Chapter Six #2
The dagger, a small pewter thing that I myself had seen Jaska use to cut up his meat as well as Umeris’s, rested in one of the guard’s hands, while the other clutched a scroll.
“My grandfather?” Aelir asked, the horror on his face clear, as Le’ral stood to fetch the scroll and dagger from the guards.
Fylson, not a fool by any means, wrapped his hand in a cloth napkin before lifting the dagger from a gauntleted hand.
He sniffed it, made a face, and then passed the dagger to Teryn.
“In case it is a smell from your lands,” Fylson stated as the guards assured the king that his grandsire was slumbering peacefully in his bed. Teryn took a sniff, wrinkled his nose, and sighed as if the weight of the Witherhorns had settled on his shoulders.
“I recognize the aroma. It’s congealed woe bane.
A toxin boiled down into a tar-like substance that farmers use on rats that infest their grain stores.
” He cleared his throat. “Woe bane is only found growing at the base of the Rajaz Mountains. It is not easily obtained outside of the Black Sands, as our priests use it in a religious ceremony as well.” We all stared at Teryn openly.
“The ritual uses a tincture of woe bane, greatly distilled, but still powerful enough to open the mind of the proselyte to allow them to commune with Shamsira.” He looked uncomfortable. “It is an ancient ritual.”
The king said nothing. Wisely, to be sure. Our own church was not above reproach. We worshipped a god of higher intellect, yet our clerics still caned those under them for infractions. Rarely, yes, but the practice was still allowed.
His clarification did little to ease our concerns about the fact that the priests of the Black Sands gave their neophytes toxins to open their minds, but none of us had room to criticize.
The wood elves chewed a certain type of bark that gave them hallucinations for holy communion with Danubia, where our priests fasted for days until Ihdos blessed them with insight into his wisdom.
Aelir, during this religious discussion, had unrolled the scroll and was reading it.
His face, usually handsome and placid, was now rigid with growing anger and hurt.
He lifted light blue eyes from the scroll to look up at the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.
The sun shone in on his face, highlighting the dark circles that worry and exhaustion were creating.
“Your Majesty?” Le’ral softly asked. Aelir tossed the scroll onto the table and rose to pace the room, his sight locked on something only he could see.
Fylson opened the scroll delicately before reading the words inked upon the vellum out loud. Aelir went to stand at the balcony, his attention seemingly on the passing clouds, the hearty sea wind blowing his long hair back from his face.
To House Stillcloud False Rulers of Melowynn,
We hold Prince Al’fur and Princess Alfina.
No parleys. No bells. No horns. We, the members of the Court of Gray Ice, have seen our lands being divvied up by those who bear no resemblance to us.
These negotiations are another means of whittling away our means of livelihood while pushing the common man and sailor into starvation.
Taxation and overlords, kings and advisors, the noble elves all have lost sight of those who work the lands and sail the seas.
No more. We demand the return of the silver heirloom crown and the scepter of Ihdos to the people.
You have until the next alignment of the moons to deliver those items to us at the Blood Fen basalt pillar.
Bring no army, speak of this to no one. Any pursuit and one child shall fall from our custody and the other will be set out into the deserts of the Black Sands to wander, bound by sorrow, until the jackals feast on their tender flesh. We do not bargain twice.
~The Court of Gray Ice
May the people once more reign over themselves.
I stood at my cousin’s side, stunned.
Le’ral placed the scroll on the table and raised his gaze from the demands to stare at Teryn. “Speak to me, Mahouk. Is this Gray Ice your people?”
“I have heard rumors of underground bands of insurgents coming together to protest the negotiations we are currently engaged in,” he calmly stated, the twinkle of an early sunbeam off the tiny gold charms hanging from his drop earring.
The small shapes dusted his shoulder as he spoke.
The king did not turn his attention from the sky to us.
Whether he was hearing our words or not, I dared not guess.
“There are many people on our islands who make their living from the sea. They are scared they will lose their rights to fish and hunt the waters once the mainlanders take hold of the ports. No matter how Vahasi Khorsiri and I have explained our plans to the people, many refuse to accept that cooperation amongst our peoples is for the best. They seek to remain isolated, some even calling for banning those of pale or green skin from entering our lands. A few of the religious zealots are screaming for a law from the vahasi to call back all envoys immediately.” He glanced around the table.
“As you can see, neither Vahasi Mirza Khorsiri nor I am swayed by the howling brays of bigots, for here I sit. I cannot say that I have heard of this group by name though.”
That seemed to say a great deal about the vahasi and the ambassador.
“Sadly,” Aelir interjected, moving from his spot at the open doors to face us.
“That sentiment is not only Sandrayan. Many, many elves here on the mainland dislike their brothers and sisters merely for the tone of their skin. It has been a problem for centuries, and even though we have made small steps forward that have garnered some mild acceptance of the wood elves and their druidic magicks, we have a long way to go, it seems.”
One of the guards, a short woman with bright brown eyes, stepped up, her demeanor downcast. “Your Graces, I have heard of the Gray Ice.”
All those present stared at the woman. She swallowed.
“Only in passing at the Muted Swan on one or two occasions. Rowdy elves, you understand…” Her sight swung to me.
I’d never hidden my roots. Many here knew I had been dirt poor as a child.
I found no shame in being raised on the back streets of Renedith. “The Swan is known for certain sorts.”
The king looked at me in confusion. “The Muted Swan is a noted pub in the western parts of the city,” I clarified.
“Ah, the tenements.” Aelir sighed, returning to his seat to flop down as if his legs could no longer hold him upright.
“Yes, there are many unhappy souls in the western region. I am doing my best to improve their lots, but it is slow work. Are they truly that angry as to take my children and threaten them with harm?”
The guard looked at me in fear, so I spoke in her stead.
“There are many unhappy elves across the lands, my liege, and many happy ones. The Muted Swan has been a hotbed for discontent for as long as I can recall. I suspect, and this is just from my knowledge of the alehouse and those who live in the western skids, that this Gray Ice may be comprised of many sorts. Wood elf, Sandrayan, and mainland, drawn together in a mutual hatred of the crown that outweighs their dislike for each other.”
My father had been one and had spent many a night in a pub, drunk, shouting at the injustices of the poor elf while doing nothing to help his own family out of the rough areas of the city. If not for my mother and aunt working for a noblewoman, we would have gone hungry more often than not.
Aelir seemed beaten down. He lowered his head to his hands, gold hair blanketing forward to shield him from us, or perhaps the ugly truth of life in the capital. The two lower guards were dismissed by Le’ral with a wave of his hand.
Teryn slid into the cloud of anguish in a soft, comforting tone.
“King Aelir, I suspect that what Pasil says is true. These types of elves come together in the fetid stink of the underbelly of great cities. Our own capital of Padana has the same maladies. I have worked with the poor to help them with their woes, my son and daughter as well, but some cannot let go of their hate even when peace flutters before them.”
Aelir lifted his head. His sight found mine. “I forget that you and my beloved V’alor clawed your way up into such high positions at times. Forgive my forgetfulness. It speaks well of you as an elf and a citizen of Melowynn.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I lowered my head at the kind words. Given what knowledge the man now had of where and how I had spent the previous night, his graciousness was heartfelt. My lust for Teryn could very well upset many well-laid plans if it were common knowledge.
“Le’ral, can you reach out to the secretarial couriers from your old position?
Perhaps have them survey the back alleys of the western skids to pick up any information on the Gray Ice?
” Aelir enquired, his fingers tapping on the table.
Teryn did not even so much as blink when that query hit the warm morning air.
Surely the ambassador already knew that Le’ral Fylson had been and possibly still was more than a royal secretary, lover of a king, and now a guiding hand of a new monarch.
Nothing was ever said aloud, but every court needed an intelligence emissary.
Surely his vahasi had his man of secrets.
Every ruling kingdom did. The mice that scurry along the baseboards overhear much, as the saying goes.