Chapter 11 Status Quo #2
There was a beat of silence. An uncomfortable shuffling. A lone cough.
Then, a thud. A shout. Ringing gasps.
And Cedric looked down to see a darksteel blade suddenly sticking out of the smooth wood of the tabletop, Elyria’s hand still curved around the hilt.
Dentarius looked like he was seconds from fainting.
“This is not just about discontentment or ‘adjusting’ to your new ideals. Last night’s attack was not enacted by fae-hating bigots who are upset about the accords,” Elyria said, the faintest wisps of shadow leaking from her fingers, trailing down the blade of the dagger.
“This knife bears the sigil of the Cult of Malakar. Those men were cultists. The attack is clearly connected directly to Varyth Malchior and the fact that he does not want us here. He does not want us finding and following his trail to the crown.”
“Another thing we simply do not know,” insisted a wide-eyed Barcroff.
“The prisoners are not sanguinagi, they possess no signs of wielding blood magic. Lord Church questioned them personally, and they have revealed no ties to Malchior or the Cult of Malakar. For all we know, they could have picked up that dagger anywhere, with no clue as to its origins.”
Elyria made an exasperated sound before releasing the hilt of the dagger, leaving it embedded in the table, and slumping back into her chair.
“Precisely,” said King Callum. “I believe it to be nothing more than a symptom of my own admitted naivete in thinking the people would accept this without pain. But now I understand. They need to see our unity in action first.”
“And how do you propose to achieve that?” asked Kit, the slightest shake to her voice. It wasn’t fear straining her words though. The dark gleam in her blue and green eyes told Cedric that it was more likely a result of the restraint she was employing, resisting the urge to lash out.
“By showing the people what a partnership between Havensreach and Nyrundelle truly looks like, of course. By showing off our symbol of unity—our dual victors.”
Cedric cringed inwardly.
Elyria scoffed—very much outwardly. “I knew it. Showing us off? You expect me to, what, smile and wave? Play the part of the demure Arcanian peacemaker? With the utmost respect, Your Majesty, I am not here for their entertainment.”
The room tilted into silence.
Cedric leaned forward, eager to cut the tension. “If I may—”
All heads turned. Cedric glanced at Elyria, then at the king, who nodded his permission.
“Perhaps there is a compromise to be found?” he said. “I do believe we all are eager to locate Malchior and the crown. Allow them to begin their investigation—with a royal escort. Surely, that would help validate the Arcanians’ presence.”
Cedric nearly balked under the weight of the glares that Kit, Dentarius, and Elyria alike were now giving him.
“That way,” he continued, swallowing hard, “no town constable can claim they weren’t informed.”
There was a long pause. King Callum looked thoughtful. Lord Church looked . . . fascinated. As though Cedric had surprised him with the suggestion.
It was Elyria who broke the silence. “Such a generous proposal,” she said through gritted teeth, “but I thought we established during the Crucible that I do not require a babysitter.”
Her words sparked a memory that threatened to break Cedric’s focus entirely, very nearly rushing him back to the Sanctum, to their exchange at the beginning of the Trial of Spirit.
Before either of them had been forced to unveil their personal truths.
He cleared his throat. “That’s hardly what I suggested. ”
“Pray, tell, then, Sir Knight,” she said, lavender eyebrow arching. “What are you suggesting?”
“Do not pretend like you don’t understand the point His Majesty is making,” Cedric said, tone tightening. “It has been mere months since the Crucible was conquered. A lifetime of enmity is not so easily reversed.”
“You didn’t seem to have that much trouble with it,” Kit muttered.
Cedric inhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to check Lord Church’s reaction to her comment.
“This”—he waved his hand toward Elyria, then back at himself—“is only the first step in showcasing the peace between our realms. We have far to go before the people accept this new status quo.”
Elyria sunk into her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “You, Sir Victor, may be perfectly content being trotted out in front of the people like a trophy on display, but I—”
“You would deny us the chance to show the accords in action? That this peace is real? The people of Havensreach still hold real fear toward Arcanians. You’ve seen the way they stare, the fear in their eyes.
” Cedric shook his head. “Half the guests at the ball acted like they’d seen their own deaths when your shadows appeared. ”
“My shadows may very well have saved their lives.”
“I know that.”
“Then do not pretend like I require a chaperone.”
“I didn’t say—”
“I mean, the very idea that we need you people to—”
“That’s not what I—”
“I swear to all four celestials and the banished star god herself, Cedric, if you think—”
“Enough!” barked the king.
Silence slammed down on the room like a hammer.
The king’s gaze cut to Elyria. “Lady Lightbreaker. Your presence in Kingshelm is most welcome. Your presence here during a meeting of my council, however, is a courtesy.”
“Indeed,” agreed Lord Church. “If you cannot contain yourself, perhaps you are better served waiting outside until you’ve remembered how to behave like a proper representative of your realm. Like a true victor.”
Elyria inhaled—one quick, sharp breath through her nose.
The tension in the room was so thick, Cedric was sure the dagger still stabbed into the tabletop could have cut through it.
Kit’s mismatched eyes widened. She laid a soft hand on Elyria’s forearm.
Wood scraped against stone as Elyria rose from her seat, pushing her chair behind her.
For a split second, Cedric saw fear flash in the king’s eyes.
But there was that mask, already sliding into place, burying Elyria’s ire beneath a placid smile. Nodding, the Revenant simply said, “Of course, Your Majesty. My deepest apologies. I shall take my leave so Lady Ravenswing, Lord Jaen, and the council can discuss these logistics in peace.”
Cedric’s heart thudded as she exited the room, the strength with which she wrenched the door open—and subsequently slammed it—the only sign of her true feelings.
An awkward silence settled over the chamber. Lord Church watched Cedric with a raised brow. He gave a faint shake of the head, the meaning behind it clear: Cedric was not to pursue her.
He rose from his chair anyway.
“By your leave, Your Majesty, I believe I can help bring her around.” Cedric was already moving to follow Elyria from the room when the king gave a nod of assent—the movement sluggish, like all this arguing had already exhausted him.
Lord Church didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a move to stop him. But Cedric caught a glimpse of his expression just before the council doors swung shut, and it spoke volumes.