Chapter 41 – Vale
VALE
The carriage shuddered to a stop at the castle doors.
Rhistel nudged my shoulder. “Get out and say nothing until I release you.”
The moment my feet touched the sodden ground of Kuro, glances came my way. Whispers followed. Winter’s Realm and the Mage Kingdom had not been at war for many turns, but the rulers of both kingdoms kept tabs on the important figures. Many recognized us on sight.
“Prince Vale.” A mage dressed in the black and gold of the Royal House of Odarin exited the castle and approached. Two females waited behind him, their mouths sewn shut with shimmering golden thread.
My own lips tightened at the sight of the female mages.
I’d heard of the golden thread. Heavily enchanted, the thread disappeared during mealtimes and reappeared the moment the last bite was gone but even during that brief reprieve, the punished could not speak.
What had these two done to lose their voices?
“My lords.” The servant bowed in acknowledgment of Thantrel and érebo. At present, neither looked much like lords, but the servant was being cautious, and for good reason.
King Tyra’s reputation for brutality and scheming was not unlike that of Magnus, though the mage’s extremism extended to his own bloodline.
He’d never declared an heir, and claimed he would not, all the while knowing that his future death would throw the kingdom into war.
To know that, and delight in the upheaval his death would bring, well, I would be cautious around such a creature too.
“We received the royal raven not long before your arrival,” the servant continued. “Will you be requiring rooms at the castle?”
I remained as mute as the servants with threads of gold binding their lips.
“Should we have to stay.” The King of Winter emerged from the carriage on the heels of Rhistel. “We will sleep on my ship. After all, your king has made it quite clear that fae are not truly welcome here. Why would he make an exception?”
Above, a screech rang through the air. I looked up to find a hawk circling. My head tilted, and I squinted. Was the bird white or gray?
I swept away that line of questioning before Rhistel could sense it. Even if the bird was Arla, I didn’t wish to think of that hawk or the fylgjarn connected to her. Best not to think of the rebels at all right now.
The servant bowed. “I will inform the king of your arrival. Vauti will show you inside.”
The first servant left, and Vauti, one of the mage females, slid closer. She inclined her head.
“Take us to your king,” Magnus said.
We followed Vauti’s slender figure into the castle, made of strong black stone with few of the embellishments that fae loved.
Just a painting or a statue here or there, all of them of King Tyra.
Had there once been art regaling his ancestors and their accomplishments, it seemed the current ruler had disposed of such works. Or hidden them.
“I despise this place,” Rhistel muttered as two passing mages inclined their heads at us and kept going.
The mages showed us the bare minimum of respect that would be due to a noble.
Rhistel took offense to it, as did Magnus, though he was better at hiding it.
Better at playing the game. I only recognized his growing irritation by the stiff set of his shoulders, how they seemed to harden with the minutes.
Vauti stopped before a doorway flanked by two other mages, both robed and holding knotted staffs. Soldiers in the highest military order in this kingdom.
“The king will be with you shortly,” one soldier said stonily.
“Good,” Magnus replied with equal ice in his tone.
We entered the small room, a den decorated with chairs scattered around a hearth that flickered with a weak fire, and a single gray table dominating the opposite side of the room. No finery. Not even a pitcher of water to offer guests.
Rhistel scoffed. “This is where he receives the King of Winter and his heir?”
“Do not let King Tyra’s games get to your head, son,” Magnus replied, and I didn’t miss the emphasis he put on his last word as he cut me a sharp glance.
Rhistel was his son. I was not. As if I cared any longer.
“We are here for soldiers, and will endure small slights to get them,” Magnus continued.
He’d never rolled over and accepted insults before, but then again, he hadn’t needed to ally with a High King of Mages before, just other lords within our own kingdom. Fae who understood our ways and shared our culture. King Tyra was a different matter.
Rhistel poked his head out the door. “Have someone fetch wine.”
That demand made, Magnus and my brother sank into armchairs near the fire, and the king motioned for érebo to take the seat across from him. Once they settled, Rhistel caught my eye.
“Stand behind me, watchdog. Thantrel, you’re behind our shadowy friend.”
The hierarchy would be on display without anyone having to say a word to the Mage High King. The arrangement told me something else too. They planned to tell King Tyra who érebo was. Otherwise, he’d be standing as well.
The fire crackled and popped, flushing the room with heat that the stone walls seemed to absorb right away. This damp place was not as cold as Winter’s Realm, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. My gaze drifted to the stark table, large enough for twenty males my size to stand around.
“Bland thing, isn’t it?” Rhistel drawled and tilted his head back to look at me. “This king has no style.”
I did not answer. Could not.
A satisfied smile curled Rhistel’s lips. “This quiet suits someone with so few original thoughts in their head.”
“He very well may need to talk about strategy.” Magnus did not bother to look at me. “Tyra will likely want the Warrior Bear’s thoughts on the war—how we plan to win it.”
“I will release him and guide him when the time is right,” Rhistel muttered.
Minutes passed. The wine and five goblets arrived, only for Rhistel to pointedly send back two. The fire continued to blaze, the wood barely burning down, hinting at its enchanted nature. With each second the king did not appear, Rhistel’s jaw tightened a touch more.
If nothing else gave me pleasure, that did.
Rhistel’s fingers had curled around the arms of his chair and whitened when the door finally opened. Of all the magical orders in Isila, mages looked the most like humans. Though one look at the Mage King, and you would know that he wasn’t human at all.
With hair as black as a raven’s wing and unlined, pale skin, one would think him a young male.
A new king. But High King Tyra had to be at least two hundred turns old, and he’d ruled since his twenty-first nameday.
A long time to be in the sunlight. A long time for so few to try to take what was his.
Not that I blamed the mages for not challenging the king.
The few who had tried were no longer walking the realm.
Their deaths were said to have been as legendary as they were horrific.
“King Tyra.” Magnus rose and inclined his head. “I thank you for seeing us today.”
The High King of Mages hovered on the threshold of the room. He gave an equal nod to the King of Winter and looked to Rhistel. My brother bowed, and a voice in my head instructed me to do the same. Against my will, my spine bent.
“What brings you to my land, King Magnus?” The mage entered the room alone, and the door slammed shut behind him, but not before he sent a pulse of magic through the room.
A warning. He was not defenseless, no matter if he kept his soldiers outside.
King Tyra sat in the chair next to the one érebo had claimed.
Rise, Rhistel commanded. Stand at attention.
I did as he said and cast a glance at Thantrel as he rose too. My half-brother’s eyes were not clouded over, but I had a feeling he wasn’t as aware as me. He simply seemed so relaxed. Too relaxed.
“A rebellion is rising in Winter’s Realm,” Magnus answered. “Two Falk princesses are back from the dead.”
King Tyra’s eyebrows arched. “I might have heard something of it.”
From a mage living in a noble household, no doubt.
The practice of keeping representatives from other magical orders living and working in royal or noble households was not so common in Winter’s Realm.
However, some ancient houses clung to the old ways when it came to mages.
After all, their magical order was useful, unlike vampires, who were usually only admitted for diplomacy reasons.
Magnus nodded, as if he’d assumed as much. “They’re powerful females. As strong as their father.”
The High Mage King leaned back in his chair. “And why are you here telling me this?”
“You hated the Cruel King as much as I,” Magnus replied. “And I am requesting your assistance in wiping his bloodline from the face of Isila.”
“Are you not of the same blood?” Tyra asked.
Magnus hid the anger he surely felt at the jab. “I am Prince Calder’s son by blood but not in my heart. He never acknowledged me.”
“Why would you require such an acknowledgment?”
“We’re from different lands, Tyra,” the King of Winter replied. “And you have gotten me very off-topic. I seek an ally and want to know what you’d like in return should the mages come to my aid.”
“How many great houses are with these Falk females?”
“Three,” Rhistel answered. “One is unclaimed.”
“Which?”
“House Armenil.”
I hated that he’d pried that information from my head.
King Tyra’s gaze drifted up to me. “The Warrior Bear was besotted with a Falk. Princess Isolde, wasn’t it?”
Tell him she enchanted you. She has a darkness inside her that Isila will not survive, and you’ve come back to the light.
My body tightened at Rhistel’s command, but while I might filter my thoughts or hide small things from him, I could not deny him entirely.
“She enchanted me,” I repeated. “Isolde has a darkness inside her that Isila won’t survive, but I made it out. Back to the light.”
The words sounded hollow to me, but King Tyra didn’t seem to question it. He didn’t know me well enough to do so.