Warlord (46 page)

Vara clasped a hand over Mendicant’s mouth before the last bit could come out. Even so, Cyrus could see elves some distance away raise their heads, snapping their gazes away quickly as they realized that they had been caught eavesdropping.

“That is for the king’s ears,” Cyrus said as Vara relinquished her hold on Mendicant’s face, but kept it close by in case she had to grab him again. “And since there are so very many ears in this place that seem keen to listen in on every conversation being had in these chambers …”

“There’s quite a bit of profit in doing so,” Vara said, matter-of-factly. “In politics, information is power, and having the ability to tell a monarch news of any sort—bad or good—before the person here to deliver it does so … well, that’s a power all its own.” She looked around. “Though it would be quite bad for us.”

“There’s every possibility he already knows,” Cyrus said, trying to keep his nerves from showing as he glanced around. “I was left with the distinct impression that there is not much that goes on in Sanctuary that the rest of Arkaria does not hear about.”

“It was a small army that came with us,” Vara said, her lips a thin line when they came to rest, one that hinted at her own worry. “Perhaps that will insulate us some from word leaking so fast.”

“Doubtful,” Mendicant said, “everyone in Sanctuary knows. About—” he glanced around, “… her, about Andren, Odellan, Thad … and about those poor rangers that were ground up by Groz’anarr.”

“Word travels fast around our small halls,” Cyrus said, pursing his own lips. “Which is why I brought you and the Lady of Nalikh’akur,” Cyrus said, looking straight at Vara. “If the king is displeased, hopefully he won’t resort to striking out at the shelas’akur.”

“That would be a terrible thing,” Vara said.

Mendicant frowned. “I’m not well versed in elven culture as I’d like, but as I understand it, the King taking such an action would likely turn the people against him, yes?” He caught a slight nod from Vara, filled with hesitation. “Yes, I suppose that would make it a terrible thing.”

Vara’s face reddened all the way to her ears. “Mendicant, I was speaking from the perspective of having to strike down palace guards in my own defense being rather an unfortunate occurrence, not from any larger political concerns.”

“Oh,” Mendicant said, eyes darting as he thought. “Then … it was somewhat of an understatement, then? For purposes of humor?”

“You didn’t catch that?” Cyrus asked, watching the goblin with some dark amusement that he would not have believed he could find in this hour.

“Goblin humor is quite a bit different than your variety,” Mendicant said quietly. “It is very much based on the concept of—”

“Lord Cyrus Davidon,” a voice boomed behind him, drawing the attention of all three of them to a man in a steward’s uniform. Cyrus searched the face, but it was unfamiliar; he was simply a worker of the palace doing his job and not the king himself in disguise, as he had been known to be on previous occasions. “You will follow me.”

Cyrus waited for Vara and Mendicant to rise to their feet, and then followed the steward, who was already in motion toward the grand entrance to the throne room. Cyrus did not hurry to keep up, forcing the steward to slow to allow them to catch him, Mendicant’s small legs and ungainly walk upon two feet hampering their progress considerably.

When they reached the throne room itself, Cyrus was once more impressed with its sprawling size and the considerable rainbow coloring of the monarch himself, visible at some distance. Once more, the steward began to pull away from them, visibly increasing his pace, and at this, Cyrus realized, they had been had.

“Shit,” he muttered, “Mendicant—”

“Do not,” King Danay said, loudly enough to be heard over the rustle of movement high above them in the balcony reaches of the room. Bows were drawn and nocked by the hundreds, perhaps even as many as a thousand, crowding around balconies above, arrows pointed down at him in number enough to kill Mendicant at least a hundred times over; Vara might be more lucky and only suffer serious wounds that would lead to her bleeding to death. Surely she would rate a resurrection spell, but probably not until Cyrus was dead and his body well disposed of.

Cyrus stood there, Vara and Mendicant behind him, his hand feeling like it was a mile from the salvation of Praelior on his belt, sure that death was well at hand, and he waited for the command that would spell his certain end.

“Your hospitality sucks,” Cyrus pronounced, his fingers eager to dance toward Praelior, but his mind sure that to make even a motion in that direction would spell the end of all of them. “And I’m not just talking about your lack of feast on this occasion.”

King Danay sat in his seat at some considerable distance, elevated steps above the floor where Cyrus and his compatriots stood, but his dark countenance was easily visible, and he seemed to be radiating fury. “You come to tell me of the death of my youngest daughter.”

“If I’d known you’d be such a prick about it,” Cyrus said, eyeing the archers above, “I would have sent a druid to hand a note to your troops before casting a spell for a quick getaway. Apparently personal condolences don’t rate very high for you.”

“You led my heir into death,” Danay said with rising anger.

“Oh, come now,” Cyrus said, feeling as caustic as Weck’arerr, “you disinherited her with all the ease of a butcher taking the head off a goat not four years ago, practically an eye blink to your people. You’ve probably had bowel movements that lasted longer.”

“You come into my hall and insult me now?” Danay said, cold fury seeping into his tone, layering over the earlier hot rage.

“I figure I’m not going to make it out of here alive no matter how polite I talk at this point,” Cyrus said. “You didn’t plan this ambush in the name of theatrics, you mean to kill me.” His eyes settled on Danay’s, and he found he had more than a little anger to answer that which he saw in the King. “You know there will be consequences for this, and you’ve decided to do it anyway. Well, I hope you’re ready for war, because it’s coming your way after this.”

Danay laughed. “You think this will end in war?” His eyes sparkled. “I don’t. Your people are already at war, as are mine. We are natural allies, Sanctuary and the kingdom, fearful of the same great enemy. I will return your wizard to your guild, intact and well, and the shelas’akur will, of course, live—”

“Of course,” Cyrus said acidly.

“Do you think I’ll keep my mouth shut at what you plan to do?” Vara asked, incredulous. “If so, you are even more dim than I ever gave you credit for. If you kill him, you had best kill me as well, for I will lead the bloody war myself and take your throne for my bloody own, leaving your head on a pike atop the gate as an example to the last generation of the elves of what happens to a monarch whose head swells entirely too much for his crown.”

Cyrus blanched at her words then closed his eyes. “She doesn’t mean it—”

“Of course she does,” Danay said icily. “She means every word of it.” His voice tilted toward sadness. “Which is a shame, but let us face it … the shelas’akur is nothing more than a symbol, and if she must die to prevent a war … so be it.”

“You are out of your gods-damned mind,” Vara said. “You didn’t even care for your daughter that much—”

“You don’t know what I cared for,” Danay snapped. “You don’t
know
anything, you’re a child—”

“Here’s what I know,” a shadowed figure said, barely visible, voice low and harsh, appearing at Danay’s throat with an ornate dagger clutched in the blue-skinned hand of a dark elf, pale, barely visible fingers small enough to indicate that beneath the cowl was the face of a woman. “If you kill them, there will be no finding your head.” The woman disappeared in an instant, and a scarlet line appeared on Danay’s neck before she reappeared at his other side, pulling him roughly against the back of the chair. “And you will be at war with the Sovereignty. Again.”

Danay’s face broke into a furious grimace. “I did not summon you, Ambassador.”

“The Sovereign bade me come,” she said, leaning in close to his ear but speaking loudly enough in the human tongue that all could hear her. “And should your men decide to throw a few well-placed arrows my way—” She disappeared again, and now the blade stretched over the top of the throne, perched to stab directly into the top of the king’s head, his crown knocked asunder. “You
will
get the point.”

“Your Sovereign does not want war with me,” Danay said, but there was a hint of uncertainty in the way he said it.

“My Sovereign anticipated you would say exactly that,” the woman said, appearing once more at his side, her motions quicker than Cyrus had seen even from Alaric when he turned to mist and disappeared. But there was no mist with her, merely the appearance that one moment she was in one place, and the next, another.
Almost as though she moves with the aid of a godly weapon … but who the hell …?
That voice is … Something is muffling it.
“He bade me tell you that as of this morning, we have some ten thousand troops stationed as relief for our allies in the Emerald Fields, anticipating that perhaps you might perhaps think striking down that settlement before committing an act of war on Sanctuary might be a sound defensive move.”

She flashed again behind him, appearing at the other side, blade poking into his ornate raiment and tearing it just slightly. He flinched visibly. “We have an agreement with Administrator Tiernan, who is rather fond of Sanctuary and this one,” the woman waved faintly at Cyrus, “for some reason. The portal will remain open to us, allowing us to deliver our troops directly onto your shores.” There was a hint of malice as she spoke. “How do you reckon a war will go with dark elves and the Army of Sanctuary able to march straight to your capital, furious at the loss of their General? How will it go with your own people once word spreads that you killed the shelas’akur?”

Danay’s face was pure fury, suffused anger threatening to boil out. “It will not bring them back.”

“It won’t bring you back, either,” she said, slapping him lightly on the cheek with the flat edge of the blade and making him flinch. “Cyrus, Vara, Mendicant … be dears and approach the king, will you?” She turned her voice toward the archers in the balcony. “Loose a single arrow and your king will sit headless upon this throne as the dark elves and the largest guild in Arkaria march across your land with the shelas’akur at their head.” Her voice echoed, deep and dramatic, and … damned familiar. “Choose your path—kill your king, kill Cyrus Davidon, kill the shelas’akur … and watch the heirs in waiting fight over the throne.” She dropped her voice conversationally. “How many are there again, below Nyad? Some five hundred, I believe? I hope there’s no acrimony between them, no division. Surely they’d line up behind one of their own and not divide into segments, along with your whole kingdom—your legacy.” She sounded amused.

Cyrus had taken the woman’s instruction and was advancing slowly. The steward who had led them into the throne room moved aside, hurrying to flatten himself against the nearest wall, well out of the way.

Cyrus peered at the cowled figure as he reached the steps to the massive throne. The pale blue hand beckoned him forward, and he rose on the steps, one at a time, drawing fearful breaths of perfume-clouded air, Vara and Mendicant only a step behind him.

He saw the crimson dripping down Danay’s front and staining his royal rainbow attire. It was not a small wound that the dark elven ambassador had inflicted, and the first hints of worry were fighting to appear on Danay’s face even now. He kept his hands clutched on his throne, but his knuckles were white with the effort.

“Thank you,” Cyrus said to the dark elven figure behind the throne. “For … this.”

“I owed you one,” she said, nervousness fighting through the distorted sound of her voice. “But I suggest we leave quickly, before some of the archers above grow weary of holding their bows nocked.”

“Wise sentiment from the …” Vara was frowning, “… whoever you are.”

“Your daughter died bravely,” Cyrus said, staring right into King Danay’s face. “She fought to the end to try and bring all the help she could to your kingdom, and her death was tragedy of the highest order … and exactly the sort we face in battle and war.”

“She should not have been with you,” Danay said gravely, the fury returned beneath his worry.

“That’s an argument you should have had with her,” Cyrus said, nodding once at the figure behind the throne. “Not me. Though I didn’t hear you complaining when her being with us resulted in Termina being defended by Sanctuary, or the Heia Pass getting our efforts.” Cyrus’s face went grave. “Our assistance to you ends now. Sanctuary’s aid is to the Emerald Fields, and if you ever so much as make a feint at them with an army, you will have me—and Sanctuary—”

“And me,” Vara said harshly.

“And the Sovereign of Saekaj and Sovar,” the lady in the cloak said.

“—to contend with,” Cyrus finished. “We can find more soldiers.” He drew himself up to his full height, and the difference between him and the sitting monarch was imposing. “Can you?”

“Get out of here, damn you,” Danay said after a moment of silence. “You’ll have your peace.”

“Your pragmatism is appreciated,” Cyrus said. He let his hand drop to Praelior as he signaled to Mendicant. The world slowed immediately, the trickle of blood down the king’s neck down to individual beads rolling slowly over pale skin, the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth obvious to Cyrus now.

A teleportation orb sprang into existence before Cyrus, the easy transit back to his point of soul binding, but as he started to reach for it, he looked up at the dark elven ambassador. Where before her form had been shaded and dark, as though she were under some cloud, now she was as obvious to his eyes as any of the countless other times he had looked upon her.

“What. The.
Hell?
” Cyrus asked, staring at her in undisguised awe.

He could now see her white hair beneath the cowl as if someone shone a light into the darkness, could see her face, proud and unabashed even though she was hiding under means of darkness that he could not define other than—