13 - Clan Life #3
Tariel stood motionless for a moment, staring at his hands. The light-colored fabrics he wore suddenly seemed too sheer to him, almost like a target painted on his skin.
“Well, Brynjar?” he murmured, his voice barely leaving the confines of the tent. “The Shadow… can you still sense it?”
“It’s here, my Master. It’s watching. It’s waiting.”
Tariel slumped down onto the edge of the bed, his new braids weighing strangely on the back of his neck.
“A Shadow of Nythral… Why would the Council send its best agents to follow me? If they wanted to help me, they would have made themselves known during the Morgraves’ attack. If they wanted to protect me, they wouldn’t be lurking in my blind spots.”
He paused, bitterness rising in his throat.
“Perhaps they’re here to make sure I don’t stray from my path. To ensure the High Mage doesn’t become a traitor.”
“The Council trusts you, Master,” Brynjar ventured, though his gravelly voice lacked conviction.
“The Council trusts only its own interests, Brynjar,” Tariel retorted, massaging his temples.
“I was taught that Caelendor was the beacon of the world, that we were the guardians of order and magic. But look at me… I’m traveling with a mercenary who practices alchemy, I’m discovering truths that call into question everything I’ve ever learned, and my own people are hunting me down like a beast they fear might escape. ”
He closed his eyes, visualizing the silver domes of Mistvale.
The elves’ education was a magnificent tapestry, but as he and Cassian kept pulling at its threads, Tariel was beginning to see what lay beneath the surface: propaganda of prestige, excessive pride disguised as wisdom.
If the Council feared that the influence of the “outside world” would corrupt him, they were right to worry.
He no longer saw the world as an enemy to be subdued, but as a victim of his own people’s arrogance.
“If they decide that I’ve become a threat… or that I’m no longer capable of killing the dragon, the Shadow will take care of finishing the job. In its own way.”
“Do you want me to alert the mercenary?” Brynjar asked, tilting his head.
A shiver ran through his spine. Telling Cassian that a Shadow of Nythral was lurking would be admitting that his kingdom was ready to eliminate them both at the slightest misstep. It would shatter the fragile bond of trust they had taken so long to build.
“No. Not yet. Cassian already has enough ghosts to fight, and it’s clear he’s already struggling to trust me… I don’t want to give him one more reason to hate us.”
He stood up, smoothing out his linen clothes. The flush on his cheeks was no longer due to the care of Rhazek’s daughters, but to the anxiety gnawing at him.
“We were taught that we were the best, Brynjar. But the best do not fear the truth.”
Silence fell over the tent, heavy and oppressive. Tariel straightened up, readjusted his posture with that elven dignity that was beginning to weigh on him, and stepped outside to find the mercenary.
The elf easily found the tall, dark-haired man, surrounded by a large group of nomads who seemed to hang on his every word. He approached silently to listen.
When the destruction of his kingdom was mentioned, Tariel visibly tensed. Brynjar—may the Stars bless him—gently squeezed the small of his back in an attempt to comfort him.
Deep down, he feared that the dragon might turn on Caelendor… Although his resentment was justified, it was still his home, and not all elves were evil. In fact, the most vicious were the High Elves like him, as well as the Dark Elves.
The mercenary’s story, though grim, helped him understand the quagmire he’d gotten himself into. A shape-shifting dragon… and of royal blood, no less. The elf let out a faint, nervous laugh: that dragon could be anyone.
Cassian seemed certain they would find it in Malveth, but what if he was wrong? Anyone with even a shred of self-preservation instinct knew they absolutely shouldn’t set foot there, and yet they were heading there as if it were just a stop on a journey to track down a hypothetical dragon.
Another sigh escaped him, until he broke his silence, determined to dispel this atmosphere heavy with anticipation.
“You know more about dragons and our journey now. It must be scary to imagine us facing all these dangers… but fear not, our dear Cassian is traveling in the company of Caelendor’s most promising Elven High Mage, and by combining our strengths, I do not doubt our power.”
Of course, he was lying: he had doubts by the bucketful.
However, he didn’t like the worried looks on the children’s faces, and, true to his elven nature, he preferred to bend reality a little rather than demoralize them.
So, for the first time in front of the mercenary, Tariel drew on his elven charisma, chin held high and a mischievous smile on his face, effortlessly capturing his audience’s attention.
He raised his hands, and a faint magical shimmer appeared in the air, forming an ethereal scene that illustrated his words.
“Listen, my nomadic friends, to the ancient story of magic—the force that will lead us to victory,” Tariel began, his voice soft and enchanting.