“One of my lineage sits on the throne of the human kingdom,” His Grace said, “and Two Trees’son is his close cousin and so of my line too.”
“Misbegotten,” Pellan said. He began to move, raising his sword. “An obscene offense.” He lunged at his uncle.
With minimal movement, the Fyrst parried, and Pellan disengaged, circling around His Grace. Loran tracked him, waiting, at ease. “Obscene? Again, I think not. He has made the rune circle alive and full of light, as he has also done in Morendyll. As you have never done, Pellan.” The Fyrst’s lips pulled back, showing his teeth in a snarl, even as his voice continued calm and even. “He is mine as Jusson Iver’son is mine, and cursed be anyone who takes either one from me.”
“The curse will be yours, Fyrst and Cyhn to obscenities.”
Pellan lunged again, hoping to take the Fyrst by surprise, but Loran was waiting for him, and sword met sword in a clangor that filled the hall. I watched for a few moments, noting that the centuries’ difference in experience was telling as the commander, though good, was outclassed by his uncle. Apparently a city guard thought the same and crept up to the Fyrst’s unarmored back, a knife in his hand. I looked closer. Damn it all, it was my boot knife. The wind murmured in outrage and the guard was frozen midstep. So were the commander and His Grace.
“Release me,” the Fyrst said, his eyes annoyed. Freed, he took his great sword and, ignoring his nephew and the would-be assassin, stalked over to where Illenaewyn and the rest of the Council were penned by Suiden. I tried to follow, but was buzzed by the glory sphere as soon as I stepped out of the circle. Tired of it, I raised my staff.
“No, Two Trees’son, you do not want to knock that who knows where,” Wyln said from where he still faced the fire-drake. “Contain it, so that it may be safely disposed of later.” The air solidified around the corpse green ball and it too froze where it hung.
“Very good,” Wyln said. “Now, a little help here, please.”
There was a very brief scramble by Council members attempting to escape (they survived), but a moment later they, the Magus, the city guards, Obruesk and Gherat, were all held by a solid mass of air, with only enough give so those who needed to could breathe. Laurel made a couple of passes with his paw over Kareste, and I could see the white lines of his binding. Snatching his staff back, Laurel yowled something at the Magus, and Wyln looked startled, his eyes rounding. The Faena then turned away with a flick of his ear and tail and jumped off the dais to walk over to me, his own eyes wondering.
“You have worked translations, even though your aspect is air.” He looked at the staff I held, gently touching it. “And you were Gifted with a staff—”
He looked back into my face. “It was you in the embassy in Iversly, no? You changed everyone into fae and fantastic beasts.”
“Honored Laurel,” Groskin growled, “the doyen’s hurt bad.”
The Faena turned and hurried to where Doyen Allwyn had folded in on himself, collapsing to the floor. Groskin watched for a moment, then padded over to stare at Arch-doyen Obruesk, frozen in a crouch behind the High Council’s platform. The archdoyen moaned in terror.
“Tell me, Illenaewyn, why I shouldn’t remove your head right now,” the Fyrst said, standing eye to eye with the northern elf.
“He cannot, Your Grace,” Wyln said as he came to stand next to the Fyrst, fire sparking from his hands.
“Yes.” The Fyrst backed up and raised his great sword, ready to dispense elfin justice. Ilenaewyn’s eyes rolled up to watch the blade ascend.
“No, my husband,” Molyu said, a thin line of dried blood on her face. “You have given your parole. Will you now violate it?”
“A parole obtained through torture, my sister,” Wyln said. “Yours.”
“Most are given that way, my brother.” Molyu gave the same gentle smile as her brother. “We will bring the parole, Ilenaewyn, and the rest before the true Council to judge, and so our honor remains.”
The Fyrst hesitated, then lowered his sword, and Ilenaewyn closed his eyes.
“Ah, Your Grace, it’s easier you are than I, then,” Harbormaster Lin said from the open doors, butterflies fluttering about her. “As I would be after having his head on a stick.” Behind her were the castle guard, officials, and servants, all pretty much glowering at both Pellan and the Watch as they spilled around her to fill the room.
“Where had you gone, honored harbormaster?” I asked as two butterflies once again lit on my shoulder.
“For some reason the commander and his Watch didn’t seem to see me or my sisters, so we slipped away to find the keep’s guards and servants,” Lin replied. “But the doors were warded and it took a while for us to get through.” She looked around and found the faerie council member frozen in midflight, and a smile flashed across her face.
“Sister,” the faerie said. “See how the human has treated us. Please—”
Lin’s smile broadened, showing her own pointed teeth, and I suddenly felt nervous about the butterflies on my shoulder. “I told you, Ro, did I not? Yet you wouldn’t listen.” Lin shrugged, rippling her wings. “Now your consequences are upon you.”
I went over to Suiden, who sat on his haunches as he held Kenalt before him, the Turalian ambassador dangling from two talons gripping his silk jacket. In the captain’s other hand was a sigil, and he stared down at it. He saw my interest and lowered the sigil so that I could see it better. “A device for calling storms, with my own insignia worked into it.”
I peered closer. “Your own insignia, sir?” It looked like a dragon in flight. I gave a wide-eyed glance back up at Suiden.
The dragon rumbled, still staring at the device. “I am prince and heir, Lieutenant. This guaranteed that the djinn would find me—and anyone else with me.” He looked at his cousin. “You must’ve paid some wizard a pretty drackel for this, Kenalt.”
Kenalt said nothing.
“Why, cousin?”
“Another simple sin, sir,” I said when Kenalt remained silent. “Envy. As you said, you are prince and the amir’s heir, and he’s not.”
Laurel rumbled in agreement as he helped Allwyn sit up. “Folk wanting what’s not theirs, taking what they shouldn’t even touch.” Kenalt stayed in sullen silence and Suiden’s sides heaved in a sigh. He spared a glance as Javes and then Esclaur on three legs, with Berle scurrying behind, joined him. The russet fox slipped in front of the dragon prince and huddled down, trembling. Suddenly small and furry, she must’ve figured he was the lesser of all the evils in the room.
Loran had turned away from Ilenaewyn and now stood mm looking into his wife’s face, his hand under her chin. His thumb traced the line of blood. “Art thou well, wife?”
Molyu curled her fingers around his hand. “Yes, husband.”
“Good.” Loran released her chin, but intertwined his own fingers with hers, holding her close to his side. He turned to look at the commander, still frozen with his sword raised. “I suppose you’ll also ask me not to touch Pellan.”
“My sister’s only son, husband,” Molyu said.
“Will you argue for the Magus?” Wyln asked. “He’s not Council nor kindred.”
“I would ask for him, honored folk,” Laurel said from where he was still tending Allwyn’s cuts and bruises, the castle healer now helping. “He has dishonored the Lady, my staff, and the tree who gave it to me.”
“There must be someone we can wreak havoc on,” Wyln said, his fingers twitching.
“Gherat,” Javes offered.
“There’s Obruesk,” Esclaur suggested, and Doyen Allwyn, ignoring Laurel’s efforts, made a sound of agreement.
Suiden held Kenalt, arms and legs dangling, towards the Enchanter, while Chancellor Berle, casting a nervous glance towards the dragon above her, met my gaze and ducked down again.