20. On My Honour
Chapter Twenty
On My Honour
The cold rain tapped at Alvira’s exposed skin, drowning out the world around her, and in it she found a moment of serenity.
The scales of Vyldrar’s snout were warm against her forehead and her hands, the world dark around them with their eyes closed.
In that moment, beneath the shadow of Tanovar’s Arena, for the first time in years, she felt as though she wasn’t drowning.
Eluna had taken many of the eggs to safety in Vindakur, Kollna had placed the runes, and perhaps, with just a little bit of luck, Tarast would bring her what she needed before the games closed.
Eltoar’s faith in her may have been at its lowest, but she would find his trust again.
She would show him that there were many ways to fix what was broken, and that the way they chose mattered.
If the Draleid simply turned against the council without proof of their actions, Epheria would see them as nothing but traitors.
She would do as Eltoar wanted, but she would do it the right way.
Alvira let out a long breath and opened her eyes, staring up at her soulkin.
Vyldrar stood before her, his eyes blazing like the sun, the warmth of his breath holding the chill of the rain at bay.
About them, people ran through the downpour, garbed in heavy cloaks or holding coats above their heads, many stopping to bow or hold their hands to their hearts.
The dragon paid them no heed. The entirety of his focus belonged to Alvira.
They would make things right.
After some time, when Alvira’s hair was soaked to her skin and her tunic was saturated, wingbeats sounded overhead. She lifted her gaze to see Tarast’s soulkin, Antala, descend into the open plaza, her copper wings glowing with the setting sun at her back.
Antala touched the stone with practiced grace, her wings spreading wide, her eyes fixing on Vyldrar.
The rain continued to sheet as Tarast dropped from his soulkin’s back, a thick, hooded cloak shielding him.
The man jogged to Alvira, untying the strings of his cloak as he did.
“Archon, what madness has you out here in only a tunic?”
Alvira gestured for him to keep his cloak. “Sometimes it’s just nice to feel the world around you. Did you bring it?”
“It’s in the inside pocket,” he said as he ignored Alvira and threw the cloak around her shoulders. “The games will end shortly. I will come with you.”
“I would appreciate that. Is she willing to stand before a tribunal?”
“She is.”
“Good.” Alvira patted her hand against the outside of the cloak, feeling the envelope within. She looked to Tarast, deep into his eyes and wrapped her arms around him. “You will never know what your faith in me means. Thank you, Tarast.”
“My blade is yours, Alvira. And thank you for trusting me with this.”
Alvira pulled away. “Let us find Councillor Kalas.” Resting a hand on Vyldrar’s scales, she said, “Wait for us here. We will not be long.”
The dragon pushed his snout into her chest, shaking the rain from his head. He puffed a warm breath of defiance.
“Watch from the sky then. But do not intervene unless there is no other choice. Tarast and I can handle ourselves.”
Again the dragon pushed his snout into Alvira. The world had always been a dangerous place, but it had grown darker of late, and confronting Thoren Kalas in this way carried greater risk than Vyldrar wished to take. He wanted her to confront Kalas in the open, where his flames could reach.
“We need situation we can control. We’ve spoken of this.” Alvira pushed his snout away. “Go.”
As Alvira and Tarast walked through the rain towards the arena, the pair of the dragons took the sky, the rain swirling in their wingbeats.
Rapturous applause broke out from within the arena’s bounds.
“Not long,” Alvira said, looking up at the enormous statues of past champions that ringed the structure’s exterior.
They moved quickly, inclining their heads to the guards who stood at the main gates, the sight of Vyldrar and Antala enough to mark them as Draleid.
The primary thoroughfare was devoid of faces, only a few solitary souls leaving early, some drunk, some in a hurry.
They made their way into the outer corridors, then up through the stairwells towards where Alvira knew Thoren Kalas’s viewing box was situated.
Another cheer rang out, and the whole structure shook from the sound of stomping feet.
Six Highguard in full plate stood outside the double doors to Thoren’s box, every one of them straightening at the sight of Alvira and Tarast, likely as much at Alvira’s saturated clothes and hair as anything else.
“Archon.” The captain pressed a closed fist to his chest before also inclining his head to Tarast.
“Councillor Kalas is inside?”
“He is Archon, but—”
The man cut off his own sentence as Alvira made to push through the door.
“Archon, Councillor Kalas is not taking an audience right now…” His voice trailed off at Alvira’s stare.
Alvira inclined her head and moved past the Highguard, Tarast at her back.
Councillor Kalas was already standing and preparing to leave when Alvira entered. The look of shock on his face was one she savoured. The two Highguard who stood on either side of him stood to attention.
“Give us and the Councillor a few moments alone, Danila, would you?”
The Highguard on the Councillor’s left gave a short nod. “As you wish, Archon.”
“You are to stay at your post,” Thoren snapped, grabbing Danila’s shoulder.
Danila looked to Alvira, who inclined her head towards the door.
“What is the meaning of this?” Thoren held out his arms as the two Highguard left the box and closed the door behind them.
“You wouldn’t want them to hear what is about to be said.”
The councillor backed towards the balcony of his box as Alvira moved closer, Tarast keeping watch at the door. “Whatever you have been told, it is a lie.”
“That seems broad.” Alvira tilted her head, looking over the elf’s face, seeing the worry in his eyes. “Surely you are guilty of something.”
She let Thoren fester in his own worry for a moment before removing the envelope from the inner pocket of Tarast’s coat. She held it out.
“What is it?”
“Read it.”
His shaking hand betraying him, Thoren Kalas took the envelope, opened it, and read it to himself. Alvira watched as face went pale. “I was not a part of this. I wasn’t, I swear it on my honour.”
“Does that mean anything when your honour is forfeit?”
The elf’s stare hardened. “My honour is intact.”
“You knew of it?”
His gaze darted to the letter once more, then to Alvira as he nodded slowly. “After the fact. But yes.”
Alvira took the letter back from Thoren’s hands.
“Where did you get that?”
“The wife of the Exucendi who copied the missives between Loik and Queen Valhira. She wasn’t that hard to track down.
The Exucendi went missing almost eight moons back.
Her wife was very upset to discover she had been taken into Heraya’s embrace.
She is willing to stand before a tribunal and name all members of the council and former Archon Thalumas as complicit in the orchestration of the siege of Vastillion for the purpose of extracting gold.
Every missive passed her eye because she is the Craftsmage who forged the paper upon which the copies were transcribed. ”
“Every member?” Thoren moved forward with his hands out wide. “I played no part in that.”
“Will you stand? Will you name Loik Hass and Thalumas, and the others?”
“I… What… Why are you doing this, Alvira?”
Alvira looked deep into the man’s eyes. She walked towards him, not stopping until his back pressed against the parapet of the balcony, and even then she leaned in so she could smell the grapes on his breath.
“Because fourteen of my kin died that day. A young apprentice, Maquil Darashír was ripped in half. His soulkin, Carasín, wrapped his body in hers as he fell, dying with him. Thousands upon thousands lost their lives. Men, women, children. Those on both sides. They died, and you did not lose a night of sleep. None of you did. They were people. People we had sworn to protect. And you let them be burned alive for gold. A wound was created in The Order that day, a wound that has never healed. And those involved will know justice.”
Thoren’s lips started to move, but before a word came out, he almost leapt from his skin as Vyldrar roared defiant thunder in the sky.
Alvira leaned even closer. “I could kill you here, push you from this balcony, and not one of those Highguard would bat an eye. Do you know why? Because they don’t respect you.
Swear on your honour that you will name Thalumas and Loik in a tribunal led by the people, and I will let you keep your life.
You will step down from the council, and you will return to Kavathíl.
And I will never look upon your face again. Swear it.”
Thoren swallowed hard, looking from Alvira to the letter in her hand and to Tarast at the door. He nodded. “I swear it.”
“On your honour.”
“On my honour.”
“Very well. A wise choice, Councillor Kalas.” She slipped the letter back into the envelope and placed both in the inside pocket of Tarast’s coat. “I will call upon you in a matter of days. If I hear a whisper of anything strange, I will find you. Do not test me.”
Alvira turned and made for the door, stopping as she opened it and turning back. “I do hope you enjoyed the games, Councillor Kalas. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Alvira and Tarast strode down the corridor and staircases towards the main entrance.
“Do you believe he was not involved?” Tarast asked, leaning in.
“Not for a second.”
“And we’re going to simply let him walk away after the tribunal?”
Alvira shook her head as they stepped out onto the primary thoroughfare. “He will burn in that tribunal just like Thalumas and any others involved. A new time is coming, Tarast. A time when even the council will answer for their crimes.”
The man smiled at her. “And what of Eltoar?”
“We will tell him once everything is arranged. I don’t want to go to him with anything less than a certainty.”
As they walked through the main gates, the sun was setting on the horizon, the rain still sheeting, and high in the sky, amidst darkening clouds, the moon had begun to shift, the twilight taking on a crimson hue.