The Wrath Of Silence Read online

  “Why?” Fearghas croaked, stalling his brother.

  Dougal turned, holding the crown in his hand as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world, before gripping it fiercely as if he had a right to it. Eletha knew no one had a right to such power. But perhaps elves viewed matters of leadership differently.

  “Because you’re a fool. You would have us give up what’s ours to appease some crofters. You’d destroy centuries of our family’s hard work, undoing what our ancestors fought so hard to build for us. You’re a disgrace, Fearghas. With father’s failing health, I simply couldn’t risk you succeeding him.”

  Fearghas coughed raggedly. “They’ll know…they’ll know it was murder. You’ll never…never take the throne. It’ll go to Nichol.”

  Dougal stood silently for a moment before a deep, hearty laugh began to shake his stocky frame. He put the crown on his head and a glimmer of glee passed through his gaze as it settled on the puddle of blood oozing from the dying prince.

  “Murder? Hardly. You were killed by Tallis sympathizers. Or a whistle of vengeful tremps. I haven’t decided yet. We’ll see what mood takes me when I return to Isildor. This? This was an accident, Brother. An unfortunate accident that will prove to Mother and Father that we cannot show weakness. That there must be no leniency for the rebellious peasants, or those nobles who shield them. You would have destroyed our royal line. I, on the other hand, will give our family more power than it’s ever had, now that the old trade routes have been reopened. I’m exactly what this country needs. Not you. Goodbye, Fearghas, Wodan’s Pits take you!”

  Dougal snapped his fingers and his guards dutifully turned on their heels, following after him as he hopped into the boat. He did not so much as glance back at the bleeding prince as his men rowed back the way they’d come.

  Eletha rushed to the dying man’s side, but she stopped as his dimming eyes widened in horror upon seeing her. She fell to her knees and dropped her dagger, stretching out her hands in an attempt to calm him. “Harm…no harm.”

  Speaking was still difficult for Eletha. Her people had spoken a horrid clack-clicking language for so long that words felt heavy on her tongue. Others, like Bonnalurie, had been able to regain their speech much faster.

  Fearghas struggled for his weapon, his blood flowing from him like a river from the action. Eletha looked at him helplessly. “Worse…you harm yourself. Stop, please. I help.”

  Fearghas flicked his sword at her, if but feebly. She leaned back, easily avoiding the blow, and spread her hands once more. “You die if don’t stop blood.”

  He raised his weapon again and coughed, holding his wound with his other hand. “Back, foul beast!”

  “Other…killed you. Not me. I help. Yes?”

  Fearghas lowered his sword, whether because he believed her, or because he no longer had the strength to hold the weapon up. She crept closer, and when he did not lash out again, she tore open his ruined tunic and assessed his wound.

  Dougal’s blade had ripped through so much of his back and belly that Eletha was unable to put it back together again. Even if she could, with the blood he lost she doubted he would survive. Still, she tried. Perhaps if humans were connected to each other like her people were, someone would know an elf had tried to save his life, and had given him some small comfort at the end.

  He grasped her wrist weakly. “Tell King Ailbeart what happened. Or Queen Morgana.” He paused, trying to capture his failing breath. “Nichol must be warned.”

  Eletha did not know how she was supposed to contact the unguerea rulers. Even if she could, how could she convince them her tale was true? But Fearghas’s dim brown eyes held such an earnest pleading that Eletha could not refuse him. If she could not save his life, perhaps she could ease his soul as it slipped into the void that waited for his kind.

  She nodded her head and smiled, careful not to show the points of her teeth, hoping the prince would not see the hesitancy in her eyes.

  A long sigh escaped Fearghas as his eyes fluttered closed and his head rolled to the side. The grip he had on her wrist lessened, and his hand fell to the forest floor with a soft thud.

  Eletha waited a moment longer to see if he was truly dead before biting her lip and rising to her feet. She glanced at her bloody hands for a moment before looking toward the river where Dougal and his men had departed. With one last glance at the slain prince, Eletha fled. She may not know what to do with the things the Vanir had shared, nor the message Fearghas entrusted her with, but Bonnalurie would.

  Hopefully.

  Chapter 2

  Konrad followed a respectable distance behind Urban. His eyes never strayed from his savior even as Konrad straightened his baldrick, moving his sword to a more accessible position before tugging the thick, tanned sash that hung over his chainmail and ran across his chest back into place. It still felt odd not having the sash in Michal’s customary maroon and gold plaid, but the loss of his rank and his caste was worth it, though his thoughts sometimes drifted to Chandrelle. He idly wondered what his former Second-in-Command was doing with the promotion he’d all but thrown at her, but even such thoughts were soon squashed when his gaze refocused on the man he now followed.

  Urban was going to save them.

  Urban was going to give Wodan a voice and bring Him back to His creations who had not heard from Him in millennia. Konrad knew with a frenzied certainty that Urban would succeed, and when Wodan returned, Konrad would be at Urban’s side to welcome Him home.

  As he followed Urban across the bustling port in Isildor, he recalled the moment when clarity had nestled on him in Arcadia. How it had hit him like a blacksmith’s hammer to the temple, rattling his teeth and shaking him to his core.

  A feeling of piety had swelled from Urban while he and Chandrelle had spoken to him about Bogdan’s transgressions. Everything Urban said about the Vanir being responsible for Wodan’s silence made a certain degree of sense. How, if they would permit Urban to take this Tallis girl with him so he could wipe her evil from the world, all would be well. Hadn’t Konrad also felt there was something wrong about their newest Warrior? Urban’s words had made him not feel so alone in his unease around Tallis.

  There was an itching in his mind about her. A sense that she wasn’t all she appeared to be, and a feeling of disquiet that settled on him whenever she was near. Konrad didn’t know why more people couldn’t sense her wrongness. But Urban understood.

  Chandrelle had resisted, declaring they were there to apprehend Lord Bogdan so he could face King Renard. Konrad knew she was right. They had been given a task, and negotiating with an Andor pirate wasn’t something they’d had Michal’s permission to do.

  Urban had taken a step closer and put his hand behind Konrad’s neck as if they were old friends. Chandrelle had lurched back, scrabbling for her knife, but it was not necessary. The zeal Konrad had sensed overwhelmed him.

  He couldn’t say what had truly happened, but from that fleeting contact he felt bound to Urban, their fates inexplicably tied together. His blood thrummed through his veins and into his heart, and in that moment he knew Urban was touched by Wodan. Nothing but that fact made any sense to him anymore.

  Lazily, he touched his ruined ear where the six golden rings of his caste had resided. He should have missed those rings. He should have hated being a worthless piece of casteless scum. But he didn’t feel any of those things. How could he when he was now part of something so much holier?

  Would you be happy for me, Chandrelle? Knowing I found peace and forgiveness at last at Urban’s side rather than Lord Michal’s?

  Snapping his attention back to the present, he increased his gait to be at Urban’s side as he slowed to speak to the port master.

  Konrad stood to attention, surveying the people of Selkirk who stared at him with open-mouthed fascination before turning away. The people of Selkirk were an odd bunch. They reminded Konrad of the stories of what Arcadia had been like centuries ago. He guessed that whatever they’d done to anger
Wodan and be punished with an era of feral dag’ears, it had crippled the progress that places like Theda and Arcadia enjoyed.

  Konrad turned his attention back to the port master. He was a short, fat little man who fidgeted with the manifest in his hands looking from it to Urban, who seemed to be waiting patiently for the port master to come to a decision about their vessel. Only Konrad could tell that the relaxed manner was a façade. Urban’s hand twitched occasionally at the side of his long, gray coat, itching like his own hands to draw the blade at his side and cut the man down for impeding their progress.

  The port master flipped the manifest pages back and forth. “I uh, I am sorry, ser…what did you say your name was, again?”

  “We did not offer a name. Our name is not your concern,” Urban said mildly, but his words still chilled the little man, who gulped and turned his eyes down once more.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but without a name or—or your ship’s name, I cannot permit you to dock in Isildor. Only ships with King Ailbeart’s approval may make port here. You may dock in Kincardine, if you wish, the little town on the other side of Selkirk. It’s our free port.”

  Urban seemed to consider this for a moment, but Konrad saw the flash of yellow twinkling in his green-flecked eyes. To avoid a slaughter that would delay them further as Selkirk’s knights responded to the fight, Konrad stepped forward.

  “I doubt your king would approve of turning away dignitaries from Andor.”

  The port master perked up. “Andor? No one from Andor has ever docked here before. What does…what does Andor want? To trade?”

  Urban glanced at Konrad, and a slight smirk trembled over his lips. “We will speak of such matters with your king alone. We demand an audience with him.”

  The port master looked as if he would protest when Urban took another step toward him, cupping the back of his neck like he had done to Konrad mere weeks ago. “This King Ailbeart of yours would not appreciate you making us wait. It would be in your people’s best interest to escort us directly to him. Now. Don’t you agree?”

  The man’s eyes went glassy, and Konrad knew the same wave of holy duty was washing over him like it had Konrad. He smiled, glad that Wodan’s benevolence was so evident in Urban that a slight touch was enough to turn otherwise skeptical hearts to the wisdom of his words.

  Urban released the man and swayed on his feet before straightening, running a shaky hand through his ebony hair. Konrad watched him, suddenly worried there was something wrong with Urban. As if the longer the Vanir continued to thrive, the use of Wodan’s holy gifts was physically draining him.

  Konrad ground his teeth and moved to steady his savior, only to have the man jerk away.

  The port master blinked at them and abruptly bowed. “Humble apologies, sers. I’ll escort you to the palace personally where you may beg an audience with King Ailbeart or Queen Morgana. The king has been ill lately, and our good queen steps in when the king is otherwise unable. The rest of your men and supplies will be safe here in your absence.”

  The port master straightened, glanced toward the palace, and mumbled almost to himself, “The king hasn’t been seen since a group of tremp and Tallis sympathizers murdered our beloved Prince Fearghas. It weighs heavily on him, no doubt.”

  A shiver ran through Konrad’s body at Tallis’s name. My master’s foe has long claws, indeed!

  As the port master led them from the harbor, Konrad was amazed at how Urban’s touch chased away the man’s nervousness, as if he now had a sudden sense of purpose. Pride radiated through his core and set his blood aflame. Once they had the support of this King Ailbeart, Urban would destroy all the dag’ears and Vanir to make way for Wodan’s arrival.

  Konrad’s nose crinkled in distaste as they waited in the audience chamber of King Ailbeart’s palace. Selkirk’s royalty lived like swine compared to those in the sparkling city of Jagusia in Arcadia. There, the Royal Household lived in a kind of opulence the sun would envy. In this dreary land, the royals hid behind taupe stone walls stained with moss and mildew. The tall parapets were made to be defensible, not to reach toward the sky and praise Wodan; their thin slit windows crowded with archers instead of colored glass mosaics. A few of the large, arched windows indeed glimmered with the fading light, showing scenes of glory immortalized in bright reds, greens, yellows, and oranges. But these tall, vaulted windows were few and did little to make the palace appear less functional, or more regal. The only thing that impressed Konrad was the fortress’s size.

  King Ailbeart’s home spread as wide as some of the smaller towns the Low Nobles of Arcadia governed. Isildor was not the biggest city Konrad had ever been in, but it felt more formidable simply by supporting a palace with such cavernous chambers, domed ceilings, and spacious hallways.

  Konrad touched one of the bare walls of the audience chamber and a pang of remorse made his mangled ear throb; Lord Michal would have filled such a space with his collection of insects. Instead, the décor in the rooms the royal family occupied was austere; empty compared to those Konrad was used to from people in such a position.

  Urban’s gaze flickered over him, and the dark hairs on Konrad’s arms bristled. Ever since Urban had laid his bare hand on Konrad’s neck, Konrad always knew when the man looked at him. Konrad turned and met Urban’s hazel eyes, a wan smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

  “You aren’t losing your will so soon, are you? Do you already dream of returning to your sacrilegious lord, Konrad?”

  Konrad felt a bead of sweat trickle down his bald head, and he fought the impulse to rub a hand over his scalp. Instead, he pulled the baldrick back into place and hoped Urban didn’t see the nervousness in his eyes. The idea of upsetting Urban evoked a fluttering in Konrad’s stomach like he’d never felt before. It was more important to him that he serve Urban than he ever remembered feeling for Michal.

  Urban tilted his head, regarding Konrad. He took two steps forward, then stopped, as if he were holding himself back. “Our work—our purpose is too important to risk. We will not have you here if you won’t stand by us in this task. You knew it would have a price. Are you now unwilling to pay?”

  Deep in Konrad’s mind, a scratching sensation clawed at him, trying to get his attention. It wanted him to flee Urban’s side, to go back to Arcadia and seek forgiveness. It screamed there was something wrong with Urban, and that he should not feel so compelled to remain at his side. He wondered if the sensation belonged to some lingering sense of duty he felt toward Chandrelle…. “No, Urban. I wouldn’t return to Arcadia unless it’s yours and Wodan’s will that I do so.”

  A wolfish smile flashed across Urban’s face, but it evaporated as the door to the audience chamber opened and a lanky man in a herald’s uniform—a fawn colored cape with the royal crest, a long, dark orange doublet with crimson velvet sleeves and heather breeches—entered the room with an air of arrogance Konrad thought only nobles capable of.

  The man’s eyes flickered over Konrad and Urban dismissively, and in a booming voice more suited to crowded ballrooms, said, “Esteemed gentlemen, I present our grand sovereign, favored in the eyes of Wodan, long may she reign alongside her glorious husband, Queen Morgana of Selkirk. Queen Morgana, I humbly present Lord Urban and Konrad, ambassadors of Andor.”

  With a click of his boots, the man turned and departed as Queen Morgana entered the room amidst a compliment of her personal guard. Urban stifled a hiss that Konrad doubted the old queen could hear over the clatter of her guards’ armor. This was not whom Urban had expected.

  Queen Morgana could not have been as old as the elderly Lady Zofia, but she looked at least three times as frail. Her thin hair had gone completely white, her once smooth skin now a collection of wrinkles, and her hands shook slightly as they hung at her sides. The only lively thing about her was her cold, green eyes.

  Her guards helped her to the throne, her silvery gown with its ebony threads and silky chocolate patches rustling as she moved. Her gown reminded Konrad of a silver mirror
that had been broken in places leaving dark fissures that showed the wooden backing underneath. The colors were dark and somber, more suited for someone in mourning rather than a reigning monarch.

  She delicately put her thin hands in her lap, her long sleeves billowing out at her sides. They swooped past her wrists beneath her arms, revealing a soft, salmon colored lining fringed in gold. Queen Morgana watched them silently, her taciturn eyes drinking them in as she straightened the gold plated steel belt around her waist, its golden chain dangling from the center. The middle of each medallion-like link held a prismatic, light green emerald that caught the glint from the torches and sent sparkles throughout the chamber.

  She cleared her throat, a hand fluttering to her wrinkled chest and the square neckline of her gown. The collar looked like onyx vines over silver flowers that had small pearls at their centers, at the epicenter of her collar was Wodan’s holy symbol emblazoned in gold like the tattoo around Konrad’s eye.

  “Tell me,” Queen Morgana said, her voice as pithy as they came, “why your rulers saw fit to send the two of you. Would it not have been more appropriate for your leaders to send a larger entourage when meeting with us for the first time?”

  Urban squinted at the queen. His eyes flickered from the silver tiara on her head with its amethysts the color of grapes at each of its points, to Wodan’s symbol on her chest, then back to her wrinkled face, trying to read her. Eventually he took a slight step forward. “Such a force would have looked like an invasion rather than a mere visit. We would hope to avoid such misunderstandings, Your…Grace.”

  Morgana considered this for a moment, steepling her hands over her pale lips, narrowing her eyes. “Your country borders upon being offensive by sending you sans proper protocol. State your business, I have my son’s—” Morgana cut herself off, her eyes wavering with tears, and a stone seemed to hit Konrad in the gut: she had been making arrangements for the prince’s funeral when they arrived; the port master had said the eldest died recently.