Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Arguing voices echo down the winding stairwell of the Council Tower as I climb, my boots scuffing against a surface worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. I’m not even there yet, but my temples already throb from the tangle of overlapping complaints.
Another day, another crisis. Lucky me.
Though yesterday’s crisis involved a grisly attack by murderous, animated statues, so at least dealing with cantankerous council members is several notches down on the scale of horrific things.
For the most part.
Sterling and Agnar trail at my heels, deep in discussion about proper sword technique.
“Because the Northern Grip gives you better control during the backswing.” Sterling curves his fingers in demonstration. The early afternoon sun streaming through the arrow slits illuminates his profile, highlighting the sexy but oh-so-stubborn set of his jaw.
Agnar’s scoff bounces off the walls. “Only if you want to proclaim your next move to everyone in the kingdom.” He mimes an exaggerated sword swing. “Southern Grip. Always. Unless you enjoy getting gutted.”
Sterling’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “That explains a lot. Exactly the sort of opinion I’d expect from someone who breaks in his riding boots by wearing them into battle. In the rain. Against the corrupted.”
“They were perfectly broken in by the time the fight was over, during which I was too busy to even notice my feet.” Agnar’s grin reveals a hint of white teeth.
“At least I don’t spend twenty minutes folding a map into tiny precise squares.
Tell me, do you align the creases by constellation or compass point? ”
“Neither.” The silky edge in Sterling’s voice warns me to brace myself for something spectacularly vulgar. “I organize them by your mother’s—”
“Enough! What are we, nine?” I tsk at them like a disappointed instructor. “It’s a matter of personal style. Each of you should use the grip that works best for you.”
By shoving open the heavy oak doors, I undoubtedly cut off one of Sterling’s foul-mouthed defenses of his meticulous map-folding system.
Secretly, though, I think there’s something endearing about his need for order in a fundamentally chaotic world.
When the doors swing open, the debate about swordplay techniques is forgotten.
Flames crackle in the hearths of twin fireplaces, saturating the drafty space with cozy warmth.
Two of the large windows are cracked open for ventilation.
Candles flicker from low-hanging chandeliers and a few ever-lights glow from sporadic lanterns, shedding ample light on the papers scattered across the large round table.
Though the chamber lacks the rest of the palace’s grandeur, the space is comfortable and efficient.
The six council members sitting at the table shift to face us, their expressions holding varying degrees of amusement that quickly morph into composed deference.
Wonderful. They probably heard every word of our conversation…particularly the part where I cut off Sterling’s commentary about Agnar’s mother by scolding them like a pair of schoolboys.
Duchess Breann Farlow smiles first. A thin woman with hair that recently turned more white than gray, the duchess has been in my corner since my arrival in Tirene.
Rafe Bennett just shakes his head. A lock of wavy brown hair topples over one eye as he directs a pointed look at the two men beside me, basically confirming that the merchant guild master and the rest of the council overheard our conversation.
Nira Vipert arranges the skirt of her stunning burgundy gown and leans in to whisper to the man beside her. Always impeccably dressed, the beautiful woman resembles a queen more than I do considering I opted for a cream-colored tunic, black breeches, and my short sword.
After yesterday’s battle, I decided against wearing another dress.
Though I’ve visited this room many times over the past four months, I still envision the faces of the council members who betrayed us whenever I walk inside.
Not because I feel bad—I firmly believe that the world is a better place with those three gone. It’s just a shame that their passing also stole my grandfather and the dowager queen.
My chest aches at the sight of those empty chairs. Queen Alannah can never be replaced. We haven’t filled the other spots yet, though Bastian, who’s standing near the windows, is a welcome presence due to his extensive knowledge of the archives and the kingdom’s history.
I slide into an open seat as Sterling rounds the table, briefly running his hand across the back of what was once his mother’s chair, the one covered with thick cushions and closest to the fire. He quickly represses the flicker of pain on his face, a spasm of grief that squeezes my heart.
I recognize that look. I’ve worn it myself on too many occasions.
While the chamber holds its usual mix of afternoon light and lingering shadows, today’s air feels heavier, charged with tension that needles my skin.
“Your Majesty.” Ever the gentleman, Fenton Wick greets me with a polite smile that deepens the wrinkles around his eyes. “We were just discussing yesterday’s attack.”
I nod to him, then glance at Agnar. “Please give the council a full report.”
Agnar sinks into an empty seat across from me.
“As most of you have heard, we were assaulted by the warrior statues. One moment they were stone, and the next they were moving and fighting. We were at the Victory Goddesses’ temple when one came alive, tearing free of the wall to walk like a man.
Then the cursed thing started smashing any human it could reach.
Weapons were ineffective and just skittered off the surface without even chipping them. ”
“What of magic?” Other than a raised eyebrow, Dalya Ungar’s face reveals no hint of emotion. Over the last several months, the unshakable magenta-haired woman has proven to be a voice of reason many times over.
“Water had minimal effect, though Crown Prince Knox’s first attack seemed to knock one back momentarily.
” Official meetings are usually the only time Agnar calls Sterling by his first name.
“It wasn’t until Queen Lark unleashed her fire that we started to see results.
The flames revealed something strange beneath their facades…
some sort of light that resembled distant stars. ”
We agreed beforehand not to share that Rose’s flame familiar revealed that oddity. If at all possible, we want to keep her out of the discussion entirely.
Duke Bron Dolf leans forward, a swoosh of blond hair falling across the young noble’s forehead. He bats it away with an impatient hand. “I’ve heard of such things happening in the Northern Kingdoms.”
Nira presses her lips together, her attention shifting from the duke to me. “I wonder if this relates to an ancient prophecy about walking stone.”
All I can do is shrug as I try not to shudder. Gods save us from any more prophecies. I’ve had enough destiny and fate to last several lifetimes, thank you very much.
“Crown Prince Knox,” Rafe dips a quill in ink and pulls a clean piece of parchment from the stack, “was there an issue with your water magic…faltering? Tell us more.”
Sterling’s lips ease into his lazy smile…the one that charms people into believing every word that emerges from his sinful mouth.
I know that smile all too well.
It’s a shield.
“The only issue was with stone warriors coming alive and attacking people.” He leans back in his chair with practiced ease.
“Fighting living stone with water is not an easy task. I’m sure you’d encounter the same difficulties with your air magic.
Everything worked just fine when we merged and added Agnar’s earth element. ”
I bite my cheek, battling the urge to rush to Sterling’s defense. So far, I’m the only one who truly knows about his magic’s attempts to resist him.
We’re interrupted by new disturbances that waft through the open windows: the clatter of carts, shouts from merchants, and a passionate voice rising above the rest.
“Sacred springs run black in Westcliff! Only the faithful will be spared when—”
“Fucking Devoted,” Rafe mutters, loud enough for me to hear.
I frown. “Devoted?”
Rafe scowls, his dark brown wings shifting with his irritation. “A cult-like group of religious zealots who’ve been crying about the end of the world and appeasing the gods. I’ve seen them in the coastal cities, but this is the first one I’ve heard in the capital. They must be growing in number.”
“Ah, so that’s what we’re calling them.” Ever since Tirene’s first encounter with the drachen, we’ve all noticed the gradual rise of street preachers.
Kind of annoying sometimes, but considering we were fighting against the remnants of a dead god—Narc—who wanted to control the entire world’s population, the newfound devotion is understandable.
Strange times tend to prompt people to seek answers and help from a greater power. Even I prayed more during that time period than ever before.
In fact, I met several gods face-to-face. Those experiences still feel like fever dreams some days. “What do they want?”
“Fear.” Dalya isn’t one to mince words. “They spread fear and collect coin from the frightened masses.”
So, probably not an urgent concern compared to our other issues. Though I still intend to instruct the guards to find out why that idiot’s proselytizing so close to the palace.
I turn to Bastian, who remains by the window while quietly absorbing everything. “We need every historical record of similar divine manifestations.” Then I address the council. “And I want scouts positioned near all major temples in Tirene to report any unusual activity.”
The council members nod. Across the table, Sterling rises, striding to the window to speak to my brother in hushed tones. Bastian’s eyebrows lift, and then he nods.
When I try to catch Sterling’s attention, he gives me a brief shake of his head.
Another secret. Another thread I’ll need to pluck at later.