Chapter 1 Rhianelle #2
The portrait of the past rulers of Aelfheim from every age and era line the long passage to the High Council. From the legendary King Casimir to Haruman the Just, and my mother, Rhianelle the First. Even the brief reign of Theign the Bane is on display.
Skulking over seven feet tall at the end of the walkway is my other royal guard. There won’t be any giggling girls around him. Unlike Aelfric, Darstan has every look of a seasoned warrior with his short dark-hair and battle scars lining his golden-brown skin.
“Your Highness.” He lowers his head in greeting.
Aelfric holds my gaze a moment longer. “Are you ready?”
I nod to him.
Pity gleams in the eyes of both my royal knights as they stare down at me. Rainer, Lady Deirdre, and the two of them are the only people who know I have not ascended as a High Elf. I’m just an elfling, no different from the young maidens, Talulla and Lenna.
There’s nothing wrong with those who have not achieved the Grace of a High Elf. Nothing wrong at all, unless you’re the Queen presiding over the High Elven Council of Aldarelfs.
I swallow nervously as the council door opens.
Well, this kitten will have to give it her best. I slip into my High Elf mask the moment we enter the wide ceremonial hall. I’ve worn it so well the past fifty years.
It’s a full house today. All thirty-three Alderalfs are here for the Merafall celebration, even those from far reaches of the land.
Dressed in fine, fitted clothing representing their regions, their faces are as cold and hard as the marble beneath my feet.
I try not to make any eye contact with them as I move past the occupied cabinet benches.
As per customs, I pause by the Flame of the Gods at the center of the hall and bow my head before the veiled balcony above to our elders, the Aeonians. The ancient elves have been here since the Golden Age of Monthor, their status near godly and divine.
Aelfric and Darstan cease their stride to stand guard at the dais.
You can do this, Aerin’s voice coaches me as I continue my climb. I banish any timid emotion that might surface the moment I settle on the crystal throne.
My lessons with Lady Deirdre did not go to waste.
Everyone in this Holy Chamber believes I’m a High Elf.
Guilt slowly registers in my heart. I don’t deserve this pedestal they put me on.
I’m a fraud. But the fate of my family depends on this facade.
Even if what’s left of that family is only Rainer and me.
Seneschal Kearne rises from his seat to convene the meeting.
He wears a blazer emblazoned with the stag regalia of Volundr. His dark hair is impeccably styled to frame his slender face.
I wait patiently for his speech to end until he finally turns his rich brown eyes to me.
“Our queen has a proposal for the High Elven Council.”
I can feel the weight of their eyes boring straight through me. I rub the rowan berries for luck and strength.
“Members of the High Elven Council,” I address them, my voice echoing in the wide hall. “Once again, I urge that we end the tradition of sending Maidens of Arawynn to secure the allegiance of foreign lords.”
The elven marriage bond is a powerful spell that binds two people until their vows are fulfilled. It has been misused for generations for political arrangements to ensure loyalty to Aelfheim. A dull ache forms in my heart as I recall Blaire’s words three days ago, before she left.
‘Let me be the last one.’
Silence falls in the chamber.
Tierra of Elwood turns her bandage-wrapped eyes towards me. I wonder if she can see through the thick cloth. “The ruling has always been a desecration to the Goddess of Love,” she says, breaking the silence.
“They are rarely useful, unlike in ancient times when we had true monsters to bind.” Halburt of Eldan’s weathered face tightens in agreement.
“It’s an unnecessary sacrifice that comes with the abuse of our young maidens.” Lord Clayborne nods, running a hand over the dark stubble that shadows the perfect line of his jaw.
“All in favor of removing this legislation?”
He is the first to raise his hand. I offer him a smile for his support. The Aldarelf glares right back with a coldness I have never glimpsed before. I try not to think about it too much.
My heart stutters with relief when one by one their hands rise in the air.
I almost crumble to my feet when all thirty-three of them concur that the old law will be abolished.
Seneschal Kearne’s deep voice announces the final tally, and I feel like doing the victory dance Blaire taught me in front of the court.
Their applause feels like a dream, and I have to pinch myself a little.
Years and years of fighting against this and it’s finally broken.
“The pending bargain by the last maiden must go on.”
A cold chill runs up my spine at the rasping sound of the Aeonian’s voice.
I look up to the balcony high above us. They rarely speak during these council meetings, preferring to hide behind the shadow of their veils.
Sometimes I forget that it was they who created these archaic laws in the first place.
Sorrow creeps into my heart at the decree. I can only pray Blaire’s future husband will be kind to her. My friend never told me who she was assigned to.
The council moves on to the next discussion and its at times like this that I wish my uncle was not exiled from this court. He knows how to play these games better than I do.
“All this turmoil and upheaval will persist unless we remove Eirik Bloodhound from his throne,” General Raleich says, his golden armor clanking as he leans back in his seat. “I propose we strike them swiftly and reclaim our fortresses.”
“Let us try to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.” Lord Clayborne shakes his head. His sharp eyes meet mine briefly with a loathing I cannot fathom. I toy with the berries in my palm to calm my nerves.
“War is already upon us no matter how long we stall. Your seat may be the most secluded and well protected, Clayborne, but the embers of war will reach your doorstep sooner or later,” Lord Bahiti argues in a voice so similar to Rainer Wiolant that it unnerves me for a moment.
My uncle may be banished from this holy hall but his presence in court is discernible through his allies.
Seneschal Kearne clears his throat. “Shall we put it to a vote then?”
It’s twenty-seven to six now, in favor of a retaliation.
Fortunately, and unfortunately, the High Elven Council’s decision for everything must be unanimous. I can’t help but notice the dwindling faction of the Aldarelfs who oppose a retaliation. Their voices are even smaller today.
I should cheer for the side that wishes to strike the way Rainer does. But deep down, beyond the fog of revenge clouding my thoughts, I know my priority is keeping my people safe. It feels like betraying Aerin’s memory, but waging a war against the Fae will not bring my sister back.
To everyone’s surprise, Lord Clayborne descends from the benches and marches to the Flame of the Gods at the centre of the hall, a scrap of parchment in his grasp.
There it is again. That look of overwhelming hatred directed at me. For some reason, the Aldarelf has decided that I was his enemy from the moment I entered the hall this morning. He lifts his head to stare into my eyes.
“I invoke the Archon. I challenge your rights to the throne,” he announces for the entire hall and realm to hear.
My nails dig into my palm, crushing the berries. I strain to keep my face blank.
“Blasphemy!”
Chaos erupts in the chamber until the speaker demands for order.
“She carries the Mark of the Blessed. You dare question the gods? Seneschal Kearne deigns to ask.
“Yes, I believe I would,” Clayborne says, his voice as unwavering as the determination in his eyes.
I’ve always appreciated the Aldarelf’s honesty and all of his decisions.
I don’t understand why the lord seems so unhinged today.
He keeps looking at me like I had spit in his breakfast—no, he isn’t looking at me at all…
It’s my dress.
Every brooch and ornament on my body are pure malachite stones taken from a dwarven mine in Darvan.
Even the threads in this gown are made from silkworms of the Orkan mountain in the west. I’m parading Aelfheim’s glory during the Age of Conquest. This entire attire Rainer made me wear is some kind of silent support in favor of his ploy.
Murmurs and whispers fill the hall.
“Who is the candidate you feel more suited to replace our beloved queen?” Lord Ctibor asks in a mocking tone. “Yourself, perhaps?”
“I name my son, Gerailt Clayborne, as the contender for the Archon.”
The chamber goes silent at that name. His reputation and prowess certainly precede him.
A knight who is deemed the best swordsman of this age.
Commander of the Valorian, a secret service under direct order of the Aeonians.
Anyone who is found on his list, be it corrupt Aldarelfs or criminals, will never see the sun again.
Clayborne drops the name into the fire before the gods.
I hope the trepidation doesn’t show on my face.
“It is unnatural to question the gods. Regardless, the Archon has been summoned. By Duel or Damnation, it shall be fulfilled,” one of the Aeonians announces. Tension crackles the air with the cited words. Everyone holds their breath, turning their attention to me.
“I accept your challenge, Lord Clayborne.” I’m surprised my voice comes out calm.
The Aldarelf nods in acknowledgement.
“I say we respect the holy night of Merafall and delay the Archon to tomorrow noon,” Clayborne says in parting. “Choose your champion well, Queen Rhianelle.”