4. The Price of Grief #4
“It is the Draleid who have crossed the line, Thalumas. Days like today are precisely why the council is necessary. The Draleid must be held accountable for their actions. Eltoar’s decisions today have turned a war between two nations into a story that our enemies can weave however they wish.
Explain to me why he executed Panakír other than to keep her silent?
Give me a reason that would make sense to anyone who has seen more than ten summers, then I will happily concede. ”
“I am tired of this,” Farda said, letting out an exasperated sigh, running his hands through his soaking hair. The man shook his head and stared down at the symbol of The Order.
“Are we boring you, Farda?” Loik asked.
“We watched a young Draleid ripped in half today,” Farda said, his voice little more than a whisper.
“Eighteen summers. Those traitors burst him like a sack of wine, blood and bone falling from the sky. His soulkin was so distraught she wrapped herself around the halves of his body and let herself fall to the earth.”
“Gratuitous descriptions will not change the facts, Farda. This—”
“I watched thousands burn alive beneath those traitors’ flames,” Farda continued, cutting Loik off.
“You speak as though to watch people burn is a simple thing. A statement I know is not born of ignorance, for I fought alongside you in the last Karvosi Incursion. Which means you either don’t believe what you say but say it anyway, or you a very different man to the one I thought I knew.
I killed people this day, people I have known for longer than you’ve been spat out of your mother’s womb.
I made choices, choices that did not have the benefit of time or of discussions as painfully pointless as this.
So yes, I am tired. I am sick to death of your endless words and theatrics and of watching you try to nail my friend to a post for killing those who betrayed us.
You brought us here for a reason. To make an example, to show your strength.
Tell us what you want, and be done with it. Some of us have friends to grieve.”
As Farda finished, he looked to Eltoar and gave him the slightest of nods.
Loik watched Farda for a moment, his gaze then moving between Thalumas and Eltoar. “Very well.”
The man turned and walked at a painfully slow pace back towards the raised dais at the foot of the colonnade, taking his place between Thoren and Mokhari. The pair nodded at him.
“Eltoar is next in line to become Archon. From Ilnaen to Vaerleon, it is known. He is the favoured child of the Draleid, the legend.” Loik stopped to draw a breath, and Eltoar could see in his eyes what words he would speak next. “That cannot come to pass.”
“You have no place in that decision.” Thalumas moved to stand before Eltoar. “The raising of an Archon is the choice of the Draleid alone.”
“And yet…” Loik stared down at Thalumas, his gaze unflinching.
“The Council needs something here, Archon. Eltoar took it upon himself to take away our answers when he executed Panakír. In the eyes of the people, he murdered an unarmed Draleid before a thousand witnesses, either from allowing his grief at the loss of his apprentice to consume him, or because Panakír held secrets he did not want to reach more ears. They are the two logical conclusions I can come to. And if you claim it is the former and not the latter – whether I believe you or not – that still does not sound like a soul who has the constitution to lead the Draleid. Does it?”
A long silence followed, magnified by the ceaseless rain. And then Thalumas smiled. “I hear your concerns, council. The Draleid will act swiftly, and I will make it my personal task to root out the source of this betrayal. This discussion has come to an end.”
“The council wants assurances that Eltoar Daethana will never be named Archon of the Draleid.” Loik’s voice rang out, clear as a whistle, sharp as a knife. “And it wants them now.”
Thalumas made to answer, but Eltoar stepped forwards and placed a hand on the Jotnar’s arm, giving a short shake of his head.
He looked up at Loik. “I let my grief take me. I should have obeyed my Archon. All decisions are simpler with the knowledge of what has come to pass. I will bear the weight of my actions no matter what it may be, but I’ll not waste another breath on this conversation. ”
Eltoar turned and looked up at Thalumas, whispering, “I am sorry to have failed you, Archon.”
Thalumas gave Eltoar a weak smile. “Draleid n’aldryr. Rakina nai dauva, myi’akar. Aldryr ar orimyn.”
Dragonbound by fire. Broken by death, my brother. Fire and fury.
Eltoar repeated the words, then made to leave, but found himself confronted by two Highguard, who had stood on the inside of the chamber’s entrance, blocking his path.
“I will give you this one chance to step out of my way, lest you become another consequence of my grief.”
Both men looked at each other, then moved backwards, clearing the path.
By the time Eltoar had reached the bridge and the rain sheeted down over them, both Alvira and Farda had caught him up. Neither said a word, but he could feel the anger in every step Alvira took.
The silence remained until they reached his chambers and stepped across the boundary.
“What was that?” Alvira snapped, shutting the door behind her. “How can they even… How dare they?”
Eltoar crossed the room and plucked a bottle of wine from the locker by the window, uncorking it with a thread of Air and pouring three glasses.
He handed a glass to Farda as Alvira raged, then waited for a lull in her words before giving her the last.
Alvira took the glass in her right hand and stared into the crimson liquid within, suddenly growing sombre. “Why did you lie?”
Eltoar set himself in one of the four red leather armchairs by the hearthfire, gesturing for the others to join him.
Alvira remained standing, her gaze fixed on him. “Eltoar, why did you tell them it was your decision to disobey Thalumas’ command?”
Eltoar let a sigh out through his nostrils, turning his head to stare into the flames. “This world, Alvira. Is not as simple as it may seem on the surface. I admire you, your heart, your soul. But I challenge you to look closer, to listen with a sharper ear.”
“What are you talking about?” Alvira moved closer, still standing, then glanced over at Farda, who sat in the opposite chair to Eltoar.
Farda swirled the wine in his glass, taking a deep mouthful. “‘Do you know why we commanded you to wait?’”
“What?” Alvira looked at him as though he were an idiot.
“They were Loik’s words. When Eltoar challenged him, when he was pressed, his true intentions slipped out. Why ‘we’ commanded you. Not Thalumas, not our Archon, but the council.”