“Our armies are ready to move against Denand, my king.”
The Grand Master barges through the council room door, meaty hand holding a mug of wine. He sits himself heavily at the front of the table, rattling Taeg’s drink as he does, flicking his half cloak over the back of his chair. Taeg watches as Argos’ great Adam's apple heaves as he downs the wine.
The Treasurer speaks up, glaring at Argos for his interruption, his raspy voice whispering from his throat.
“Your Grace, we are short on provisions, as you know. The drought in Cale has stifled many of our water-loving crops. Of course, this puts a rather worrying dent in the profits we sustain from food trading. However, our blacksmiths are duteous. They remain the highest source of acquisition in the country. We should take pride in their works.”
“Yes, Treasurer. And that of our own castle blacksmith. She has come leaps and bounds since she was initiated,” the Chancellor chimes. “Do we know where she is with the weaponry?”
Taeg, slouching at the other end of the table, straightens himself in his chair. “Since she was given her Mark, we have advised rest due to the nature of the procedure. However, I believe she has returned to work and is making excellent progress.” He slips back into a slouch, his red doublet wrinkling.
The Chamberlain gazes at him. “This is wonderful news, my lords. Denand shall again understand why they are not the reigning country.” He grins, yellowing teeth peeking through his thin lips.
The Chancellor clears his throat. His thinning beard reaches his sternum, bobbing as he speaks. “Our libraries will be filled with information, as I’m sure Denand has kept their secrets well hidden.” He reaches a thin, papery hand to tidy his chin hair over his heavily creased neck. “I look forward to transcribing these documents. I am hoping they carry much information on the Lynac and its beginnings, as our own Mark was created by the same alchemists. I’m positive Anarah is perfectly capable of acquiring this intelligence when we crush Denand.”
“Speaking of our Mark,” the Grand Master grumbles, setting his mug down loudly on the table and leaning into his chair, “how is the assassin? We will need to use her talents in the coming months, as well as our Mark’s magical influence. She was supposed to be boarding ships to Tauris.”
The High Priest had remained quiet in his chair throughout the meeting, his wrinkled hands folded in front of him. He takes a deep breath, swiping his dark eyes about the table.
“My lords...” He sits forward. “I come to this council for one reason this morning. I have been debating how best to approach the situation with you gentlemen and I don’t wish to alarm you, especially you, my king.” He nods at Taeg, who locks eyes briefly with the Priest. “We have admitted our assassin, Drair Abidan, for monitoring, as she suffered a complication as a result of the serum. At first, we were not aware of her...condition, and it has hampered any recovery attempts we have made to quell her circumstances. Upon performing a physical examination, we have discovered that our respectable new Guard member….” He trails off, sighing.
The others are perched in their chairs, waiting impatiently for a verdict.
“Drair Abidan is a Xelinite,” the Priest confides. “One possessing a Lynac.”
The Grand Master slams his mug back on the table. “Then she is an enemy of Larynth! I will not stand for a filthy traitor! She belongs with the other skeletons of Xelinac!” he declares, the whites of his eyes glowing.
His outburst is followed by a stuttering reply from the Chamberlain, who denounces the claim, frazzled by his blindness. “I...I cannot believe this... She was so heavily questioned at her initiation. We should not have missed something like this.”
“I’m afraid you did, Chamberlain,” the High Priest retorts, sitting forward in his seat.
The Grand Master shoves his chair out from under the table and stands rigid. “Where is the bitch?” he barks. “I’ll put her in shackles myself.”
The High Priest does not answer his colleague’s violent return. Instead, he turns lightly to the barrel-chested man, face stony. “Argos, please be seated. This woman is no threat to the country. I have seen to it myself that she is properly held under her current condition.”
Taeg breaks his silence, swiping his dark hair from his eyes. “Drair was evaluated upon her arrival and was handpicked by our own General Nathis. I am not inclined to believe that Nathis would knowingly put the kingdom in jeopardy. However, I do believe she should be kept under lock and key, as the Grand Master suggests.” His green eyes pierce those of the others.
“Of course, my king.” The High Priest nods his head.
“Perhaps this will put us in a position to negotiate with Denand,” the Treasurer pipes up. His limp jowls wiggle as he speaks. He looks frantically from one seat to the next, hoping for resolution.
Argos’ neck flushes and he glares at the Treasurer. “We will not negotiate with the enemy by bribing them with the very weapon they plan to turn on us.”
Taeg, absorbing the banter with patient ears, scratches absently at the back of his neck, thinking of Drair’s new Mark. He waits as the others elder to him continue their conversation, recalling his father during council meetings. The late king observed his fellowship with persistent silence, only interjecting when his contribution was of value.
The men surrounding him were those who accompanied Taeg now. They were men of predictable natures. The Treasurer, driven by fear, was known to pocket the castle’s chump change for his own lordship. The Chamberlain wheedled his nose into any business he could, regardless of the constitution, and created the truth from rumors, despite his undying loyalty to the royal family. The Grand Master was haughty and oftentimes cruel in his mannerisms. He was not befit in any kingdom to seat the royal council, but was nonetheless welcome amongst the Kerrich family.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Taeg curls one side of his lips upwards, gazing at the men before him. He waits as the Grand Master sits, panting from his outburst and pointing a fat finger at the Chancellor, who is bickering with the High Priest.
Taeg swallows the lump in his throat.
“Gentlemen,” he announces amidst the heckling, hearing his own voice too loud in the room. The others cut their arguing short, drifting off to meet his gaze, five sets of eyes boring into his. Taeg smiles, nodding in thanks.
“We know Drair has been a great resource toward our benefit concerning interpersonal matters of Larynth. Yes, she has presented herself as that of an aloof, independent soldier, and she has fumbled on rare occasions. Yet, I believe she is intellectual enough to offer her side of the story, were we to contend it. I am prepared to offer this to her, in defense of her own life. The rest of you are to believe as you shall. However,” he clears his throat gently, sitting forward, his eyes lit brightly by the lamps scattered on the walls, “I am the reigning king. She is my Guardsman. She is allowed the privilege of defending her own.”
The Chancellor interrupts. “What about the Denand scout she sought to murder prior to his interrogation?” Taeg closes his eyes as the thinning noble speaks. “Is that not evidence enough of her desire to cover up her own existence? She knew what the boy was looking for.”
“I don’t believe she did this with ill intent,” Taeg replies.
The Grand Master, growing increasingly red in the face, bellows a retort. “What other intent could she possibly-”
“Argos, please.” Taeg stands, placing his pale hands on the table before him, his head bowed. The council falls quiet, watching. A stiflingly hot breeze from the courtyard gardens cascades through the windows, rustling the Kerrich family banner hanging by the door. “Do you not think that Drair Abidan became a fugitive for any reason other than usurping the king of Larynth?”
At this question, the Grand Master drops his gaze to the mug in his hand. He waves his wrist about. “I wouldn’t say-”
“Drair’s fate is in our hands,” Taeg interrupts. “She is not unintelligent. She understands what her powers are capable of and I have no doubt that she is aware of the consequences that befall a traitor. The question is, what is of such great importance that she would risk her life to become a Guardsman?” He pauses, eyeing each of the men at his table. “I will speak to her. Until I can come to a conclusion, council is adjourned.”
Taeg pulls his shoulders back, pushing his chair under the table. He looks to the High Priest, who is watching with a smile.
“High Priest Deland,” Taeg says, nodding. “Please show me where Drair is being kept.”
The other council members are silent, remaining seated as the aging priest rises from his chair. Taeg takes a final drink from his mug of cream and sets it loudly on the table, sweeping from the room.
--------
When they reach the medical holding cells within the chapel, Drair is seated limply on the edge of her cot, head drooping, eyes closed. Removed of the patch that covers her right eye, an angry tan line adorns the skin underneath, accentuating the Mark of the Lynac that blooms over her brow bone. She looks up, weary and squinting into the light as Taeg and the High Priest step into her room, closing the door gently behind them. She turns the right side of her face away.
“Your Majesty...” she murmurs.
The cot under her is thin and yellowed from use. In the corner is a lantern perched modestly upon the stone floor, burning low, light flickering softly around her shadow on the wall. There are no windows. Sweat shines off her forehead in the dark, plastering dark hair to her skin. Despite the heat in the room, her frame quivers faintly.
“My king, she is still quite weak from the reaction, but her fever is breaking,” High Priest Deland speaks softly, watching the assassin. “The physicians have given her passionflower for sleep. She may be a bit groggy.”
Taeg gazes down at his right hand where the Crown ring sits poised on his fourth finger. He brings it to meet his left, the light from the lantern warming its edges as he fingers the band.
“How do you fare?” he asks.
“Better were I not in here,” the assassin mutters.
Taeg takes a deep breath. “I do not believe you are here under the pretense of treachery,” he says quietly. His eyes do not leave the Crown ring. “However...I truly hope that you understand what consequences this uncovering presents for our kingdom. You are aware that this is grounds for execution should you be proven guilty?”
His jade eyes move to meet the dark pupils of the woman before him. She is facing him now, her tawny lips set in a hard line. Taeg can see the lines drawn deeply under her eyes.
“I moved to kill the scout,” she hums, pausing, her head tilted to the side. “This is what worries you?” Her irises roll under her upper lid momentarily, returning to peer at him, disbelief strewn across her features. “That he knew of my existence and was a threat to my carefully articulated plan of overthrowing the great kingdom of Larynth from within?”
“Yes,” Taeg replies. He swallows. The High Priest stands next to him, silent.
She struggles to stand, heaving her form up from the cot with her hands. Dark brown scars shimmer on the backs of her fingers. Her jaw sets as she comes to her feet, bare and thin, before collapsing painfully at the knee. The High Priest inhales sharply, flinching. The assassin drops sloppily to her knees in front of the king, bowing her head. Her damp black hair cascades over her face in defeat, her hands landing in her lap.
“I have sworn my life to you once before, Taeg Kerrich, and I will swear my life to you again,” she says. The dark woman stops to breathe, wheezing. When she speaks again, her voice is raspy.
“I will purge my transgressions. I do not need to read some young scribe’s account to know what my people were capable of. I am the direct descendant of Xelinite blood, and I possess the cursed Lynac, the very power you feel your kingdom is threatened by now. I have no ill intentions toward the country of Larynth, nor did I have them upon my appointment of Guard.”
She pauses, taking a deep, rattling breath. Taeg blinks down at her.
“Out of fear for my own life,” she says, looking up, “I have worked my way into the protection of the most powerful kingdom in the world, under the ruse that I was the protector. I did not lie. I will protect. You are, however, a shielding wall between myself and those that threaten to take my freedom away from me. But I did move to kill the scout for the very reason that my identity would be revealed, yes.”
The High Priest takes advantage of her pause. “You do realize, my dear, that this is an admittance of treachery?”
“I do,” she says to the floor.
“Was Nathis aware of your Mark when you were recruited?” Taeg questions gently.
The woman does not reply, shaking her head lightly. Her shoulders quiver.
“I do not think so.”
Taeg inhales, then pushes the air out of his lips in a heavy sigh. He beckons for the older woman at his feet to stand. She is ten years his senior, and to have her bowing at his boots feels foreign. Drair had never displayed her weaknesses for as long as she had been at the castle at Erah. Her words felt unnatural, sending a feeling of uneasiness through his chest.
As he watches her stand with difficulty, their eyes meet. In that moment, Taeg decides to take her words as truth. He bobs his head before turning to leave the dark woman sweating and weak in the darkness of her holding cell.
