4. The Price of Grief #2
The storm battered them, wind howling and rain sheeting.
Before them lay the Tower of Faith, built from monstrous slabs of white stone, white banners emblazoned with the symbol of The Order flapping in the gale.
It was atop that tower, beneath the massive white dome that capped its top, that the council chamber resided.
“Tivar came to see you?” Farda asked over the storm, water rolling down his face.
The sombreness of Eltoar’s nod seemed to be enough of an answer as Farda said nothing further, instead turning his gaze towards the great oak doors that marked the entrance to the chamber on the opposite side of the walkway.
The sound of the storm was swallowed by the enormity of the great chamber as Eltoar and the others stepped through the wicket gate, the battering rain and wind muffled by the thick stone and replaced by echoing voices.
Two figures stood atop the black symbol of The Order set into the middle of the white stone and gold of the central atrium.
The eight members of the council were spread out, each standing in the spaces between the colonnade of white stone that ringed the Atrium, the statues of the gods looming behind them.
Eltoar smiled at that. This was how the council always conducted their meetings.
Elevated ever so slightly upon the dais at the base of the colonnade, to project a sense of power.
Spread out around the central atrium, so that whoever had been granted an audience would always have to turn to find the voice addressing them.
To Eltoar it was clear that even the statues of the gods had not been placed there for worship but to convey the sense that the council were an extension of the Enkara themselves.
A few steps into the chamber, Eltoar bowed his head, not towards the council members but towards the gods.
“To be worthy is my only wish,” Eltoar whispered.
In the back of his mind, he could feel Helios’ scorn towards his devotion to the gods that had allowed so much pain into the world.
Gods that had allowed Maquil and Carasín to die so needlessly, gods that had set dragon against dragon.
Eltoar did not challenge his soulkin. Grief was a cruel thing, and all hearts grieved differently.
As they approached the centre of the chamber, the two figures turned to face them. A Jotnar with long white hair in silken robes of black and gold, and an elf with a long, curved blade at her hip.
Eltoar, Farda, and Alvira each dropped to a knee. “Archon.”
Thalumas, son of Jakír, had served four terms as Archon of the Draleid. Four terms of prosperity and peace. Eltoar would have followed the Jotnar into the void itself.
Thalumas’ First Sword, Vahar Landuinín, was a legend.
Eldest daughter to the king of Mythavelion, Warmaster of her father’s armies, she had seen almost sixty summers before she’d heard the Calling.
He had never known of another who had heard the Calling after so many years.
Though for all her legends and all the arrogance with which she moved, she could not match Eltoar in the blade. A fact of which she was well aware.
“Rise, Eltoar Daethana, son of Loh?ran Daethana. Alvira Serris, daughter of Tamira Serris. And Farda Kyrana, son of Korden Kyrana.” Thalumas inclined his head and waved away the Highguard who had escorted them.
The Jotnar grasped Eltoar’s forearm as he rose.
He stared into Eltoar’s eyes for a moment and said, “Rhe m? l’uva senthe hydar na elwyn lamye? ”
Is it that I may ask something that concerns the heart?
“ír,” Eltoar said with a solemn shake of his head. “Lael sanyin, myia Archon.”
No. I am sorry, my Archon.
Vahar made to step forward, but Thalumas waved her away without looking. “Du é uvrínil, myi’akar.”
You are forgiven, my brother.
His gaze lingering on Eltoar a moment longer, Thalumas then greeted Alvira and Farda with the same warmth.
“Archon,” a voice called from amidst the council members. “Time is a resource best not wasted.”
“As is respect,” Thalumas answered, giving Eltoar and Alvira a wry smile, a smile that faded quickly as he inclined his head.
He leaned in closer. “They want blood. The blame for Vastillion is being laid at The Order’s feet.
Tread carefully. I have said my piece and will hold my tongue. Come, let us be done with this.”
Eltoar, Farda, and Alvira followed the Archon and the First Sword as they moved to stand on the symbol of The Order at the chamber’s centre.
The council had no ‘elder’ as such, but across the years there were always those who rose above the others, a first among equals.
In this iteration of the council, that was Loik Hass, the only human amongst the eight.
He stood at the centre with his arms folded, the statue of The Father at his back.
To his right was Thoren Kalas, an elven mage of the kingdom of Kavathíl, and to his left was Mokhari, daughter of Alichtal – a Jotnar of ?lmur. Two more Jotnar and three elves made up the final number, all watching from their perches at the feet of the columns.
Even on the best of days, Eltoar had little time for the council. Theirs was a world of words and politicking, demanding this and that but never being willing to dirty their own hands. He understood their purpose, but there was something about chickens parading around as wolves that irritated him.
The warm glow of the candles shimmered across the white stone floor, catching the inlaid gold in blazing beauty, undiminished by the pattering rain on the dome above.
“You three,” Thoren Kalas pronounced, “have been called before the council to give account of the burning of Vastillion and the betrayal of thirteen of your own. You do so before the chosen council of The Order and beneath the watchful eyes of the Enkara themselves.”
Loik Hass inclined his head as he looked down at Eltoar and the others.
“We have heard the report from Archon Thalumas. What we seek are the events as your eyes witnessed them. The reasons behind your actions and the honesty of your own hearts. I will begin with the questions most pertinent – why did those of your kin betray The Order?”
“What have you gleaned of their intentions?” another voice asked to Eltoar’s left. He didn’t turn his head.
“Are there more?” asked a third voice, this time to his right.
A litany of questions followed, each from a different voice, a different member of the council. And with each voice that spoke, Eltoar stared straight ahead at Loik Hass.
Eltoar waited until the flow of questions ebbed and silence fell amongst them, Alvira and Farda following his lead.
“Those are a great many questions,” he said, still staring ahead at Loik, refusing to play their games. “Which would you like me to answer first?”
Once again the council members spoke in turn, each naming their question as paramount. But eventually it was Loik Hass who spoke.
“Enough.” The man returned Eltoar’s stare, tilting his head to the side.
“It has been a long day for us all. Let us not piss in the wind. Dragons have just laid waste to the largest silk trading city in all Epheria. Dragons and Draleid who are sworn to this order, who are kin to all five of you. Thousands are dead, thousands more maimed for life. The smoke can be seen for miles. Forgive me, honoured Archon, but we have stood here all night and listened to you weave a story of these events, and we are yet to hear a single answer that could hold its own weight. It is like watching a child push his supper around the plate to make it look as though he has eaten.”
“Remember to whom you speak, Councillor,” the First Sword snapped.
“I will speak to the Archon in a manner befitting the situation before us. In a moment like this, I believe candour to be more important than pleasantries.” Loik shifted his gaze from Eltoar, to Alvira, to Farda.
“None of you have even the slightest understanding of why your own brothers and sisters betrayed us? Do you know how that reflects on the Draleid as a whole?” He drew in a long breath, shaking his head.
“Who gave the order to engage above a city filled with a hundred thousand souls? Let us start there.”
“I did,” Eltoar said before Alvira could open her mouth.
He dared not look at her, dared not give Loik or the others the sight of even a moment’s hesitation.
Though he could feel her eyes boring into the side of his head.
“It was the right choice,” Eltoar said, speaking again before Alvira had the chance to interject.
He would rather face her anger later than watch her be torn apart now. “And I’d make it again.”
“Hmm…” A voice sounded somewhere to Eltoar’s left.
That of Vanlin Iklas – an elven ambassador of Lunithír.
Again, he didn’t turn to face her, didn’t play their games.
“Is that so, Eltoar Daethana? Even against your Archon’s command?
It seems disobedience is not an isolated trait amongst the Draleid. Worrying indeed.”
“Thousands of people were dead already,” Alvira said, turning to glare at Vanlin. She kept her tone level, but Eltoar could feel the rage within her. She needed to keep her composure. “We swore oaths to protect the people of Epheria. What would you have us do? Leave them all to burn?”
“So you approve of Eltoar Daethana’s decision, Draleid Serris?” Councillor Thoren’s words were spoken with the voice of an elf who had just watched a deer walk into his trap. “What of you, Farda Kyrana? Do you also approve? Does the disregard for command run so deeply in the blood of The Bound?”
“We should have seen this sooner,” another voice said, echoing through the massive chamber.