Divided (#1 Divided Destiny) (19 page)

Eleanor couldn’t quite hide her amusement, hugging the silent knowledge that she was responsible for all of this to her like a comforting warm drink on a winter’s night. The dragon would not be attacking tonight; it would never attack Termont without direction. She wanted to force Prince Edmund to capitulate, to agree to her deal, and he couldn’t do that if he was burned to a crisp. Ashes on the floor could not bow to her and hand over the kingdom.

She lingered near an open window to the garden and tried to look as unapproachable as possible. Social gatherings like this were about status. It wasn’t just who was invited and who was not, but every single aspect of the evening would be scrutinized for weeks afterward. The petty politics of thoughtless comments, who snubbed who on the dance floor or over drinks—and that was just the social aspect. Occasions like this could be an excuse for far more serious business, especially given the current climate.

Discussion of peace, talks of treaties both militaristic and economic, were all held behind closed doors, the participants stepping into the shadows, away from the bright lights of the ball, to hide their clandestine meetings. Given the onerous nature of travel for those not gifted with magic, it only made sense to accomplish as much as possible. The visiting nobles could enjoy both the evening and have news to return to their kingdom, whether for good or ill.

It had been nearly an hour and Eleanor was bored. She had passed the time by employing witty comments—and targeted barbs—to those who had tried to engage her in conversation. One of the minor royals from the Northern Kingdoms had flushed in anger down the back of their neck. It was entertaining to watch, but these nobles weren’t who she wanted to bait this evening. She still hadn’t caught sight of King Oswald or his heir, Prince Frederick.

Finally, a footman stepped in front of her. He bowed. “Queen Eleanor, Prince Edmund asks that you join him in the library.”

“I’d be delighted.” Eleanor impatiently waved her hand, gesturing for the footman to lead her. He weaved his way through the ballroom, then back out the doors and down a quiet corridor. Halfway down, there was another set of double doors. The footman pushed both open.

“Queen Eleanor, your Majesty.” The footman bowed once more.

Eleanor strode into the room, hiding the smirk that threatened to cross her features. Both King Oswald and his fool of a son were already present. The good king was sitting in a wing-backed armchair, a goblet of wine clutched in his gluttonous hand. His red-and-gold robes, the colors of Gatlan, stretched hideously over his distended stomach. Eleanor’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

Why did kings always seem to let themselves become such disgusting examples of human flesh? His son was obediently standing just to the side of his father’s chair. He was dressed in the same colors, the livery of Gatlan, with a sword on his hip—every bit the dashing, dimwitted prince.

“Prince Edmund, you said you wished to talk,” Eleanor said, opening the conversation.

She opted not to sit in the chair opposite Oswald, left empty for her use. Instead, she wandered over to the nearest bookshelf and pretended to peruse the titles. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw King Oswald already start to flush red at her impudence. She hadn’t greeted them, and now she was not giving them her complete attention. How better to demonstrate that she felt that they were beneath her notice?

“Your respective kingdoms are at war, and that conflict is spilling over onto my border. My people are being forced to flee their homes,” Prince Edmund laid out bluntly. “I hoped that tonight we could discuss options for peace, to bring an end to this war.”

“Gatlan already sent a generous proposal,” King Oswald boomed. “Sintiya attacked us unprovoked, but we still offered my son’s hand in marriage. Gatlan also wishes for peace.”

“Sintiya has already sent a response to that...generous proposal,” Eleanor said softly, effecting a demure smile.

She peeked through her eyelashes. King Oswald’s jaw was twitching, but then, he and King Augustus were cut from the same cloth. He likely wasn’t used to a woman telling him no, not given his vaunted position.

“You refused!” King Oswald banged his goblet down onto the arm of the chair, slopping the wine everywhere.

Eleanor’s stomach roiled in disgust. “I am a queen,” she snapped, drawing herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing. This was an argument she did not want to fight more than once. “I would not marry your son if he were the last eligible bachelor in the known kingdoms.”

“You go too far.” Oswald attempted to leap up, but it took him three attempts to drunkenly haul his corpulent frame from the chair and get to his feet.

“That’s unfortunate, but let’s move on,” Prince Edmund suggested hastily. His eyes darted between Oswald and Eleanor, his hands raised in a pacifying gesture.

“Move on, after this insult?” Oswald shouted, his face cherry red. The vein on the top of his bald head started throbbing.

Eleanor barely stopped herself from clapping her hands together in glee. Instead, she maintained the picture of serenity in the face of Oswald’s rage. She knew that her lack of reaction would only infuriate him further. After a moment, she raised an eyebrow at the king’s continued tantrum and lack of decorum.

“I can see nothing further of use will be discussed tonight. Perhaps another time, when his Majesty has had a chance to sober up,” Eleanor sneered. She inclined her head in respect to Prince Edmund; her fight was not with him at this time. “Thank you for your time, it’s been a lovely evening. I wish you and your future bride well.”

“Thank you, Queen Eleanor.” Prince Edmund gave a half bow, while Oswald turned purple next to him.

Eleanor whirled around and headed for the door. The staff were well trained and heard her approach, opening it so she didn’t even have to pause her stride. Her objective was accomplished for the evening. She would return to her carriage, leave the city limits, and then teleport home in a flash of flame. She had no desire to remain at the ball; the hour she had already spent was quite enough.

*****

Throughout the whole exchange, Prince Frederick had remained silent. After Eleanor’s exit, his father started ranting and didn’t stop. Frederick looked over at Prince Edmund in horror; they needed Kaslea’s goodwill, and this would not be making a good impression.

“Father, please,” Prince Frederick begged. He placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, which was angrily shrugged off. “Father, we are not alone,” Frederick hissed under his breath. That got through to the enraged King Oswald.

“Quite so.” Oswald cleared his throat awkwardly. “Prince Edmund, you have been most kind arranging this meeting. No fault can be attached to you for Queen Eleanor’s intransigence. That woman, she was not even born royal; she is a queen by marriage only. She should remember that.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. It was not entirely selfless; the attacks on my border concern me greatly,” Prince Edmund reminded him.

“That is Sintiya. They are aggressive, and they have no honor. They attacked us unprovoked; my forces are merely trying to defend against their merciless approach,” Oswald explained, trying to shift all of the blame away from Gatlan to Sintiya, where he believed it belonged.

Prince Edmund kept his face purposefully blank. Did King Oswald believe that he didn’t get reports from the border? He knew exactly how the conflict had progressed, and Sintiya was not the cause for all of the incursions into Kaslea. The blame was shared equally between the two battling forces, neither of which showed any regard to the land they were destroying or the innocent Kaslea citizens slaughtered by both sides.

“From one monarch to another”—Oswald retook his seat, an oily, obsequious look stealing across his face—“Gatlan is in a time of great need. My kingdom has always looked upon Kaslea as a friend; we have been trading partners for many years.”

“Go on,” Edmund urged him wearily. He knew where this was going.

“Very well, I will speak plainly. Gatlan’s treasury needs a loan. The coffers are running empty. When Gatlan wins the war against Sintiya, as we surely will, the loan will be repaid in full, with interest. What can Kaslea offer us?” Oswald asked confidently.

Prince Frederick didn’t share his father’s confidence. He turned and looked towards the floor; he didn’t want to witness the second disappointment of the evening for the kingdom of Gatlan. He just hoped his father would contain his temper this time until they were alone. Otherwise, he was liable to start ranting about that ‘wet behind the ears prince’ while within that same prince’s castle. That would not end well for them.

“Kaslea is under great strain,” Prince Edmund said slowly and deliberately. “The conflict on the border is not our only concern. That infernal dragon is still attacking my kingdom; many lives have been lost, whole villages destroyed. The amount we are producing for export is down. I wish I could offer Gatlan aid, but presently Kaslea has nothing to spare.”

Oswald swallowed hard. Rage filled his eyes. “I understand,” Oswald choked. “These are difficult times for us all.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Prince Edmund said with relief. “Can I have another drink fetched for you?”

“Yes...thank you,” Oswald accepted, barely remembering to add the pleasantry.

Prince Edmund left the room, leaving only the two royal members of Gatlan left in the library.

“Father?” Frederick asked hesitantly, waiting for the explosion, but all the energy seemed to have left Gatlan’s king. He looked defeated and weary.

“We have to fight and win this war, and soon, my son. If we lose, or if we have to fight much longer, our kingdom will be bankrupt and it will be the end of us, the end of Gatlan,” King Oswald murmured.

The end of his precious kingdom…it was almost impossible to comprehend. His expression was etched in sorrow. What would become of his people under Queen Eleanor’s rule? He could not let that come to pass. Sintiya must never conquer Gatlan. Sintiya
would
never conquer Gatlan, not while there was still breath in his body. He would never bow to that upstart noble who dared call herself queen.

“We will, Father, I know it,” Prince Frederick declared bravely, but his voice shook, showing the lack of confidence in his own words.

The war was far from over.

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning, Leo, Don, and Nick broke camp. The early morning mist was thick along the forest floor; the sun hadn’t yet grown strong enough to dry the dew from the grassy knolls. Leo shivered, damp from sleeping on the ground, the bedrolls being poor protection against mother nature. Cyrus stepped out of his hut. Don scowled at the sight but thankfully said nothing; they might need him again in the future.

“Off to the border, are you?” Cyrus asked, for the first time stepping outside his own courtyard, into the clearing beyond.

Leo frowned. He thought that was the sorcerer’s first spoken question. The man might have liked to occasionally play the wise, insightful, powerful, old man, but he could have easily heard them discussing their plans the night before. The simplest tricks were always the best.

“What of it?” Nick answered belligerently.

Leo shot Nick a warning look; they might yet need Cyrus for something down the road. However, he understood. He couldn’t forgive Cyrus for the false hope in regards to their mission either. The bitterness had had all night to ferment. He was grateful for the healing paste, but Leo would never forgive Cyrus, no matter what magic he wielded.

“It is slightly more than half a day’s journey. Travel due west; the blood in the sky will lead you from there,” Cyrus told them. He abruptly turned and walked away. Clearly that was all he had wanted to say.

“Directions, how nice,” Don sneered.

“Well, half a day isn’t bad,” Leo pointed out philosophically.

He wondered what Cyrus had meant by blood in the sky. Sometimes at night, battlefields on Earth could be illuminated red from the many fires and flashes from muzzles and the streaming tracers. That wouldn’t be the case here. He’d never really thought about it before, but then, he would never have waxed poetic about a battlefield. Poetry was supposed to be beautiful, and there was nothing beautiful about war.

Leo shouldered his pack and they set off, marching a quick pace due west. Free from injury, they made good time, and when the tree line broke, Leo’s stomach lurched. The sky was tinged red on the horizon, though he wouldn’t have called it blood red—it was too orange for that. The fires were obviously still burning merrily even in the daylight. Mathis had spoken of the carnage, but Leo hadn’t believed it would be visible from so far away.

They shared grim expressions and continued. Leo hoped that they would be able to find Mathis, perhaps in a command post Kaslea had set up near the battlefield so that they could monitor it from a distance. It was what they would have done on Earth, but then, supposed magic aside, Kaslea didn’t have technology like remote cameras or sensors.

“There’s a village up ahead,” Nick pointed out somewhat redundantly, as they could all see it.

The village appeared to be an intact version of the burned-out shell Leo had passed through his first day in Kaslea. Wooden homes ringed around a central courtyard where there was a stone well, drawing life-giving water from the ground. It was a hive of activity, as villagers bustled from place to place. Children ran in circles around them, shrieking in joy at their simple games. It looked idyllic, and Leo couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

Nick laughed heartily. “Now that is a much better sight.”

He drank in the warmth of the scene. A young woman had a baby nestled into her arms; she was bouncing it lightly to soothe it to sleep. Nick felt a pang of longing; the scene wasn’t as familiar as it should have been. They had been deployed for a year. He had spent just a few precious days at home, meeting his daughter for the first time, and then the world had gone to hell.