Iron Elf - A Race Reborn (Book 2) (14 page)

Dagonet opened the closet door and peered at a sleeping Angrod. He’d offered to sleep on the floor, but the room wasn’t secure. No telling when the queen might visit.

In truth, Dagonet had been glad not to leave the palace that night. The guards were very good and their patrols were unpredictable. She’d almost been caught getting inside—better to leave another day.

She looked at the slumbering prince. He lay faceup, with his head upon his arm. It was the left arm, the flesh-and-blood arm. Her fingers twitched—she was aware of the knives in her belt. It would be the work of a moment to stab his heart and cut his throat.

The banquet was surprisingly small—you could seat all the guests at one table. The king was already supposed to have gone into seclusion so this dinner wasn’t anything official. It was simply the last chance for the combatants to settle their differences peacefully. With Tamril on my arm I received the guests in the main hall. Vitus stayed close at my request.

First to arrive was Grahothy, captain of Arawn’s personal guard. Those were three hundred of the best riders and marksmen I’d ever seen and their captain was very possibly the best of them. He wore competence the way most people wore clothes.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed. “I hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all,” I said. He lived in the barracks.

Next were four young women who looked to be sisters. They were covered in tattoos and I realized they were the priestesses who’d saved Heronimo’s life. Vitus whispered, “Morgawse, Cerdwen, Nivian, and Sophia. The Sorceress-Queens of Capra.” They glided toward me in thin, high-waisted dresses.

Tamril pouted. “I can’t believe you didn’t let me dress centaur-style. I’ll be upstaged at my own party.”

“You wanted to go topless? With a pair of snakes as fashion accessories?”

“Plus skirt and sleeves. I wouldn’t have shown that much skin. Are you saying I don’t have the breasts for it?”

“No, I—”

“Or maybe you want them all to yourself?” She pinched my cheek. “You’re sweet.”

“My king,” said Morgawse, the tallest priestess. She had green tattoos and a hard beauty. “Blessings of the earth be upon you. May the road rise up to meet you.”

“May the sun shine warm upon your face,” said Cerdwen. Red hair and tattoos.

“May the rain fall soft upon your fields,” said Nivian. Orange tattoos and deep liquid eyes.

“Hello!” The last priestess waved. “I’m wearing a party dress!” She laughed. Her blue tattoos shimmered. “It’s my first party dress, and this is my first party. Will there be cake? Ooh! And games?”

“Sophia,” Morgawse said. “Let’s look at the tapestries, shall we?”

And they led her by the hand.

“You’ll recall what they did the last time you were here,” Vitus said. “Sophia got the worst of it.”

Caprans were able to break a man down into his component molecules and put him back better than before. There was a price, however. Arawn told me the priestesses risked losing their memory.

“Is she—?”

“She was in a coma for five years. Then seven years of physical therapy, learning to walk and talk again. Part of the job.”

I frowned. I owed Arawn a lot.

“Stennik the Magnificent and Bedvir,” Vitus said. “Your court alchemist and field marshal.”

“Your Highness.” Stennik was short and had a headful of curls. “I’m pleased to be part of the mix.”

“Your Majesty.” Bedvir wore the same kind of tunic and trousers as I did, but seemed to stand as though in full armour.

“Field marshal,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here. Now the party can begin.”

He bowed and moved on. I watched him go. “I’ll bet he saves a lot of money on backrests.”

“Now we wait for Prime Minister Medroth and his champion,” said Tamril.

“Could you go see the other guests, dear? I would speak with my adviser.”

When she had gone I turned to Vitus. “I still don’t know why your government wants to invade. Care to help me with that?”

“Did Arawn tell you? Then I can’t tell you. My instructions were to train you and to reveal as little as possible. Why should I speak state secrets when we could be at war a year from now?”

“Why must it be war? Can’t we work things out?”

“You control things I cannot name but which caprans badly need.”

“It’s not souls, is it? Just wondering. You know, the horns and the hooves.”

“We are not demons. We are caprans. Long-lived but ultimately mortal. Don’t rely on mythology so much.”

We heard another carriage pulling up. The last of our guests.

“I don’t suppose they know why they’re invading, do they?”

“I wouldn’t advise asking them,” Vitus said. “You could get lucky and it will come out in conversation. But if you’re a man of your word you will do your best to avoid discovery.”

I turned to get a look at the man I was supposed to kill.

CHAPTER 13: ANGROD

No man may call himself brave until he has been tested—until he has stood before danger and found his courage. I have fought Elendil assassins. I have faced wyverns of the sea and forest. I considered myself reasonably brave, but any man can be a coward in the right circumstances.

And apparently, these were the circumstances I had. I’d watched the prime minister and his champion from a distance. “Medroth is small for a capran, isn’t he?”

“What are you talking about?”

As the two approached I saw that Medroth was taller than I was, and I’m not a short guy. He only looked small next to his companion. The champion stood head and shoulders above him, but he was so well-proportioned you couldn’t tell how big he was from a distance. He didn’t lumber. Neither did he walk with the exaggerated caution large men develop. He simply moved. As though the world was the right size for him and we were the pygmies.

“That’s Hafgan,” Vitus said. “Medroth’s son and our greatest warrior after the king himself.”

“And Arawn knew it would be him?” I was about to curse, but then the two guests were before me.

“Your Majesty,” Medroth said. “Blessings be upon this house.” He bowed deeply and his son did the same.

“Gentlemen,” I said. “Welcome.”

It was easy enough to get along with them. I’d dabbled in politics for years so I was used to dealing with people who might want me dead. Medroth’s and Hafgan’s honesty was refreshing.

“I would not have chosen my son if I weren’t serious, my king,” said Medroth. “But then, you already know why we need what the elves have.”

“Of course. I’ve heard your reasons before.”

“Which is why it saddens me that you disagree. Surely, as protector of our race you care about securing its future? We cannot move forward unless we invade.”

We sat around a circular table in the Great Hall. Vitus was on my right and Morgawse was on my left. Sophia was next to her, and Morgawse was cutting up her food for her. Bedvir and Stennik discussed military potions and I wished I could hear them better. Medroth, Tamril, and Hafgan sat opposite from me. She was doing her best to enliven the party but Hafgan mostly picked at his food. Grahothy sat between Cerdwen and Nivian and told them about army life.

The food was good and well-presented but nowhere as elaborate as what an elven aristo would demand. There were no dishes chosen for novelty rather than taste—no viands that would poison you unless you ate them properly. Nothing was dusted in gold and nothing held its shape thanks to a wizard’s will. It was all simple, rustic, and delicious. The vegetables were fresh from the king’s own garden. The meat was from the nearby forests. I recognized the venison stew and game pie from my last visit. Soon I was pleasantly full.

“My father ith right.” Hafgan had a slight lisp. “If we do not take drastic steps we shall stagnate and go the way of the centaur. As our king you should be leading us through the portals.”

“It is not the capran way to strike from ambush.” I hoped it was true. “It is dishonourable to attack a kingdom without declaring war. It is also a recipe for bitter fighting.”