The Nameless Heir, page 36
The man turned to the guards holding them. “Come. We must get to the High Lord immediately.”
“But sir, the meeting—”
“Will continue after I show him what a useless general Bhaltair Herleif is. While he was lounging in a seat next to the High Lord, I found two terrorists breaking into the castle,” he said smugly.
Ronen wanted to roll his eyes, but it was no longer physically possible. “The only thing you found was the worst haircut on Elphyne.”
“Who are you?” Elowen asked, voice quivering.
The man had an ugly, sickly smile. “General Latrell.”
General? He and Elowen had to hide their confusion as they were dragged down another golden hallway. Ronen tried his best to make eye contact with her, to show her she was going to be fine, but he must not have seemed very reassuring. She shook so violently the bonnet fell off her head, and strands of her stark hair were falling down. Huldra could make people sick … she could compromise all three Valdyr right now and they could run.
But it was not his place to ask that of her. Huldra were a tipping scale, trying to keep balance between harming and healing. Ronen knew that little black dot had thrown her off. Experiencing that kind of darkness makes you question yourself. Maybe Elowen was still finding her balance, so he was not going to mess with it.
They were taken down a wide set of ivory stairs. His knees throbbed with every step. Ronen had to keep reminding himself that at least Latrell was taking them to Bhaltair. He would help them.
Being underground again made every nerve in his body fire. He did not know this part of the castle even existed. It was just as beautiful and ornate, only with torches and chandeliers instead of windows. The artwork around them seemed more holy than the rest of the castle. It matched the set of double doors at the end of the hall, carved and painted in the likeness of the Sun goddess and Moon god.
There were so, so many Valdyr. Some were standing like statues, others were collaborating with one another, and some even appeared quite stressed. Regardless, each one bowed at the waist to Latrell as they passed. One that appeared around Ronen’s age stepped forward. “We are preparing to move the King’s Court, sir. Three units—”
“No need.” Latrell waved a hand dismissively, nearly hitting the young guard in the face as they passed. With one nod, Latrell had four guards pulling open the doors before them. What Ronen saw on the other side, however, was somewhat underwhelming.
Nine people were standing around a large, mahogany table in a mostly empty room. The food on their plates was untouched, and none of them seemed happy to be there. Even more guards in gold flooded the round room.
“What is the meaning of this?” the voice that haunted his nightmares demanded. Fritjof Aodh strode over from his place at the head of the table, empty chalice in hand.
Latrell took a knee, bowing low before the inebriated Fire Fae. “My lord, there is no need for alarm. The terrorists responsible for breaking into the castle have been captured. You may continue with your meeting.”
“Wait!” a voice shouted from the crowd. A lanky guard stepped forward, “My lord, this is that Nøkken from Athol we locked up weeks ago! He has returned seeking revenge.”
“Or to avenge his kind!” someone else shouted.
The room was filled with dramatic gasps. As stupid as it sounded, it was actually a perfect cover story. No one needed to know about the long-lost princess assisting him. Not yet.
Fritjof turned his head. “I thought you disposed of him?” he whined.
Finally, the big loveable brute himself came into view. Bhaltair rounded the table, as unamused as ever. He did not even look at Ronen. “He must have somehow survived, sir. Allow me to finish the job myself,” he said. Sir, not lord.
Latrell hissed, “He obviously failed the first time, my lord. Please, let me carry out this simple task for you.”
Fritjof folded his red robes tighter as he stared at them. “And her? The seductress?” he said, bobbing his too-small head at Elowen.
“An accomplice, my lord. Surely her powers were the reason they made it as far as they did.”
Enok and Bhaltair were right. Even since the last time Ronen had seen him, Fritjof was … different. He was skinnier, the flesh of his face and wrists clung tightly to his bones. His hair was thin and absent of pigment, falling loosely to his back.
Bored, drunk, and overall incompetent, Fritjof shrugged. “I see no threat. So, I will use them in tonight’s demonstration. At least it will save me two good guards.” He laughed, “Bring them here.”
Demonstration? Ronen immediately turned to Bhaltair, but he did not acknowledge him. All the relief he once felt quickly washed away. Would Bhaltair let Fritjof kill them if it meant giving Fallon time?
Elowen began to cry as they were pulled next to the dining table and forced to their knees. Nine fearful faces examined them. Seven men and two women, all pale and gaunt, took their seats once again. Latrell stood directly behind them, sword drawn and ready to smite them if they tried to run.
Ronen was able to scoot over just enough to press his shoulder against Elowen’s. She kept whispering, “Screw you, screw you,” to herself with wobbling lips.
Being underground was hard for her, too. Ronen already felt suffocated and claustrophobic. He slowly raised his hand, circling his fist around his heart to sign I’m sorry. Bhaltair was watching them carefully, so Ronen circled his fist again, telling the general he was sorry for messing up.
“Now, where was I?” Fritjof announced, his voice echoing around the round chamber. “Too long, my friends. Too long have we lived in fear of the darkness on the other side of our land. The shadows of Ondorr have plagued our people since the birth of the gods. Yet no king, despite his mighty blood, has been able to do a thing about it. You see, that is the problem with monarchies—they are unpredictable. What if all the sons are weak? What if they are giftless? What if a king died and a child was the only one left to rule? We have seen all of that before. Because in all honesty, that system is flawed.”
A woman at the table with dark skin and piercing blue eyes cleared her throat. “That system was given to us by the gods when they gave their fifth child the Ash Throne. It is not your place to question that,” she said sternly. Ronen hoped she was on their side.
Fritjof smiled without his eyes. “Was it? You will find, Lady Honeymaren, that I am well versed in our history. The way I remember it—and feel free to correct me—the gods gave the gift of power to their first four children. The fifth was left with a tree,” he sneered. A few people laughed.
He circled the table like a cat toying with its prey. “I was reminded of this nearly twenty years ago, when I led my unit into Ondorr after a Sentinel sighting. Ten men went in, three came back out. The only reason the three of us survived is because the gods spoke to me that day. They told me another war was coming, one that would make the first Elphynian War feel like child’s play. And that I, Fritjof Aodh, would have a major role to play in it.” He announced.
“Yeah, the tyrant that sacrifices us all to Ondorr,” Ronen hissed.
Latrell smacked the pummel of his sword into the back of Ronen’s head, causing him to see stars. Elowen helped keep him steady, pressing her brow into his shoulder as if she could take away his pain with nothing but sheer will.
Fritjof tsked in his direction but moved on. “They explained to me how in the beginning, the four firstborns used their powers to seal and contain the darkness. Their powers were straight from the gods—raw and fresh. Over the millennia, as the gifted have mated with the average, our powers became weak. That, court members, is why Ondorr is once again rising. It senses our weakness,” he insisted, his lips and teeth still stained red from the wine.
No … he was wrong. None of the elements could even stop a Sentinel. Only seawater and sunlight—the power of the gods—would destroy them. Fritjof was lying right to their faces. Ronen turned, hoping to see a table full of suspicious glances, but everyone seemed … afraid. They would do or say anything just to get away from the man in front of them.
“But,” Fritjof smiled, resuming his place at the head of the table across from Ronen. “Some of our families kept true to the god’s blessing. Generation after generation, every child born gifted without fail. Isn’t that right, Larue? How old is your daughter now?” he asked.
All life drained from Honeymaren’s aged face. She wore a fine, turquoise gown matching the cosmetics smeared on her upturned eyes. “She turns twenty in three days,” she said dryly.
“Is it right to say she is just as fine of a Water Fae as you are? And as all your family has been?” Fritjof asked simply. Playful, dangerous embers danced in his crimson eyes.
The lady only nodded.
“And Lord Arlo, your family has been running the castle’s medicinal greenhouse for how many years now?” Fritjof asked.
A thin, raven-haired man with a bad mustache shivered as Fritjof said his name. “As long as anyone can remember.”
Ronen’s eyes slowly scanned the table. Oh gods … they were all purebloods. Now this strange ensemble of a court made sense. Fritjof did not care if they owned land or worked on a farm, they just had to come from a gifted line. He just needed their strength and influence. Fritjof was going to rally up the purebloods and dispose of the rest—a fresh beginning. No more mating with the non-gifted, and no more mating with mortals.
In that case, Fritjof was going to really, really hate Fallon.
Fallon Alfrothul … the last true descendant. Ronen couldn’t take this anymore. If these people forgot about their history, they would never see Fallon as the rightful ruler she was. “The elder siblings were given gifts to protect the youngest who sat on the throne! You all know that! There is a reason why only someone with Alfrothul blood can even put their ass on it! None of you could. Pureblood or not. Don’t listen to him!” he insisted.
Elowen spoke up despite her shaking voice. Just as Fallon taught her. “The royal bloodline is the last one remaining from the Firstborns.” She turned to Fritjof, “s-screw you. We are not afraid.”
Latrell knocked them both forward, and Elowen let out a cry as her chin smacked the dirt. He raised his sword high above them, but Fritjof held out a hand. “Wait. Out of pure curiosity: where did a Nøkken learn Fae genealogy?”
“The Little Folk of the forest!” Elowen interjected, “They are his family, they love him!”
This got a reaction out of the court. Everyone turned to one another, looking at Ronen as if he had just gotten there. Apparently, having invisible babysitters was a good omen. To Ronen, it was simply a lifetime of being paranoid he was being watched every time he went to the bathroom.
Everyone but Fritjof seemed impressed. He slowly waltzed his way around the table to kneel in front of him. To be honest, Ronen would have rather taken his chances with the sword still above his head. He wished Latrell had just skewered him as all the moisture in the air was sucked away.
Ronen’s head was still spinning as he investigated Fritjof’s eyes. There was no light behind them. No life. The crooked smile on his face, the amusement in his voice … it was as if someone else was speaking through him entirely.
“Where are your Alfrothuls then, boy?” he whispered. He asked again, but Ronen just pressed his lips tightly together. If only he knew who may or may not be fighting her way through the halls above. Even Elowen darted her eyes upwards, as if Fallon would magically descend from the ceiling to save them all.
Fritjof stood to his full height. The torches mounted along the walls doubled in heat and intensity, lighting up the room in a hellish glow. “The Alfrothuls are dead! Your precious royals are gone! In their place, the gods sent me. But I come not empty handed, allow me to demonstrate,” he said with a maniacal chirp in his voice. He gestured to the far wall, where a strange object stood.
Three guards approached the weird piece of furniture hesitantly, like it was a wild animal about to bite them. Fritjof raised his arms excitedly, scooting everyone forward, “Come, now! Everyone gather round, don’t be afraid!”
Personally, Ronen felt pretty afraid.
The odd wardrobe shook something inside of him. It gave off a dark wave of energy, and the black dot on Ronen’s soul jumped in response. He turned to Elowen, who gave him a grave nod. She felt it too.
Latrell kicked his side. “On your feet.”
“No thanks. I never liked show and tell.”
“Too bad. You’re the main act.” He laughed, picking up Ronen by the shirt and dropping him onto his feet. Elowen was slowly getting up, rubbing the dirt from her face and elbows. Latrell pressed his sword into her side.
Elowen crossed her tan arms in defiance. “My best friend is going to kill you,” she said.
Ronen chuckled, feeling his diaphragm rub against his bruised ribs. “Yeah, I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Latrell looked confused but had the better sense to listen as he herded them to the front of the group. They walked past Bhaltair, but their friend did not even cast them a glance. How was he doing that? Ronen just wanted one sign to show it was all an act, and the general cared about their lives. Just one nod. But it never came. Ronen supposed Bhaltair has had the last fifteen years to practice being the general everyone needed. Did the appointed knight that proudly guarded Asta Alfrothul’s every step even exist anymore?
Fritjof approached the weird armoire. This close, Ronen could now see the smooth, hammered material—iron. Every knob and hinge were made of pure iron, something Ronen understood well.
This was a project that would have taken his entire shop many months to complete. It must be Orculli made. Those giants could shape and bend most metals with their bare hands.
“Brothers and sisters, I wish to show you not my gift from the gods, but my gift to you. As we all know, fire is useless against the shades of Ondorr. The inky darkness simply absorbs it. Sucks it up like a sponge tossed in water. That is why, for the coming war, Dag and Dagmar have given me what will be known as the Godflame.” He smiled, lifting his hand as it burst into nothing but a small, normal-looking ball of fire.
Ronen started a slow clap. “The Fire Fae can make fire, everybody.” He snorted. Lady Larue and a few other court members had to turn away to hide their grins.
Fritjof bared his fangs. “What appears normal to you is beyond your comprehension. See for yourselves,” he hissed, then turned around and threw open the iron doors.
Ronen felt it before he saw it. Everyone screamed in horror as a wave of blackness poured out from the armoire, coating the floor as tar.
No.
Ronen instantly grabbed Elowen, shoving her behind him as his eyes focused on a form within the shadows. It had to crawl out, extending its long limbs until it could stand to its full height—a terrifying nine feet. It had no features, no definition, no soul. Just a solid shadow that reeked of decay. It roared in their faces, causing people to faint, piss themselves, or some combination of both.
Everyone tried to run, but the Valdyr made a wall behind them, pushing them back. Every Valdyr but Bhaltair, who kept blinking at the creature. So this was a surprise to him, too.
Honeymaren pointed a shaking finger at him. “You have gone too far, Aodh! Stop this at once!”
A wave of heat smacked Ronen in the face as a line of flame was drawn at his feet. It rose as a protective wall, separating them from the Sentinel. Fritjof stood fearlessly, that ball of flame still in hand. He reached out, and the Sentinel stepped back with an ear-piercing shriek. Impossible … it was avoiding the flames.
“Your god-sent is right here!” Fritjof laughed, toying with the monster as if it were nothing more than a stray dog. Ronen did not want to believe it, but no darkness spread beyond the line of flame. Fritjof’s fire was different. But how?
Fritjof smiled triumphantly, crossing his arms behind his back. “Now, we may begin the second part of our evening. I chose you all in hopes your judgment was as pure as your blood. The second age of Elphyne is coming, and you must choose which side of it you will be on. If you join me and make me your king, this power could be yours! We can start again and get back the power we once had.” He waved his hand and the flames grew higher, causing the Sentinel to cry out and slam back into the iron armoire.
“Or …” he continued, “you can be on your own and take your chances on the other side of that line.”
Everyone was paralyzed in fear. Ronen wondered if they even heard Fritjof’s voice over the smell of soot, sweat, and rotten eggs filling the room. Fritjof rolled his eyes, “I only need five of your votes. So, the first five to take their rightful seats at the dining table will stay on the King’s Court. All their families, land, and assets will be under my protection when the second war comes,” he offered.
Four people—three men and one woman—shoved their way through the wall of Valdyr and practically threw themselves into their seats. Ronen, Elowen, Honeymaren, Arlo, an elderly man, and two other men remained. One spot left.
Elowen had once again fallen into her trance-like state of shock, her arms stiff and locked around Ronen’s chest. Where was Fallon? Was she still waiting for them in the safe room? Or was she dead at the end of that river? Ronen had to buy her time.
He turned to the remaining members of the King’s Court, “The Alfrothul bloodline is the only one who gets the throne,” he repeated slowly, trying to make eye contact with everyone one at a time.
“Maybe you need a reminder of what you are up against. You are all old enough to have possibly seen a soldier from the dark woods, but have you ever seen one suck the life out of a Faerie?” Fritjof asked, tilting his head innocently at him.
Ronen tried to back up, but he slammed into an impenetrable wall of muscle and gold. “No!” Ronen shouted as all eyes turned to them. “No—not her!” he already failed Fallon; he couldn’t fail Elowen too.
There was a ruckus coming from the other side of the doors, surely someone had noticed there was a god’s damned Sentinel in the castle. Someone would stop this.
