Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Owain fought the urge to roll his eyes as King Vernon’s closest advisor, Lord Patrin, waxed on about the importance of his role in their upcoming meeting in Imsil at Lantana Palace.
They sat in his office, smaller than one would assume given his supposed station within the palace.
The walls were a slate gray that contrasted with his onyx desk.
A small window offered the only source of light in the room.
He sat across from Lord Patrin, taking in the elder male’s pale face as he spoke.
The tight lines and furrowed brows that all highlighted his distress that, after years of preparation, their plans now hinged on Owain.
“My lord, this cannot be understated. There is too much at risk if you aren’t able to succeed,” he said in that pompous, overly important tone that so many took with him.
“I will be the first to admit that I did not think it would come to this and that we would be relying so heavily on you, but as circumstances have changed—” He paused, noting the bored look on Owain’s face.
This wasn’t the first time Owain had heard this particular speech about the importance of these meetings.
“Well, I don’t need to tell you how things have changed,” Lord Patrin said, cutting himself off as Owain rose from his seat.
“No, you don’t. I am well aware of what is at stake with these meetings with King Mikki and his court, just as I am keenly aware of the fact that you would have preferred I not be the one being sent.” Lord Patrin guffawed at the pointed remark.
Owain was conscious of what the king’s inner circle thought of him. A bastard of dubious parentage who had joined the king’s guard out of mere necessity. It was either that or the clergy and Owain would rather take his chances on a battlefield.
Elves were a highly selective breed, rarely acknowledging bastards like him unless forced to.
Owain had also offended them by not just being a bastard, but a powerful one.
His magic and ability to heal himself made him formidable indeed.
Add to the fact that his right-hand man was a changeling, and, well, the nobles of Edam were forced to see his strength despite how little they wanted to acknowledge it.
The changes in the Kingdom of Edam—for lack of a better word—that Lord Patrin had once again brought to his attention had meant that those nobles could no longer ignore him as they had for the last thirty-six years.
This mission was never meant to be his, but they needed him nonetheless. And begrudgingly, he needed them.
Walking out of the room, Owain passed Lord Patrin with a perfunctory wave of the hand.
He would be leaving for Imsil in the morning, and he had little patience for more court politics and reminders of all the ways he wasn’t meant to be the one to do this job.
It didn’t matter that Owain felt ambivalent about the role he was to play.
He wasn’t all that interested in helping King Vernon acquire even more power.
All that mattered was that when Owain succeeded in this job, the nobles of Edam would have to start taking him seriously.
No more whispering behind his back, no more sneers or hushed voices calling him a bastard as he walked by.
He would be one of the biggest players in their trite games once he returned.
Owain walked the length of the long corridor from his office to his private rooms, passing by portraits of the various monarchs who had ruled Edam before King Vernon rose to power.
Owain hated this corridor; it was a reminder of all the ways he was less.
The ways he was deficient in the eyes of the Elves who ruled this kingdom and all the others.
Arriving at the thick alderwood door that marked the entrance to his private rooms, Owain paused, tilting his head back to gaze at the marble ceiling of the castle.
He hated this place, but alas, he had nowhere else to go.
He had to prove himself to these people, otherwise he wasn’t sure what his future would hold.
He knew the trip would be long. It would take over a fortnight to get to Imsil, and King Vernon had warned him that he would likely be at Latana Palace for several turns of the moon.
But it would be worth it in the end. It had to be.
Stepping inside, Owain was unsurprised to find Chrys lounging on the black settee in the middle of his parlor, a glass of whiskey characteristically in hand.
Chrys was short for an Elven male, nearly a head shorter than Owain.
In his lounging position, his legs hardly touched the floor beneath the settee.
His long brown hair was braided down his back, the stubble on his face highlighting the late hour of the day.
His tufted tail flicked back and forth in apparent annoyance.
“Ready the horses, we leave at daybreak,” Owain demanded with a sigh.
Usually, he would relish the chance to spend time with Chrys, his only true confidant at court, hell, in the whole kingdom now that Aengus was dead.
“Good to see you too, my lord.” He said sarcastically.
Chrys never called Owain lord unless they were in the company of others.
And even then, he only did it to give Owain the due respect that most at court didn’t give him.
Of course they always called him lord to his face.
Such was the nature of Elves. They weren’t known for being a direct sort.
Everything was backhanded. Owain knew their ways very well himself; growing up in such a way, it had become second nature.
While there were many creatures who made the continent of Esrom their home: satyrs, minotaurs, and lamia to name a small few.
Elves held the most power, rarely acquiescing even the smallest bit to anyone else.
It was this ruthless nature that made the upcoming trip to Imsil so important.
Owain had parlayed with King Vernon in preparation for this upcoming journey, the king agreeing that once Owain succeeded in the mission at Imsil, he would be legitimized.
His days of being a bastard would be behind him.
Like Owain, Chrys was also a bastard. The two met as boys after King Vernon’s oldest son, Gwayne, had kicked Owain’s ass outside of the castle stables when he was only a boy.
On that fateful day, Owain had come back from a ride through the castle grounds, trying to clear his head.
His deep chestnut mare was trotting along through the last copse of oak trees before reaching the stables.
It was late in the day, the sky turning from blues and pinks to inky purples.
Mage lights could be seen in the castle windows and lighting the stables; the last of the stable hands were preparing the horses for the night.
Owain’s thoughts were on the events of the day.
Some of the other children had been sneering at him as he walked the castle halls.
Bastard, the group of children called him.
While that was nothing new, everyone knew he was a bastard. It was their next words struck him. “Son of a whore,” the snide younger female with dark gray eyes, feathered wings, and tawny skin called after him as he walked the stone corridor from his instructor’s room to his own rooms.
That day at the castle had been a difficult one as rumors of his mother’s profession had reached the ears of the other children.
It was no secret among the king’s inner circle who Owain’s mother was, but somehow, for those first twelve years of Owain’s life, the knowledge had remained with very few.
Now, with the other young knowing about his mother, the low level of bullying Owain always experienced would surely ramp up. Not just any bastard, but the son of a lowborn whore who had curious magic in her veins.
When Owain reached his rooms he pressed his back against the large doors with his chest heaving.
It was bad enough that he was already seen as less than the rest of them, why did they have to find this out too?
His throat was tight, and he felt the pressure behind his eyes that meant tears would soon fall.
To get away from the whispers and stares of others in the castle, Owain decided to hide.
Their lands were vast; large groves of trees could be found all over the grounds.
Owain knew a particular grove of sequoias could be found deep on the grounds near the edge of the mountains that surrounded Edam.
He stayed out there until close to nightfall, hoping to miss most of the others at court.
He planned to sneak back into the castle shortly after most of its occupants retired, and with any luck, he could stay out of sight for a day or two until the mutterings died down.
Unfortunately, Gwayne was waiting for him.
Gwayne held true to the custom of Elves, valuing breeding and power over all else.
He was heir to the richest kingdom on the continent, and he made sure that everyone knew it.
In those days, Owain was small, a boy of twelve with no magic, add the fact that he was a bastard who lived at the castle and taunting and teasing were bound to happen.
Gwayne took that teasing a step further though.
At eleven years Owain’s senior, Gwayne should have left him alone.
But Gwayne was cruel, and Elves were ruthless so he took any opportunity he could to make Owain feel small.
With court mutterings so fierce, Gwayne thought it a perfect day to remind Owain of his place. As if he could ever forget.