Chapter 6 #2
His words fill the hall like a spell, overwhelming the mind and the senses.
Listening to him, I seem to smell the stink of hellfire smoke—a stink I have encountered only once before, but which has haunted my every nightmare since that evil day.
In the back of my head, I hear once more the cries of the dying, hear my own childish voice screaming as green fire licks up my arm and shoulder.
I drag a shuddering breath into my lungs, pushing the memories back.
Instead, I focus on the stranger’s face, on those features, hard as stone.
On those black eyes of his, so dark, they scarcely seem to reflect the scintils overhead.
What must it have been like to live constantly under the shadow of Mhoryga?
What must it have done to him, breathing those fumes day after day without relief?
“I am well aware,” he continues, in the same level tone, his gaze never wavering as he meets the king’s eyes, “that if my story is not believed, to display this mark must mean an immediate death sentence. But I intend to prove my veracity and my worth. So I will not hide what was done to me.”
“What was done to you?” Alderin echoes. “And what exactly was that? You bear the brand, yes, but do you also bear dragon blood in your veins? Are you a creature of hellfire, Mhoryga’s slave?”
The man draws himself up a little straighter. “I am not.”
“And yet the mark of our enemy would declare otherwise.” Alderin shakes his head, his voice thick with barely suppressed emotion. “Why should we believe you?”
To this, the man does not seem to have an answer.
He simply bows his head slightly, a humble gesture, though there is pride in every line of his body.
“I cannot force your belief. Therefore, I do but cast myself upon the mercy of the High King of Unified Belanor and humbly request a place among the champions.”
I grip the rose stem in my hand so hard, a stray thorn pierces my flesh and draws a bead of blood.
I pay it no attention, my eyes darting from the stranger to the king and back.
The next moment will decide the stranger’s fate.
Yet he stands there so calmly, the black folds of his shirt only partially covering that awful scar.
His expression, here on the brink of what might well be his doom, is impassive.
As though he’s weighed the odds, accepted the risks, and now simply waits to see the results of his play.
Suddenly, the king turns and snaps his fingers. “Let the truthseer be brought to me at once!” he commands. Servants leap into action, darting from the hall on swift feet.
Taigan takes a lunging step, dropping his voice to a growl.
“Uncle, what does it matter if this man speaks the truth or not? He is no prince! His kingdom was all but annihilated, and the survivors serve Mhoryga. They are traitors to humanity. You cannot allow him to join our ranks. What could he possibly have to offer the princess on her sacred journey?”
Alderin lifts an eyebrow. “My nephew’s question is valid,” he says, turning to the stranger. “What value as champion might you bring to the princess?”
At this, I half expect the man in black to finally throw a glance my way.
But he doesn’t. He continues to address himself only to the king.
“I possess intimate knowledge of Khylmira, Your Majesty,” he says, as though it should be obvious to all present.
“I’ve spent my life traveling across the breadth of lands controlled by Mhoryga.
I have even walked the path to Drathoridan and seen the Dracor Flame, which burns without ending in the heart of the shrine. Can any man here claim as much?”
The champions exchange uneasy glances. Bryon and Joro both clench their fists and grind their jaws.
Lord Elis bounces on the balls of his feet as though eager to spring.
Learned Majestic Rune crosses his arms over his breast, his eyes fixed with serpentine intensity on the stranger.
Even Prince Warrick looks ready to break his stoic calm and throw himself into battle. But not one of them speaks up.
The stranger gazes at the king, his black eyes hooded and dangerous.
“There is a fire in my belly,” he says. “Not dracori flame, but another, hotter furnace. I burn to see my people liberated, to see the end of the war which has ravaged Khylmira for the better part of a century. Of all men in this chamber, I am by far the most qualified and motivated to aid the princess on her quest.”
“Oh, don’t go putting on airs!” Lord Elis erupts, taking an aggressive step forward.
“Yours is not the only land to suffer under Mhoryga’s flames.
Why, even now, my own people fend off vicious dracori attacks.
They plague our coasts, and hellfire blazes across the countryside.
” He flings out an arm, pointing at the scar on the stranger’s chest. “Every man of Albhia worth his salt would, without a second thought, cut down any creature found with a mark like that within our borders. Gods-rutting dracori,” he finishes and spits on the ground, baring his teeth.
The other champions nod and murmur assent, and Prince Warrick slaps the young lord on the shoulder.
“Well said, my friend!” But the stranger merely looks at Elis.
A calm, quiet, thoughtful sort of look. There’s no overt threat in his gaze, no menace or venom.
And yet something about that stare sends a chill straight to my heart.
Just then, servants reappear through a side door behind the dais, leading with them the king’s truthseer.
I’ve seen him once before; he was present when I was first brought to King Alderin’s receiving room upon my arrival at Stromin Palace.
He is no less unsettling a creature to look upon now than he was the first time—a wizened old elf, his seven-foot frame so hunched and doubled over, he looks scarcely taller than a dwarf.
His beard brushes the ground and is too snarled with branches and leaves for one to discern the original color.
His head is crowned in holly, red berries bright as drops of blood among the smooth, razor-edged leaves.
A cloak of oak foliage woven with green pine needles hangs from his stooped shoulders.
He looks altogether out of place in this underground world, so far from the trees and sun and air where the elfkind of Utherlynd dwell.
At sight of him, a pang of homesickness unexpectedly twists my heart.
Wrinkled and tatty though he is, he brings with him the fresh scent of Inamaer Forest. Of home.
Supported on a yew staff still green with living growth, the old elf totters to the middle of the hall floor and genuflects before the king.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Seer Tamnaeth,” Alderin says.
“We have need of your unique skills.” He indicates the stranger with a quick nod and a tilted eyebrow. “This man claims to be—”
“Tell me not of his claims nor of your own suspicions,” the truthseer interrupts, cracking the end of his staff sharply against the stone floor.
“I shall look. I shall see. I shall know.” His voice is like trilling birdsong and chattering squirrels, yet it is a voice none would dare contradict.
Far too old, far too knowing for comfort.
Alderin inclines his head and backs away, motioning to both his nephew and the guards to do the same.
A clear space opens around the stranger, who remains standing calmly, with his arms at his sides, his shirt hanging open, that awful scar still on display.
The truthseer totters up to him, grunting and sniffing.
He seems to take special interest in the scar at first, then shrugs and begins to circle the man, his footsteps unhurried.
His little eyes, nearly lost behind the tangle of his own eyebrows, travel up and down the stranger’s frame, taking in every inch of him.
I find I am holding my breath and force myself to release it in a slow, steady exhale.
I don’t know what I’m hoping or wishing or fearing.
I know only that I cannot bear to look away.
At last, the truthseer faces the stranger once more.
He holds out one gnarled hand, long green nails curling from his fingertips.
The man in black looks down at him. His mouth forms a grim line.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, he seems to hesitate.
Just enough that I notice. Just enough that I wonder, Is he lying after all?
Is he not who he claims to be? Will I have to sit here and watch him be executed on the spot?
A sudden urge comes over me to leap from my chair and put a stop to this.
But what can I do? What can I say? I have no power here.
I am little better than a prisoner. Besides, why should I feel the need to defend this man who deceived me?
And yet I cannot deny the impulse. I bite my lower lip so hard I taste blood.
As though coming to a decision, the stranger reaches out and clasps the hand of the old elf. Long fingers close around his, hard enough that he visibly winces. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the truthseer’s head rolls back, staring up at the ceiling overhead. His eyes are wide, brilliant lanterns of burning white, blazing with inner fire so bright, all the scintils flicker and nearly go out. The branches in the elf’s hair and beard twist and turn like living things.
“You are Valtar Skylock,” the truthseer speaks, his voice no longer trilling but deep and hollow, like an echo rising from the deeps. “Prince of Inithana.”
The stranger swallows. Light from the truthseer’s eyes casts his face in strange, stark highlights. “Yes,” he replies.
“You will bring peace to Khylmira. At whatever cost.”
The stranger nods. “Yes.”
“You fear for your brother. He is lost to you. Lost in fire. Lost in pain.”
A stricken expression crosses the man’s face. He looks as though he will withdraw. Then he firms his stance and answers again: “Yes.”
The elf turns his head to one side. Though he still stares at the ceiling, in some inexplicable way, he seems to be studying the man before him. “There is darkness in your heart.”
The stranger’s body tenses.
“I see shadow and hellfire,” the truthseer continues, “rippling through your soul. The rage of dragons in your heart.”
The stranger’s teeth flash in a grimace. “Yes,” he replies.
A sharp intake of breaths hisses through the crowd. The courtiers have all backed away to the far walls, holding on to one another as they watch the scene taking place.
“And yet…” the old elf continues softly, musingly, “and yet you are not what you seem.”
The man does not answer. He remains still as stone, his hand gripped by those ancient fingers.
The leaves and branches sprouting from the truthseer’s beard have grown, reaching and winding around the stranger’s legs and arms like so many curious tentacles.
They touch him, prod him, stroke his face, drawing information through their leaves and stems, feeding it back to the old elf, who stands in silence for what feels like an age, still staring up at the ceiling above.
Then, with a sudden gasp of breath, the truthseer releases the stranger’s hand. All his leaves and branches instantly retreat, tucking away inside his beard once more as he takes several steps back. Panting hard, the old elf leans on his yew staff, shaking his heavy head.
“What is it?” Alderin demands. “What did you see?”
The seer breathes out a long, long sigh.
While it might be nothing more than my imagination, it seems as though a breath of green, foresty perfume wafts through the hall.
Then he turns to the king, blinking eyes which no longer glow like moon lanterns but are once more little brown sparks in his wrinkled face.
“There is death in this man’s heart,” he says, his voice trilling, a contrast to the words he speaks. “Yes, and darkness too. But that he must be allowed to participate in the trials, there can be no doubt. If he does not, Princess Roselle’s mission will surely fail.”
Immediate uproar follows this declaration.
The watching courtiers gasp and whisper, and Taigan utters an inarticulate bellow of rage, echoed by the other champions.
But when Alderin holds up both hands for quiet, they all subside once more.
The king addresses his truthseer then, saying, “And is he Prince Valtar Skylock as he claims?”
The elf nods once.
“And is he one of the dracori?”
To this the truthseer offers no answer. He stands in place, clasping his staff, his body bowed down, his eyes closed. He’s so deeply sunk into himself, it’s clear no more answers will be had from him.
“Uncle,” Taigan says, stepping once more to the king’s side, “you cannot mean to let this man participate. Not on the word of that lunatic!”
Alderin shakes his head heavily. “A truthseer cannot speak anything less than the absolute truth. The power which moves through him when he gazes into the Beyond is too great to permit for any falsehood.” His shoulders lift and heave in a deep sigh.
“If, as he says, this man’s participation in the trials is vital to the ultimate success of Roselle’s quest, we dare not intervene. ”
Lord Elis steps forward, his youthful face suddenly savage. “I will not stand by the side of a dracori!”
“And why not?” Prince Joro the pirate smirks, tossing a lock of ginger hair back from his sun-kissed face.
“Your people are practically handing their kingdom over to the dracori on a silver platter. My people, meanwhile, have held them at bay by the blood of our brave men and women for the last twelve years and more!”
“Is that why they raid our shores every spring, burning and destroying everything in their path?” Elis demands, whirling on the prince. “Because your people are doing such a fine job of defending the high seas?”
Joro curses colorfully, but before he takes more than a single lunging step toward Elis, Prince Bryon snarls, “Enough of this. Let us not quarrel with one another when our enemy stands before us. See here, my brothers, our first trial! Let us rend him limb from—”
I don’t know when I decided to act. I don’t know if there was ever any real decision in the matter. My body seems to make the choice for me before my mind quite catches up, for suddenly I’m on my feet, standing on the brink of the dais, my head above every other person in that massive chamber.
“While I wouldn’t want to speak for the company at large,” I say in the loudest voice I can summon, “personally I am quite ready for the dancing to begin.”