned back on the velvet cushions. “And then Kaer’Vosh panicked. They cast the Void Tear. A spell meant to stabilize the arcane bedrock. It backfired spectacularly. Tore the Dravaryn apart. Their capital sank into the abyss, and the crater still hisses on every map.”
His brow furrowed, gaze drifting to some memory only he could see. “What was the name of the rite…? They used a mechanism to harness the power. A Circle of Binding?”
Alaric pondered scratching his chin. “Hmm… yes, I believe so.”
Irashe gave a quiet hum and crossed one ankle over his knee. “And we still live with the echoes. Have you ever seen the Dravaryn?”
Alaric shook his head.
“I was there once, years ago. Business with silk merchants.” He gave a small sigh, not quite fond.
“They’re very selective about who they let past the border.
Even if you have all the documents the station can still turn you back.
The air still tastes of something… scorched. Yet somehow, they rebuilt.”
Alaric’s gaze darkened. “Edrathen watched. And panicked in turn. But instead of risking another cataclysm, they buried their own arcane experiments. Called it heresy. Now they wrap themselves in sanctity and tell the world they’ve always been clean.
” His voice lowered. “They hunt magic like it was always foreign. As if the sin belonged to Kaer’Vosh alone. ”
“It wasn’t righteousness that changed them,” Irashe murmured. “It was shame. And the unspoken need to never be compared to Kaer’Vosh again.”
Irashe swirled the last of the wine in his glass before speaking again.
“Then long story short—they built themselves a new identity. The Treaty of Ashenfell. The reformation of the Doctrine of Orvath. They recast the very bones of their society. Education, law, worship… all restructured to restore order. To give the illusion that balance had returned. And they’ve clung to that illusion ever since.
They pride themselves on restraint. No wars since the Sundering. ”
“With an army that size?” Alaric muttered, reaching for a date. “And iron flowing out of their mountains like wine? Some would call that restraint convenient.”
Irashe inclined his head, the motion elegant. “Of course it is. Fear is more efficient when it remains theoretical. Some kingdoms rule by action. Edrathen rules by implication. They don’t need to draw the blade often. Everyone already knows it’s there.”
Alaric made a low, thoughtful sound. “And every time Kaer’Vosh so much as breathes sideways, it’s held up as proof. That they’ve forgotten the Sundering. That they still chase power through magic.”
“And that Edrathen,” Irashe finished smoothly, “remains the wiser, the purer….”
“…above the sinful temptations of magic.”
They said the last part in near-unison.
Irashe smirked. Alaric let out a long breath and leaned back, chewing slowly. “Looks like we studied the same scrolls.”
The man’s expression softened. “There’s no better way to tell a story than through conversation.”
Alaric nodded and plucked another date from the dish. The sweetness hit his tongue just as Irashe sighed beside him.
“I assume you’ve had enough of those for a lifetime.”
“Yes, well.” Alaric gave a wry glance toward the hazy room behind the screen. “It’s challenging. But I hope it’ll be worth it.”
“Thy mean the princess?” Irashe wiggled his brows in theatrical mischief.
Alaric hesitated, the date halfway to his mouth. “No. Yes. Both. Depends on the day.”
Irashe chuckled and raised his glass in an informal toast. ““Then may fortune walk beside thee in both pursuits.”
He took a slow sip, his eyes not leaving Alaric, who had just set his goblet down. The dim light caught the edges of his signets.
“If truth be told,” Irashe said after a pause, “the continent stands in an uneasy place. As if all were waiting for something to shift. Like it knows something’s coming but can’t quite name it yet.”
Alaric leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “And what does a Sandteller do when something is coming?”
“Pack light,” Irashe replied. “And remember where the fires last burned.”
Alaric considered that. “And what the wind is saying now?”
Irashe’s gaze drifted for a moment. “That the old balances are shifting. And those who forged this new age in the Sundering’s wake… now tremble at what no longer fits their design.”
“And what happens,” Alaric asked softly, “when the inconvenient decide they’re done being ignored?”
Irashe met his gaze again, and there was no theatrical flourish now—just something calm. Certain.
“Then I suppose,” he said, “it stops being quiet.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The noise from the main room blurred at the edges—laughter, clinks of glass.
Irashe picked up a candied fig from the tray, inspecting it absently.
“I did not expect to like you,” he said, tone warming once more. “But there is merit in a man who wears exhaustion like a crown… and defiance like a well-cut coat. I find that respectable.”
Alaric laughed, a low, genuine sound. “If that’s your standard, you’d love Cedric.”
“But of course,” Irashe said, tone bright as he bit into the fig. “He glared most pointedly when I stole you away. I daresay it bordered on flirtation.”
Alaric coughed. “I will warn you once: do not tell him that. He’ll never shut up.”
Irashe only smiled, slow and pleased, as he poured them both another drink. “Excellent. I have always favored men with tongues too quick for their own good.”
Alaric’s attention lingered on the swirling wine. He spotted movement over the screen—trouble in silk and perfume, otherwise known as Lord Mera, cutting a path through the crowd like a very determined peacock.
Time to evacuate.
Alaric set the glass down. “Thank you for the conversation,” he said, already rising. “It was refreshing to speak with someone on your side of the line.”
Irashe inclined his head with an easy, feline grace. “The pleasure was all mine. I suppose we won’t have the luxury to speak like this again—not here, at least. But beyond that… I hope we will.”
Alaric gave him a wry smile. “You’re welcome in Solmara. Just don’t bring figs.”
Irashe’s grin returned. “Then I shall bring wine instead. We all have our vices.”
Alaric slipped through the nearest gap between armchairs and antique screens. Behind him, Lord Mera’s voice rose in pleasant menace, already ensnaring a new group of unfortunate listeners. Good. Let him stay busy.
Cedric fell into step beside him, the two of them weaving through the club’s polished hall like deserters from a far less interesting war. They passed trays of candied fruit, half-smoked pipes, and one very determined old man asleep with his monocle still in place.
“What was that?” Cedric asked under his breath, matching Alaric’s pace. “I look away for ten minutes and you’ve vanished into a velvet-draped confession booth with a man who looked like he came from the cover of a scandalous bard’s ballad.”
Alaric didn’t slow. “That,” he said dryly, “was someone without the need to threaten trade agreements halfway through a conversation.”
Cedric blinked. “And you’re telling me he wasn’t trying to recruit you into a cult, seduce you, or poison your drink?”
Alaric pushed open the heavy club door and stepped into the cold, blessed night. “No more than usual.”