Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1) (17 page)

“You’re
not
from Asynia?” Sacha took a sip from her cup. She was delighted to find her previous anticipation of an intriguing conversation blossoming into more than she had hoped.

The elf had led her on a merry chase initially. Sacha had almost reached him at least twice, only to find him gone from the spot at which she had noted him, or disappearing into the ranks of the other Basinian envoys. His run had come to an end though when she engaged Christa and Cherise Bannock, two daughters of her father’s bannerman, to hold his attention long enough for her to flank him, then excuse her vassals to insert herself into the tall man’s nervous attention.
Father would have been proud,
she mused, then amended the thought.
Well, he might have been proud if I gutted him after outmaneuvering him
.

Light on his feet, he might be, but his tactics in conversations he didn’t want to pursue appeared more in line with the image of the stolid, smiling bruiser who was apparently his adopted son. Each sentence and answer was begrudgingly given, and every step deeper into his history was another hard-fought victory.

The story around Master Kinsey’s and Erik’s relation was truly an oddity. An elf raising a half-dwarf within a human society—a treasure of a story to be sure. To discover that Erik knew very little of Asynia was one more precious trench claimed.

“Originally, yes. But it’s been so long I can’t really remember it.” Erik shifted his feet, then surprised her by continuing, “I was an infant when my family left.”

“And your family lives with you in Waterfall Citadel?”

Kinsey, who appeared to be richly enjoying Erik’s discomfiture, chuckled, “Yes, I do.”

Sacha glanced at Kinsey but spoke to Erik. “I mean your
elven
family?”

Erik’s gaze move briefly to the floor. “No. They do not.”

“Then, wh—”

“Cousin. Might I steal a
proper
introduction?” Marcella sauntered toward their little group and lifted her brows in a devilish way. How she had been allowed to wear the scant bit of clothing that passed for formal attire Sacha would never know, but there was no argument as to its gripping effect on men. The elf cleared his throat loudly and tried not to look directly at her cousin while the half-dwarf’s cheeks above the beard turned several shades of crimson at the voluptuous young woman’s approach.

“Of course.” Sacha stepped aside to make room for her cousin in the tight circle. “Master Erik and Master Kinsey, this is my cousin, the Lady Marcella Moridin.”

“A pleasure, My Lady.” Erik bowed slightly.

“My Lady.” Kinsey followed suit.

“Oh, I believe the pleasure is all
mine
.” Marcella leered at the large, dwarvish man. “Tell me, Master Kinsey, do you dance?”

“I... uh.”

“He is a fine dancer, My Lady. He just needs a little encouragement.” Erik slapped Kinsey roughly on the shoulder.

“Excellent,” Marcella drew the word out slowly. “This way,
Master
Kinsey.” She offered her hand while moving in the direction of the hall that had been designated for such entertainment. He hesitated for a moment, then took her hand and was hauled off into the sea of guests with a flurry of her laughter drifting back.

“Your cousin is an interesting young woman.” Erik looked after the couple with an open grin.

“I don’t believe I have heard her described in those terms before.” Sacha tilted her head to the side. “You, on the other hand, are very interesting.”

“Is that so?” He took a deep drink from his goblet. “I’ve never really found myself to be that
interesting
.”

Sacha sensed her battle might be at a turning point and conceded a bit of ground. “Forgive me, Master Erik, I don’t mean to pry. It’s just I have never had the opportunity to talk with an elf before, and I find the whole experience quite fascinating.”

Erik seemed to resign a touch of his tension, and with a small laugh and a shake of his head, he looked her directly in the eye. “What is it you would like to know, Princess? Surely, I have nothing
that
spectacular to offer. I was raised by humans and have no ties to, or understanding of, my elven heritage.”

“All the more fascinating, in my opinion.” She spread her hands. “How did such a situation even come about? From what I understand, elves would never reside in human territories.”

Erik looked into his cup and swirled its contents with slow, graceful movements. “Did your tutors ever cover the
Sha-ou-Taun
conflict?”

Her mind raced. The name was familiar, but the event itself was more difficult to recall. “That is an elvish word?”

“You are correct.”

At least she had remembered that right. But as for the rest... She rattled her brain for any clue, any memory, that might tie the strange name to some event or place. He had said “conflict,” which meant—not a war, but something smaller. A skirmish, perhaps.

She looked up at him as memories from her lessons began to settle into place. “To the south. The city of Dry Tower, but that was not always its name.”

“
Ou-Taun
.” The elf’s eyes met hers. His face looked as if it were chiseled from the very stone that vaulted so high around them.

Sacha swallowed, her memory becoming clearer. “The last battle that human and elf would fight side by side.”

He said nothing, just looked at her with his mesmerizing, pale grey eyes filled with... pain.

Her hand went to her mouth. “They died, everyone died.”

Erik looked away and took another drink from his cup.

Sacha felt the ground that she had advanced over—the hard-fought territory she had felt so sure about—begin to crumble under her. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“How could you have known?” He gave her a brief glance and a warm smile. “It was some time ago, yes?”

Some time, certainly. A matter of a pair of
centuries
of time. She felt such a fool.
By Eos, how could you be so stupid
? she thought. Suddenly, she was the one that needed to escape. To flee this field of sorrow. Running from him was an option, but not very practical. If only there were a rock nearby she could crawl under. For the rest of her life.

“Daughter.” A deep voice came from behind her.

It had been some time since she thought she would be thankful for her father’s presence, or interference. Now, however, she turned almost eagerly to face him. “Father, I...”

Her voice trailed as the force of his scowling presence overwhelmed her and the embarrassment she had so eagerly turned from. His sapphire eyes flicked up past her shoulder, and then back to her face.

“Why, daughter, must you persist in falling short of the expectations I have set for you?” The king’s present state of countenance had done as effective a job of clearing space about her as any group of armed guards could have done. When Hathorn was displeased, people were known to have had fatal accidents. With a glance, she verified Erik was one of many people who had disappeared like smoke in high wind. No evidence of the elf could be seen in any of the knots of people that surrounded her and her father.

The king’s accusation stoked her own fire, and she relished the heat that laced her own response. “Yes, Father? To what is it you refer to this time? Perhaps my being courteous to a guest in your hall?
Forgive
me, I beg. I had thought diplomacy was the point of this”—she cut a hand at the decorations and guests milling beyond their open circle—“spectacle.”

The king’s visage grew stonier, his ire expressed more in the terms of the basalt that formed the hall than the raging quicksilver of his daughter. “Of course.” He stepped closer. “But your choices in companionship have
not
grown more suitable in your exile.” His eyes briefly left hers again and touched the spot where the elf had stood moments ago, before settling back to lock with her defiant stare. “And you surprise me in the wrong ways. Why does the Cornath woman still draw breath beneath my roof? I had thought you left to pursue a certain amount of power, not cowardice.”

Sacha was speechless. He wanted her to
kill
the woman?

That makes no... Ah, yes, of course
. It does make sense. The king had rewarded Tara for her information, but no traitor to her father’s family would ever be allowed to live. Even if the betrayal had been performed for the king’s benefit. Sacha had paid a penalty. Tara lived here, in an elevated status, with her friends and family, laughing and loving. But all traitors to the family eventually paid the ultimate price.

Her mouth worked, but no sound issued forth as she worked through her thoughts. Hathorn watched, weighing her, then leaned in slightly to speak once more. “Your own initiative has proven flawed. As you go forward, understand this: Your sister is your first priority. You will serve her, and see her enthroned and be her supporter in every thing, in every way, to the smallest fiber of your being. If you succeed, and this alliance comes to its fruition, I will find a match for you that suits your station and my purpose. At that time,
I
will determine what your next duties will be.” Nodding, he drew himself back to his full height.

Sacha watched him, thunderstruck and speechless still. No matter her newfound abilities, she remained powerless against the will of her father. She was to have no say. None.

“I think—you understand. It is my will.” He turned from her.

“Father!” she blurted.

His head swiveled back to catch Sacha in a sideways glance.

“What is to become of Tara?”

The king stood motionless for a moment. His flinty gaze carried the weight of his intention, then without a word, he walked through the crowd that quickly parted before him.

Despite the gathering that began to close around her, with voices that spoke her name, and asked how they might serve, Sacha had never felt more alone.

T
HICK
mist, spawned by the many swamp beds, lingered in the air as if storm clouds had fallen from the sky to drag across the surface of Orundal. Only the wet bubbling of sulfur pools could be heard, no bird calls cackling or vermin rustling through the underbrush—just the swamp churning.

Gobblesnot raised his veil to pick at his teeth with a shard of bone. The ragged strip of cloth wasn’t much, but it did afford his nose and lungs some protection from prolonged exposure to the putrid gasses that bubbled from the swamp. He hid in the trunk of a dead oak that had provided shelter to a large swamp rat earlier that morning. The tree’s blackened core, hollowed out by a lightning bolt, made for the perfect hovel from which to spy on the byways of the swamp. The goblin knew from experience not to dally in the open for long, especially in the deep marsh. Predators hunted the swamp and many were not too particular about what they dined on.