Sorrow's Peak (Serpent of Time Book 2) (44 page)

“It is for His Majesty to determine whether or not you know his secrets, not me.” His pace quickened just enough to suggest the faster they were in the king’s council room, the more quickly he could alleviate the burden of that secret from his shoulders. “You will have to take up your suspicions with him.”

“I will,” Brendolowyn assured him, increasing his own stride and maintaining pace with Gwendoliir.

He felt the eyes on him, derisive, distrusting, disgusted. It was not a new feeling; every visit to Nua Duaan humbled him in ways that sickened his stomach and tied his self-worth into nervous knots inside him until he breathed air aboveground again. Sometimes the degradation of those necessary visitations lingered with him for weeks after he departed, other times he was so grateful to be out of the company of his mother’s people it was a relief to put distance between himself and his broken ancestry.

The Silver-Tongue begrudged Bren’s refusal to take up residence in Nua Duaan, and he liked even less how unwilling one of elven blood seemed to be to join the fight for Alvarii freedom. Each time he arrived in the city, Jonolov either refused to see him, or humored him with disinterest before sending him on his way again.

Pride and unity, the pinnacle of Jonolov’s philosophy, and yet Brendolowyn refused to unite or feel pride in his origins. He left his home and his people for an amalgam of reasons, first and foremost to find his father. The only person he owed explanation to was his mother.

Nua Duaan may not have been home, but the people there were as judgmental, crass and cruel as the Alvarii that hadn’t accepted him as one of their own when he was a child. Bristalv; it was all he’d ever be to any of them and he knew he was better off alone than subjected to their disregard for his existence.

The only place in the world he’d ever felt the slightest bit comfortable was among the half-bred U’lfer of Dunvarak. Hodon didn’t just accept him, he welcomed him and so did everyone else in the wayward city in the tundra. He was one of them.
They
were his people. At least until they needed him to deal with the Alvarii. Then it was his obligation and duty to keep the lines of communication open between his… people.

Still, it didn’t wash the slate clean of depression on those rare occasions he found himself among his mother’s people. The overwhelming perfume of remcii and cirielle blossoms, their falling petals drifting on the breeze like pink and pale cream flakes of snow to litter the walk. Crushed beneath busy feet hustling through the streets, the scent was so strong it made something inside him ache. Mingling with the pungent salt of the sea, the endless chatter of a language he barely even used anymore, it was nearly enough to create perfect memory of a home that was never really his.

All Alvarii were born of the same source, hand-woven on the loom of life by the loving fingers of Heidr’s firstborn daughter. Their feet the first to touch the precious ground, they sowed life into the soil with their footsteps as their ears became the first to hear the song of birds and the call of the sea. Bringers of life, they were called, singers of the song that brought forth all that grew beneath the loving light of Heidr’s bright eye. They shared a deep connection to the trees and grass and flowers, the birds and animals, to all life, and yet they had so little respect for one of their own simply because his blood was tainted and impure.

He did his best to ignore the impolite and self-important stares, staying close to Gwendoliir once they reached the palace of the King Under the City. He didn’t show his disgust when the guard at the gates insisted upon searching him, insinuating without words that though he was an emissary of peace, he could not be trusted. After determining he was harmless enough, they cuffed his left wrist in a red moonstone bracelet meant to block the power of his magic in the presence of the king.

It was protocol, required by all who came into the king’s company, but it only added fuel to the fiery list of slights against his person. Nevertheless, he held his head high, followed Gwendoliir through the palace and avoided eye contact with everyone they passed, perfectly mimicking the air of self-importance he learned from his mother’s people.

Jonolov Silver-Tongue, King Under the City, held court in the outdoor topiary. Seated upon an old throne the stories said he’d stolen from Rivenn before fleeing bondage, he dismissed grieving citizens with little more than an elegant gesture of his hand when he saw them approach. One by one they reluctantly withdrew, eying both the seer and the guest suspiciously as they passed from the topiary.

He rose from the throne, stretching his long legs as he reached his full height of nearly seven feet and tossed the sleek, black chin-length locks of his hair out of his face. Every one of the King Under the City’s features was precise, his long face gaunt, cheekbones chiseled and nose sharp. His eyes were narrow and his mouth a bow-shaped pair of red lines that stretched appreciatively when he saw them.

“Brendolowyn Raven-Storm.” His lingering gaze fell upon the moonstone bracelet clinging to his wrist, only rising when he approached and lowered his head in a gesture of trust and greeting. His adviser, Lenoriiv, was not but three steps behind him. The stiff Alvarii could barely stifle the sound of his gasp when his monarch gripped Brendolowyn’s shoulders in greeting as he lifted his head and then embraced him.

He had never done that before, and though it seemed a natural maneuver on the part of the Alvarii who’d performed it, for Bren it was awkward and uncomfortable.

Stepping back, Jonolov confessed, “We have been expecting you for some time.”

Curbing his tongue, Bren withdrew from the self-proclaimed ruler’s arms and tilted his own head downward in respect. “I come bearing an urgent call for alliance between the people of Dunvarak and the army below the cities.”

“All business, Brendolowyn,” the king tsked, took a step back and gestured with his head for the party to fall into step behind him. Walking through the topiary, they followed his lead, passing larger-than-life sculptures of great Alvarii kings and heroes flanking the walkway. “I sympathize with the urgency of your visit, believe me. And I do, of course, apologize for making you wait until this afternoon for an audience. It is my understanding the people of Dunvarak verge on war with a forcible number of Mennesefth from the north. The Tyrant King’s army.”

“That is true, yes, though we have reason to suspect the Light of Madra’s coming has set other events in motion, that Aelfric’s army will be joined with forces from Hofft.”

Holding up a dismissive hand to stop him from going on, Jonolov interrupted and said, “Let us retire to my council chamber. I will read over the missive you bear and then we can discuss the matter in greater detail.”

“As you wish, Sire,” he conceded, finally lifting his head.

“Gwendoliir, please join us so you might provide further counsel on the matter.”

“It would be an honor, Majestic One.”

The path they followed led them through the castle, across the marble floors and into a spacious room with a round table, open in the center and with thirteen chairs placed around it. The guards attending to the king closed the broad double doors behind them and presumably perched themselves outside the room. With a wide gesture of his hand, Jonolov offered his guest a seat. Brendolowyn did not oblige until after he retrieved the alliance request from inside his robes and passed them to the king’s advisor.

“I was not sure you would be here,” he confessed, glancing back to the king. Aelfric’s forces never attempted an invasion on the cities below, but in order to ensure he was never in one place too long, he traveled often between the underground network. At least he could be certain Hodon’s request would reach the proper hands in a timely manner.

Settling into the high-backed chair across from his visitor, Jonolov reached for the pitcher in the center of the table, poured himself a drink of water and quenched his thirst before addressing the matter at hand.

He was not old for an Alvarii, perhaps a hundred years older than Brendolowyn, but scarcely comparable to Gwendoliir, who possessed an agelessness that seemed to defy time itself. But there was something about the Alvarii warrior king who’d breathed life into the underground resistance that made him look older, far more grizzled and experienced than the seer who sat on his right.

He wore his hair short, the sharp slices of it clinging to his chin and often hanging in his face even though the platinum, sun-jeweled circlet he wore should have held that hair bay. Brendolowyn suspected he wore his hair that way to hide the thin scar carved into the left side of his face that nearly cost him his eye because he’d allowed the wound to fester, rather than retreating from battle to see a healer. True testament in some eyes on his commitment to the cause.

Jonolov was a slave once, in the household of Ivaerkek II, who discovered the power of red moonstone over magic. He poisoned the Alvarii masses and enslaved the entire city of Rivenn. Tales of The Silver-Tongue’s daring escape from the collar of enslavement were many, each as righteous and embellished as the next, but there was never a doubt in anyone’s mind Jonolov suffered great hardships before rallying his people to follow him underground and placing his backside upon a throne in order to govern and organize them.

Brendolowyn respected Jonolov, far more than he did most Alvarii. Jonolov did not put on airs, though he could be arrogant at times. His hubris was not without conviction. He’d earned the throne, and though there had been a handful of attempts over the years, none were able to wrench the seat of power from beneath him since he’d claimed it.

Leaning back in the chair, Brendolowyn made himself comfortable. Lifting one long leg, he balanced his ankle atop his knee and then slid the roll of parchment across the table. Hodon’s seal, still unbroken, caught the generous light from the chandelier overhead, the wolf crest impression glinting in the dry red wax.

A great deal hinged on the men sitting across the table from him, and if the missive he delivered was not well-received, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what would happen to the people of Dunvarak. Hodon was counting on the King Under the City, Dunvarak itself relying on the successful alliance proposed within the roll of parchment.

Jonolov cleared his throat, reached for the parchment and broke the seal. Bits of red wax crumbled onto the table, and for a time, while the king’s eyes flitted across Hodon’s carefully scrawled proposal, Brendolowyn stared at those bits of wax, his eyes focusing and unfocusing, his heart a fast-paced drum in his ears while he waited. The dry unraveling of the paper followed a telling click of the king’s tongue, and then he allowed it to curl in upon itself again before lowering it to the tabletop and sliding it to his left for Lenoriiv to read.

Lenoriiv was older than old, possibly older than the seer seated on the other side of his king. His hair was whiter than fresh-fallen snow, but the skin of his face was smooth enough to make him look no older than an Alvarii who’d only recently reached adulthood. It was his hands that gave away his age, wrinkles and creases across the knuckles, along the joint where his wrists bent when he reached to snatch up the parchment with an almost greedy curiosity.

Gwendoliir sat in silence on his king’s right, no doubt already privy to the pleading ink scrawled across the page. His visions may have been fading and shifting, but surely he knew what that letter foretold. Brendolowyn wondered if those three men, the men who determined the fate of the Alvarii people in the cities below Leithe on a daily basis, had already discussed the matter at great length before he arrived.

After several moments of watching the chancellor’s eyes skim the carefully penned words, Lenoriiv allowed the roll of parchment to curl again, and handed the tube back to the king. Jonolov made gesture to hand it over to the seer, but the old elf shook his head, holding up a hand in denial.

“It is as I told you more than a year ago, Sire.”

“Exactly as you witnessed, yes,” Jonolov agreed. He lowered the parchment to the table, and let the recurled tube rest in front of him. “That is some small comfort, considering the unreliable nature of your visions of late.” Lifting his intense green eyes across the table, it was Brendolowyn the king next addressed. “You are probably unaware, but several related events have transpired since you departed from Dunvarak with the young woman your people call the Light of Madra.” He leaned forward in his chair to rest elbows almost casually on the table. He clasped the long fingers of his hands together, folding his thumbs over each other, and said nothing.

“Yovenna the Voice did not give me access to her knowledge of things to come, only limited glimpses into events I was meant to play part in with the hopes I would make the right choices,” he confessed.

“As it should be,” Gwendoliir agreed. “Though I do not think she should have given you even half as much as she did.” He sneered distaste of a different brand, an almost haughty disapproval of how freely the old woman passed her visions around. “Your Light of Madra’s awareness of her part to play in events beyond reclaiming the Horns of Llorveth should not have been given to her so easily. It may distract her from her current path and make it impossible for her to complete the simple task before her.”

If that admission was meant to make Bren feel guilty, it fell short of its mark. He had nothing to do with the things Lorelei knew.

“We have not taken advantage of our own seer’s foreknowledge unless absolutely unavoidable, but we did see this missive coming, and based on events which have already transpired, I, or rather we, have already decided we will answer Dunvarak’s call for aid. There is no love between the wolves and the Alvarii, but it is time we retake what we have all lost to the Tyrant King: our freedom.”

“Hodon agrees,” Brendolowyn nodded. “The U’lfer right to wander, if he so chooses, is just as much a part of who he is as the magic of all things that grow in the footsteps of the Alvarii.”

Jonolov slowly nodded, his thumb massaging along the crook of his index finger as he carefully chose his next words. “On the morrow my forces will depart and head west to stand with the U’lfer of Dunvarak against the coming storm. Surely Yovenna did tell your people of the chaos about to break like a storm across this land?”