20 No Faith
No Faith
“May His Majesty recover swiftly.”
Lord Emeric Lereaux’s words rang across the table. He began every council meeting this way now, as if it were mandatory.
The High Chancellor sat directly opposite Elijah, his usually shrewd face smoothed into something resembling prayer. Since being passed over for Regent, Lereaux had pandered to the Queen more with each passing day. This empty phrase was only the beginning.
“Yes,” Queen Mairese said, her eyes sliding towards her son. “One can only pray that it is not the same sickness that took his father, King Lucien, from us.”
At the far end of the table, the Noble Representative Lord Osric Holtane, shifted in his seat. It creaked under his massive weight.
Only the Queen could draw that sort of parallel aloud. Anyone else would be accused of treason.
Since his father had taken ill, his mother had been making too many mistakes like this. If Elijah had been appointed Regent, things would already look vastly different.
“The Three see all,” said Priestess Sorellia Dastane. Her white curls framed a pointed chin, her voice full of performative piety. “The King’s faith is strong, as is yours, my Queen. May they shine their grace upon him.”
Elijah resisted the urge to scoff. He couldn’t remember his father ever setting foot in a chapel by choice.
Lord Rhain Corven, a spindly man and Master of Coin, cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold, I feel it is of great importance—”
“You may not,” said Queen Mairese.
Lord Corven lowered his gaze.
“I have called this meeting to address the rise in violent behaviour within our great city walls,” the Queen continued. “No more than an hour ago, Master Kolborn was brutally murdered.”
Elijah straightened. “I presume the culprit has been apprehended?” he asked, turning to Lord Rennin Calder, the High Arbiter.
“There was no culprit,” said Calder, his shrewd eyes flicking to the Queen. “The official report will state that it was a tragic accident.”
“It was a demon.”
“Demons cannot enter our sacred city walls,” said Priestess Sorellia, in a tone more suited to soothing an infant. “There is nothing to fear from them.”
It was a monumental force of will that kept Elijah’s expression neutral. Across the table, Lereaux’s mouth twitched.
“If it was not a demon or an accident, what was it?” asked Holtane. He dabbed at his sweat-slicked brow with a handkerchief and tucked it into his waistcoat. The gold buttons strained against his expanding gut.
“Another reckless peasant,” Queen Mairese said dismissively.
“Or it was summoners,” Elijah replied, flicking an invisible speck from his sleeve.
“Summoners were wiped out with the rest of the mages in the fire, boy. Speak sense,” said Holtane.
Elijah turned his head slowly, locking eyes with the porky man. “Call me boy again, and I will have Lord Rourke escort you to the dungeons.”
At the door, Lord Halden Rourke, Commander of the King’s Guard, shifted. One hand slid to his sword, and he took a single step forward.
Holtane dipped his head, his multiple chins vanishing into his collar. “Apologies, my Prince.”
“What I want to know,” said the Queen, “is what we are doing about the violence. Let the peasants quarrel all they like, but Master Kolborn was under our direct employ. It cannot be known that a commoner bested the man tasked with training our guards.”
“I agree,” said Calder. “We do not want the people emboldened. Nor do we want them paranoid about demons skulking in the streets.”
Too late for that.
“If we must focus on threats,” said Corven, hesitantly raising a bony finger, “I would prefer we address the raiders. The demoncursed are striking towns with concerning efficiency. Meer was attacked several days ago. They lost half their winter stores. These Wastelanders are not a peasant mob.”
“Opportunists,” muttered Calder. “The demons strike first, and the raiders follow. Like carrion birds.”
“Or allies,” Elijah said. “Summoners weaken the defences and the raiders move in.” It was unlikely, but he wanted to see how they would react to the idea.
“How does one ally with a demon?” scoffed Lereaux. “The Wastelanders are more likely to partner with the mountain cats, beasts that they are. Come to think of it, I have heard the cats have been sighted in the eastern forest.”
“What do we care about wildcats?” Holtane grunted, waving his sausage-like fingers. “Send a hunter.”
“I like your way of thinking. My daughter could use a new rug,” replied Lereaux, grinning around the table, but avoiding Elijah’s eye.
A few people laughed but Elijah did not. If Erryn knew her father was pretending that they were on speaking terms, she would likely put a blade through the man’s throat.
“Lord Tilbrooke is growing restless,” Holtane continued. “He says the Crown sits idle while Allen’s mountain outposts burn.”
The Queen gave a tight smile. “Let him send coin instead of complaints. We are not in the business of charity.”
Corven grunted his approval.
“He’s the King’s cousin,” Holtane said, mouth agape.
“Third cousin.” The Queen replied. “And my uncle has not visited his King since he fell ill.”
Holtane’s gaze hardened and the Queen met it with equal ferocity. He looked away first.
Elijah leaned back in his chair. His mother had no intention of aiding anyone, common or noble.
If his father were here, reinforcements would already be on the road.
If he were Regent, he’d be riding with them.
Emboldened citizens could be managed. Emboldened Wastelanders were another problem entirely.
His gaze swept the room. The council continued to squabble like infants, each desperate for attention, each convinced their voice was the one that mattered most.
Self-serving fools.
Erryn risked her life every night in streets these men had never walked. Axel lost his title fighting for the people. Caerthalyn chewed up Willem as a child, and still he stood ready to defend it, and Vaelira… Well, she was still holding out on him.
He had tried to press her during patrol, to figure out why Galfri had shut him out, but she gave him nothing. He thought the dagger might prove she could trust him. Instead, she had looked at it like he had driven it through her chest.
He clenched his fists.
Across the table, Lereaux was watching the Queen.
There was something in his eyes Elijah couldn’t place.
It was too calm, too calculating. The man had always been impossible to read, but something about the quiet way he watched her made him uneasy.
It made him question the smirk Lereaux let slip earlier.
Elijah’s jaw ached from how tightly he had been clenching it. The conversation had veered to betrothals, but it faded behind the pulsing in his ears. They were gossiping while people were dying in their streets.
He stood, his chair scraping against the polished stone, and the conversation stopped.
“My Lords, Lady” he said, then turned to the Queen. “My Queen.” He bent slightly at the waist and strode out of the room. No one objected to his abrupt departure.
He stalked through the palace, the joints in his hands aching as his flexed his fingers.
Let them pray, let them fixate on the wrong threats. He had no faith left in any of them. If they wouldn’t act, he’d stop pretending they had a say in any of it.
Outside, the crisp night air cooled his skin. He descended the palace steps, left a message with one of his men at the gate, and pulled up his hood. Then he turned towards Old Town.