Wrath of Lions (18 page)

“Fittingly, the Dezren created a paradise within Paradise. And our people…our people were not amused. It seemed as though our creator were choosing them over us.…We Quellans were being punished again, just as we had been a thousand years earlier, when the last of our winged horses were destroyed during the Demon War. We were being punished for our
strength
. Why should the weak be rewarded with the goddess’s assistance, our people said, when we had worked our fingers to the bone to create our city?”

There was no derision in the Neyvar’s tone as he told this tale, which struck Ceredon as odd.

“Do you not agree with this?” he asked.

“No,” Neyvar Ruven replied. “I do not.”

Ceredon shook his head but remained silent, allowing his father to continue.

“To be honest,” he said finally, “I felt for our poor cousins. Our way of life is vastly different from theirs. While we Quellan have always taken pride in our strength, hard work, and physical prowess, the Dezren followed a different path. We are hunters and warriors, whereas they are poets, musicians, and mystics. While we built architectural marvels and learned to manipulate the land with our hands, they honed their connection to the magic that is woven
throughout this land. We once balanced each other out; we taught them to build with their hands, and they instructed the few spellcasters among our own people. When our singers sing, it is the songs of the Dezren that flow from their mouths.” He sighed. “The coming of the brother gods changed that. They…disrupted things somehow. The connection our Dezren brethren had to the weave was weakened. Where once they could conjure great orbs of fire, command the lightning in the sky, and cause barren fields to suddenly take to seed, now it is all they can do to light a torch with their fingers or nurture a few plants to adulthood. I assume Celestia helped them erect this city out of pity.”

Ceredon looked at his father in wonder. “But why did this occur? What happened to their magic?”

“The gods took it. Think of it, son. We now have two deities walking on this land. The power it required to create their physical forms must have been massive. They are weakened in their current states, which has made them sieves for magical energy. They draw it into themselves, slowly rebuilding their strength so they might one day regain their lost might. There is not an unlimited supply of anything in the universe, including magic. Balance, my son, everything must have balance. The arrival of the two gods destroyed the balance in the land of Dezrel.”

“I see,” Ceredon said, nodding.

“However, I am in the minority of those who feel this way. Most of our people look down on the Dezren. They feel we have been disowned by our goddess and creator. They gape at this sparkling city and wonder why we were left to fend for ourselves by the sea. Then the anger runs deeper, and they wonder why we were forced to abandon our homes at all for that lesser race of humans. They question the fairness of it.”

“And you do not?”

The Neyvar smiled a sad smile. “I have. I have questioned everything. It is in my nature to do so. However, I came to peace with
our status in this land long ago. I know Celestia loves us, even if she does not show it. I choose to think the goddess is challenging us because of our strength, not punishing us for it. But many think differently. We are the apex, they say, so we should take what we want rather than bending to the whims of a goddess that does not love us anymore. Then, a full four seasons ago, the opportunity to do just that came calling.

“That was when Karak’s Highest, Clovis Crestwell, visited Quellassar with a proposal for the Triad, a proposal that was finalized by his son and the Triad soon after the betrothal. His plan was to crush the western god and the Paradise he had created. If we assisted him and his people, Karak would grant us whatever land we desired, upon his victory. We came here under the pretense of friendship, becoming conquerors instead.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and Ceredon had to lean close to his father’s lips just to hear him. “If not for the brother gods’ damage of the weave, the Dezren would have crushed us with their magic the moment we attempted to usurp them. But instead they have
become
the weaker race that many have always assumed they were.” His eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Sometimes I wonder if this was Celestia’s design all along. A final test we have failed.”

Ceredon sat back, shaking his head. “I am truly lost, Father,” he said. “Why tell me all this now? Why enslave this city and its people when you don’t believe it is right…or righteous?”

When the Neyvar looked at him then, his eyes had regained their hardness.

“I am the leader of my people. It is my duty to carry out the wishes of the best and brightest among us, even if I do not agree. And I tell you now because you are to one day replace me. I am nearly five hundred years old, son. I will not live forever. You must know how to lead, how to sacrifice your personal beliefs for the good of the Quellan Empire. If you do not, our cousins will destroy you.”

“I thought you said the Dezren were helpless?”

“Not the Dezren.
My
cousins, your second cousins. The Triad, Ceredon.”

Ceredon gaped at his father. The Triad consisted of Conall, Aeson, and Iolas Sinistel. They had held the Neyvar’s ear for two hundred years, offering him counsel during times of strife. But the way he spoke of them in that moment…there was fear hidden beneath the Neyvar’s outward confidence.

“Are you saying the Triad forced you to do this?”

“I said nothing of the sort. Though there are times, far too many now, when their power overshadows mine.”

“So if you had your choice, you would not have overtaken this city?”

Neyvar Ruven did not reply. He simply grunted and turned his back to his son.

“Our time here is done,” he said, gazing once more at the bright city beyond the solarium’s windowpane. “Leave me.”

“Very well, Father,” he replied.

“One last thing,” said the Neyvar as Ceredon was about to get up and leave.

“What is it?”

“There will be other raids, ones that have nothing to do with the rebellion. Conall is steadfast in his desire to show his strength for…what comes later. Do not interfere with those like you have others. They will involve humans, not elves. And the affairs of elves should always retain primacy in our hearts.”

Ceredon bowed, replaced his chair, and left the solarium. He thought he heard his father, the great and powerful Neyvar of the Quellan Empire, moaning quietly as he walked away. A rush of embarrassment flooded him, followed by disappointment. This was what his father truly was? Not some immovable beacon of strength, but a tired, broken old elf? Who was he to bemoan his fate?
Aullienna had remained hopeful and defiant despite her imprisonment and the murder of her people. Then it struck him.

“Do not interfere with those like you have others.…”

So his father knew. Of Ceredon’s role in the Dezren’s escaping the dungeons, his slaying of the Ekreissar ranger…he knew it all. Ice formed across Ceredon’s spine as he stood unmoving in the stairwell, trying to understand what it meant. He viewed the lengthy speech in a new light, and one part in particular stood out above all else.

“There are times, far too many now, when their power overshadows mine.”

Conall, Aeson, Iolas. The Triad, his father’s cousins. They were the ones who pulled the great leader’s strings; they were the ones who’d ordered the torture and murder of so many innocent Dezren. His father didn’t want Ceredon to offer him absolution or pity. No, he wanted to refocus Ceredon’s rage, to give him a target worthy of such a risk. The Triad would pay, and pay with pain. All Ceredon needed was the opportunity…and a wickedly sharp knife.

C
HAPTER

8

V
elixar ignored those around him as he stared at his own reflection. He was pleased with what he saw. He looked like the leader of men he’d always known he was meant to be, his long black hair greased and tied back from his scalp, his face dashed with fine powder that lightened his usually tanned complexion. His clothes—horsehide breeches sun-splashed to a golden brown and a pale blouse bearing Karak’s sigil beneath a heavy black doublet woven with metal rings—had been specially made for the occasion by the Castle of the Lion’s most talented seamstress. The sword hanging from his hip was also custom made—the steel strong but nearly weightless, the pommel carved from moonstone in the shape of a yawning lion, fashioned so that his fingers were engulfed in the lion’s mouth when he clutched it. He’d dubbed the blade
Lionsbane
, a fitting name for a sword that would help bring about the victory of his god.

Velixar stepped back from the mirror. He was in Tower Honor’s rectory, where each day servants prepared the Highest’s garments, stirred the ceremonial wine, and copied onto parchment the articles of Karak’s law that were to be read before the royal court.
Large tomes of law were stacked on an oaken slab engraved with claw marks and red roses. The space was large and lavish, each countertop holding jar upon jar of incense, and the walls hung with portraits of Karak. The cupboards were filled with spices, carafes of wine, and clay ewers packed with ryegrass and fennel. The windows were stained glass, each depicting a scene of the gods’ arrival in Dezrel. The floor was solid marble, the swirls of dark brown, black, and crimson playing across the expanse like dust in a high wind.

The rectory teemed with activity, the servants bustling to and fro, lighting candles, creating bouquets of flowers, fixing the hair of the young girls who would be carrying bouquets. It was like they were gearing up for an extravagant wedding, but in truth, the preparations were for the ceremony to present the new Highest to the people. Though many in the ruling class knew of Velixar’s position, it had never been announced publicly. His time in the sun was about to begin.

The door to the rectory swung open, and the servants stopped what they were doing, bowing low when Oscar Wellington stepped inside. The soldier’s mail rattled with every step he took. Oscar was young and eager, and each time Velixar looked into his eyes, he saw only loyalty. He had been second in command of the Palace Guard when Velixar handpicked him to take command of Harlan Handrick’s unit. The jawless man had hung himself in a back alley.
A lowly death for a lowly cretin,
he’d thought.
No loss.
Velixar had randomly selected fifteen other men who had taken part in the decimation of Erznia and gutted them in front of the castle. Now their bodies hung beside those of the other traitors. It was a hard lesson, but one the rest of the fighting men needed to learn. According to what Oscar had told him in the weeks since he’d assumed command, they had. Velixar’s orders were to be followed, always and forever.

Oscar dragged Lanike Crestwell into the room behind him. The noblewoman appeared flushed and frantic, her cobalt, sapphire-encrusted dress askew. Curls from the mop atop her head drooped
into her eyes. He could tell she wanted to brush them away, but Captain Wellington held both her wrists.

“Here she is, Highest, as you requested,” Oscar said with a bow, shoving Lanike toward him.

Velixar caught her by the shoulders, keeping her upright. The woman’s teeth rattled as she stared up at him. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and he noticed a few of those loose curls were sticking to a small gash on her forehead.

“You hurt her?” he asked, leveling his gaze at Oscar.

The young captain appeared unflustered.

“We did not, sir. She tried to get away when we took her from the keep. She slipped on the cobblestones and struck her head. Not a hand was laid on her other than to pick her up and haul her here, I promise.”

He sensed no lie in the man, although it was hard to tell for certain. His ability to read the truth, a gift from Ashhur, had been slowly fading ever since he turned his back on the god in the delta. In its place, his ability to traverse the shadows was growing in potency, though it was nowhere near as strong as he would have liked it to be.

He forcibly moved Lanike to the side. “Very well, Captain Wellington. Shall I see you at the rite?”

“Of course you will, sir. The whole of Veldaren will be there, and my unit will be front and center, marching you through the city and cheering you on.”

“They will not be your unit for much longer,” he replied.

Oscar appeared confused. “Is that so, sir?”

“Yes. The unit will remain in Neldar, under command of the acolytes, to scour the kingdom for those who have not yet volunteered for service.”

“Am I not to stay with them?”

“No, Oscar, for I have need of you. You are a man deserving of the title and privilege of the Highest’s Right Hand.”

The young soldier froze for a moment, then beamed.

“Thank you, Highest. Thank you!”

The servants hurriedly climbed to their feet and continued with their preparations as Captain Wellington stood, offered a sturdy bow, and then swept out of the rectory. Velixar felt a swell of pride as he watched the young man go. Deep down he knew he’d made the correct choice.

He heard whimpering beneath the clamor of hustling feet and clanking pottery. Turning to the side, he saw that Lanike Crestwell was slowly moving toward the rectory’s side exit, her hands held before her, her head down. Her wild auburn curls blocked her face. She looked like a woman who thought the whole world would disappear if only she could blind herself to it. It was pathetic.

“Come over here, Lanike,” he said. She froze, her body shaking, and then shuffled forward, the soles of her feet never truly leaving the ground. Velixar reached out and swept the hair from her eyes. Taking a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his armored doublet, he spat on it and proceeded to wipe away the tears from her cheeks and the dried blood from her forehead.

“All of you, leave,” he said, raising his voice, and the servants scurried away. He returned his attention to Lanike. “Why did you run?” he asked.

Lanike opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her sprite’s face caved in on itself in despair, and she broke down completely.