12. The Price of Power #2
Eltoar looked at Alvira as though she were attempting to trick him. “That makes no sense, Alvira.”
“I’d rather not explain twice. Once the council arrive, you’ll know what I know.”
“Ahhh…” Eltoar pursed his lips. He said no more, but Aeson could feel the mood shift around him.
The conflict between the First Sword and the council of The Order was an open secret.
More so, Eltoar Daethana’s opposition to the council’s decisions was not a position he held alone.
Aeson had overheard many such conversations amongst more than just the Draleid.
Mages, guards, soldiers, whenever cups were emptied it was always the first point of argument.
Alvira didn’t say a word in return, but the look they exchanged cast the chamber in silence.
Quite a while passed before the sound of footfalls drifted in through the doors, and all eight council members strode in together, an escort of Highguard and Battlemages at their side.
What struck Aeson more than anything else was that each of the council was garbed as though they were to take an audience with a king.
The sun had set some hours before, and he would have expected at least some of the council to be garbed in bedrobes.
Either they had slept in their fine clothes, or they had not come when called and instead taken the time to don their finest silks and jewellery.
“What is the meaning of this?” one of the councillors said as they reached the centre of the atrium.
He was an elf, Councillor Thoren Kalas, Aeson believed.
His hair was black as night and hung at his elbows, his shoulders narrow, eyes a shimmering gold that matched the trim of his silken robes.
As the elf moved, he seemed to clink, and a closer look revealed to Aeson that the ringlets of solid gold were actually woven into the robes.
“What travesty has occurred that could not wait until morning?”
“Those robes, I believe.” Eltoar’s hushed voice was loud enough that it could never have been intended as a whisper.
“Witty as always, Daethana.” The elf’s lips drew into a thin line, and he rolled his eyes.
“Could you not find any more gold, Councillor Thoren? I could fetch some if you like?”
“Enough of this.” The man who stepped forwards was one Aeson knew well – Councillor Matharius, the single longest serving councillor in over a century.
Many passed in and out – such as Thoren Kalas, who had only been re-elected that same year – but Councillor Matharius had held his seat on the council for decades running.
The man had seen his sixtieth summer, and he could not hold the Spark to keep the passing time at bay.
His dark skin was wrinkled and his hair grey as stone.
He was one of the few who wore clothes that didn’t look more expensive than a war horse.
The other councillors gathered round as Matharius stepped forwards. “What matter is of such urgency, Archon, that we are to be woken in the middle of the night? Have the Karvosi returned?”
Alvira gestured to Willam.
“I took to wing as soon as our spies reported, Councillors.” The Draleid bowed slightly at the waist, turning so as to pass his gaze across all eight of the councillors.
“The King of Aerilon has set three hundred ships to sail, all packed to the gills. Aerilon flies the banners of war. They intend to burn the city of Orinhale to the ground. The king calls for no survivors.”
“Orinhale?” One of the councillors gave a bemused look, her sharp features tightening as she adjusted a crimson cloak draped over her shoulders. The clasp bore a massive blue gemstone that looked almost painful to bear. “Why Orinhale? That seems a waste of time.”
“Where even is Orinhale?” another man asked, his arms folded across his chest, a disinterested look upon his face. “Could someone care to explain why this is worth disturbing our sleep? Wars happen every day, we are not the custodians of every squabble from here to the ocean.”
“That is precisely what we are,” Alvira said. She did not raise her voice, but her tone sent a shiver up Aeson’s spine.
“Councillor Charis does have a point,” Matharius said, raising an open palm.
“Wars have been breaking out across the continent of late. You yourself have argued against The Order’s heavy hand.
In this very chamber, might I add. Quite fervently.
‘We are not the enforcers of kings and queens’, I believe the First Sword said.
” He raised an eyebrow at Eltoar. “Has that changed?”
“This is not the same.”
“And how so?”
“The prince of Orinhale has awayed with a princess of Aerilon. They wed in secret three moons past. King Inthisar learned of the transgression last night.” Alvira came a few steps closer.
“This is not a war, Councillors. This is a man’s fragile ego ending the lives of tens of thousands from slighted pride. ”
“Hmmm.” Another of the councillors, an elf dressed in more silver than Aeson had ever seen in his life, stroked his chin. “It sounds to me that the prince of Orinhale should have considered his people before considering his own desires. What business have The Order in matters of family feuds?”
“Family feuds?” It was not Alvira who spoke this time, but Eltoar.
“This is about the tens of thousands of innocent souls in Orinhale, not the ill judgement of naive princes with more gold than sense. Orinhale is a kingdom by name only. Aerilon’s army alone holds greater number than Orinhale’s entire population.
Aerilon’s mages are some of the strongest in the continent.
This will be a slaughter.” He turned to Alvira.
“Archon, we must act immediately. I ask permission to take to wing within the hour. I will need three others. That is all. We can reach Orinhale before those ships. With our presence, the king will not attack.”
“And what if he does?” Counillor Thoren asked. “What if King Inthisar takes umbrage with our intervention and decides to attack?”
“Then he takes umbrage.” Eltoar said, shaking his head as though speaking to a child who had just attempted to put a square peg in a round hole. “If he decides to attack the Draleid, he will learn the truth of our strength, and the outcome will be the same.”
“So it is fine to burn the soldiers of Aerilon for the idiocy of their king but not to allow harm come to Orinhale for that of their prince?”
Eltoar scratched at his head, biting at his lip before letting out a soft laugh that set Aeson’s back straight. Aeson had never borne witness to a council meeting before, but this seemed more like the Narvírinín – the elven meeting of commanders before a battle.
“Does this amuse you, Eltoar?” Matharius asked.
“No,” the First Sword said. “I’m simply trying to decide if Councillor Thoren is trying intentionally to goad me or if he was just born thick as a castle wall.”
“You watch your tongue!” Thoren snapped. “Or I’ll have it taken from you.”
Something in the air went cold in that moment, and Eltoar moved like Aeson had seen him do in battle: swiftly and without hesitation.
The First Sword rounded on Thoren, but he did not raise his voice or snap.
He spoke with enviable composure. “Come and take it, Councillor. I am eager to see if that sword of yours is wrought from silver or steel.”
The Highguard who had entered the chambers with the councillors all stepped forwards, and Aeson could feel the Battlemages drawing from the Spark.
Councillor Thoren brushed aside his robes to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword. “It is about time that the—”
A roar like no other shook the council chamber as though Varyn himself had reached through the veil between worlds and grabbed the Tower of Faith in his own hands.
An enormous crack sounded, and the tower shook again, Thoren Kalas’ robes jingling.
A second roar followed, and Aeson thought he could physically see some of the Highguard shit their smallclothes.
One even dropped his sword, the clattering steel echoing in the open atrium.
Through Lyara’s eyes, Aeson saw Helios perched atop the golden dome that capped the chamber, the tower groaning under his immense weight. The dragon snaked his neck around towards the chamber’s entrance where Dylain and Farwen stood next to two score more Highguard who had accompanied the council.
“It is time you remember, Councillor, from where The Order’s strength is derived.
” Eltoar took two more steps, both echoing like drumbeats.
“The people of Orinhale deserve protection from the tyranny of idiot kings and braindead princes. And you speak of them as though they are little more than stalks of corn in a field. I will not have it.”
For a moment Aeson thought Thoren would buckle like a copper clip, but in between shifting his gaze from Eltoar to the golden dome above, the councillor seemed to find a spine somewhere within his body.
“Is that a threat, Eltoar? Does the First Sword of the Draleid threaten a member of the council?”
Eltoar looked to Alvira. Both of their stares were unreadable.
“No.” The smile that stretched across Eltoar’s lips was sharp as a sword. “That is not our way, Councillor. Besides it would be a shame to get blood all over those pretty, pretty robes.”
As though responding to Eltoar’s words, the chamber shook again, Helios shifting atop it, a pulsing click sounding in his throat and reverberating through the dome.
“I just wish to remind you that you stand in this chamber and speak to the Archon of the Draleid. And advise you to measure your respect accordingly.”
After a short silence, Alvira moved next to Eltoar. “It is my wish to fly with Eltoar and three others to Orinhale and prevent what will undoubtedly be a massacre. Is the council saying that they would rather let innocent people die?”
All the councillors with the exception of Matharius snapped their heads towards the dome as Helios shifted again, the sounds of creaking metal leaching into the chamber.