The Seeker's Wrath, page 10
From the estate villa, Allturna emerged, his presence alone enough to command the gathering. With a peaceful gesture, he beckoned the guests to take their places.
Lewisear and Fiota moved toward the head of the table, where Erastus of Talill, his long, unmistakable beard draping over his chest, had already settled. Beside him, Lewisear’s father, Mortas Lexx, envoy of Armekalia, sat in quiet contemplation. Saylong recognized others, envoys and nobles whose faces carried weight in the Order, their presence significant even if their words had yet to be spoken.
Allturna and his wife, Merjhan, took their seats at the head. The moment they did, the last murmurs of conversation faded, replaced by the quiet clatter of guests adjusting into place.
Saylong was still standing.
He scanned the table. Every seat was taken.
His gaze flicked to Fiota, who raised an eyebrow and gave him a pointed look, urging him to hasten.
Then Allturna smirked. He leaned back in his chair, amusement flickering in his green eyes as he lifted a hand toward the only empty seat remaining, just to his left near the head of the table.
Saylong hesitated for half a breath before making his way forward. The awkwardness of it settled deep, his steps measured. He had to walk behind Allturna to reach his seat, feeling the eyes of half the table lingering on him.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d bring a guest tonight,’ Allturna mused, watching him from the corner of his eye. ‘I left one seat open. If your friend had come, she would have had plenty of room. A seat would have been provided.’
The words were smooth, yet the meaning was clear. Saylong took his place without responding.
The meal was extravagant, spread lavishly over silver and fine-cut wooden platters. The table was lined with delicacies that included ripe summer fruits, thick cuts of roasted game, spiced barley, and wines rich enough to taste like coin itself.
For the most part, the talk was light, harmless chatter and laughter woven into the performative rhythm of a noble gathering. Wives were present. Husbands were present. The weight of politics hung just out of reach, unspoken but never absent.
Saylong found himself seated next to Lady Gray of Jolda and her husband. She was an envoy, a voice of rising power in the far western regions, deeply pious, deeply devout. She had barely acknowledged his presence.
Across from him sat Mortas Lexx, Lewisear’s father, a man whose face carried the same quiet authority as his son. He met Saylong’s gaze briefly, a glance, an assessment, nothing more. His wife, however, seemed far more inclined toward conversation, asking Saylong of his upbringing, his service, his gift.
As the evening deepened, Allturna joined in, along with his wife, Merjhan, who had the serene beauty of a woman who had never had to fight for a place in the world. Saylong relaxed into the rhythm of conversation, the tension in his shoulders easing.
This was power.
Not in steel, nor in battle, but in the subtle weight of presence. A place at the table. A voice among them. He tasted it now, and gods, he liked it.
The night stretched on, wine flowed freely, and eventually, the gathering broke into smaller circles, voices murmuring over the glow of lantern light.
Saylong found himself led aside, a goblet of wine in hand, moving into a quieter corner of the gardens, where a small circle had already formed.
He heard Erastus first, his voice rasping, stammering over politics, deep in discussion.
Allturna placed a hand on Saylong’s shoulder and pulled him into the conversation.
Saylong recognized them all.
Erastus. Mortas Lexx. And Lady Gray, her expression already soured as she turned to regard him.
Allturna, standing at his side, gave a subtle reintroduction.
‘What do we need him here for?’ Lady Gray’s voice was flat, unimpressed. ‘He had his chance in front of the Lord Paramount today.’
The proper conversation had begun.
9
Saylong woke early. The sun had barely risen, a pale smear against the skyline. He still hadn’t found Deyra. Instead, he had spent the night alone in an inn close to the stables, his thoughts too restless to allow for much sleep. If she had left without him, she had left without her weapons. They were still in the armory. Perhaps even Gurrlan was alone. He didn’t want to leave Gurrlan behind. If she had gone north, he could still catch up. A Korvan warhorse and a sturdy chariot would be swift enough, and Gurrlan could nestle into it without slowing them down.
The conversation from the garden mingled with his morning thoughts, unsettling in its implications. Lord Paramount Chalm was slipping, drifting further from his duties, as though the Order no longer concerned him. Allturna had already begun securing support for his claim, but it was not yet enough. Erastus. Mortas. Lady Gray. Three out of eight votes. More were needed.
Pushing the thought aside, he made his way toward the stables. The guards let him pass without question, as if they had expected him. He moved through the rows of stalls, the scent of straw and sweat thick in the air. He would find Gurrlan first and worry about transport after.
At the enclosed pen, he paused. Peering over the wooden frame, he found her.
Deyra.
She lay curled in the hay, her breathing deep and even. Gurrlan lay beside her, just as still, his massive flank rising and falling in rhythm with hers. Saylong exhaled, relieved. At least she hadn’t left without him.
A voice sounded behind him.
‘Captain Saylong?’
He turned. A soldier stood just beyond the entrance, holding the reins of two black Korvan warhorses. Their coats gleamed in the morning light, powerful beasts bred for war. One was harnessed to a famed open war-chariot, its frame lined in gold, the deep blue and green of Lenne painted along its sides. The polished iron wheels caught the sun, casting fleeting glimmers across the stable walls.
The sound woke Deyra. Gurrlan grunted as he stirred, shaking off sleep with a low, snorting breath.
The soldier stepped forward. ‘Your horses are ready, sir.’
Saylong frowned. ‘Horses?’ He had dreamed of such transport, but he had never requested it.
The soldier inclined his head. ‘Yes, Lord Vehzar has gifted you these warhorses and chariot. You’re to take them north as a gesture of condolences. The chariot carries a Blade of Honor from Lenne. The North must receive it well, sir.’
Saylong glanced toward Deyra, who leaned over the pen door, blinking sleep from her eyes. Slowly, she unlatched it and stepped out, Gurrlan clambering upright beside her. Together, they emerged into the morning light, moving beside Saylong. She took in the sight of the horses and chariot. They were magnificent beasts, bred for war.
And then she huffed.
Not quite a refusal. Not quite acceptance.
Saylong approached the chariot and studied the gift. It was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, designed not just for function, but for spectacle. The wheels were reinforced for rough terrain, the yoke built to bear heavy loads. The interior had been lined with iron for added stability, yet it remained light enough to be swift. Inside, he caught sight of a small cache of supplies, including bundled furs, a sealed cask, and sacks of provisions. This would be enough to last them days on the road. Nestled among them were his weapons, retrieved from the armory, along with their leather armor. A practical gift, if not a generous one.
Deyra ran a hand along the chariot’s frame, her lips pressing together. ‘They will do,’ she said at last. Then, quieter, her fingers tightening, ‘But they do not replace my father. They do not replace Rysna. This is nothing but your people’s groveling.’
Saylong smiled faintly.
‘Thank you,’ he said, turning to the soldier. ‘Send my regards to Lord Vehzar. He has been gracious in our presence. Tell him it won’t be forgotten.’
There was little more to discuss. Saylong took Telilus, the stallion without the chariot. Deyra took Mideas. Saylong pulled on his leather armor, adjusting the buckles as Deyra guided Gurrlan onto the chariot. The beast reluctantly clambered in, snorting at the unfamiliar ride.
At the head of the chariot, affixed to an iron sheath against the frame, rested the Blade of Honor. Saylong reached for it, running his fingers along the hilt. It was a delicately weighted instrument of death, beautifully balanced, its edge keen enough to whisper through the air. A blade meant not for battle, but for legacy.
Deyra barely spared it a glance. ‘One of the chieftains will take it,’ she muttered. ‘It means nothing to me.’
Saylong replaced the sword in its sheath.
Unfortunately, Gurrlan was too short to see over the chariot’s top gate, but it was only an inconvenience. He would match their speed, and for the first time in ten days, Deyra would be riding home.
The North awaited.
Their first hours on the road passed in silence. The Korvan warhorses moved at a steady pace, their heavy footfalls muffled by the well-worn path. Gurrlan resigned himself to the chariot, though his occasional grunts left little doubt of his displeasure.
By midday, they had followed the Shigh River northward, its waters carving a shimmering path through the land. Travelers stepped aside without hesitation, their eyes lingering on the towering warhorses and the gilded chariot as Saylong and Deyra rode past.
When they stopped to rest, Deyra finally broke the quiet.
‘So. You know what I did last night. What about you? Did you find out who sent us into that damned ambush?’
Her voice still carried traces of resentment, but the raw fury from before had settled into something colder, more measured.
Saylong gave a wry smile. ‘You know, if you don’t want them calling you names, sleeping in an inn would’ve been the wiser choice.’
Deyra snorted, running a hand down Gurrlan’s thick hide, slipping him a treat from the provisions that had been packed into the chariot.
Saylong’s smile faded as he exhaled. ‘But as it happens, I had a very interesting night.’
She barely looked at him.
‘Turns out my vision carries more weight in the Order than I thought.’ He scanned the road ahead before lowering his voice. ‘Allturna Vehzar is more than willing to strike a deal with the North. But Chalm... Chalm won’t budge.’
Deyra’s expression remained flat, unmoved.
Saylong read it instantly. She wasn’t impressed.
Still, he pressed on.
‘Armekalia has deployed their admiral and four Halicerns to hunt for Kalltor and the Mor ò Thail. They’re finishing reconnaissance and will move in to cut him off. If they take him alive, they’ll send him north, along with Volnaire.’
That caught her attention. A flicker in her eyes, sharp and alert.
‘And what does the North owe for such generosity?’ she asked, voice edged with suspicion. ‘We don’t take bribes, Saylong.’
Saylong nodded. ‘Allturna Vehzar is backing the North’s claim to the Order. He’ll push for it, so long as the North supports his claim. We need more votes to break Chalm’s hold. If the North stands behind Allturna, we gain a seat at the table.’
Deyra listened now. She was seeing it, even if she didn’t want to. Saylong’s vision, one she had dismissed so many times before, was taking form.
‘Sherptarl of Roydne is lost to us. That vote has sailed; he’s with Chalm. But Armekalia, Talill, and Jolda are with us.’
She exhaled through her nose, tossing another strip of dried meat to Gurrlan, who nuzzled her for more.
‘How many more?’
‘At least five. Zerthys is unlikely, but they’re in the North. They might sympathize. That leaves the Citadel of Jemyne, Hawn’s Keep, and Keis’s Castle.’
Deyra scoffed. It sounded easier than it was.
‘We march on Haithe,’ Saylong continued. ‘Three hundred strong. We prove the North is united. We prove they won’t war among themselves. If we bring men willing to join the Order, we turn the tide. With enough pressure, we get the votes. Chalm falls. Allturna takes his place. And the North is no longer an afterthought.’
For a moment, it almost seemed simple.
Deyra, however, was not so easily swayed. Her expression darkened.
‘At what cost?’ she murmured. ‘Do you think the North will celebrate being a pawn in your game? My father. Rysna. They died believing in that damned alliance. And now, here you are, grinning like it’s some grand opportunity.’
Saylong’s jaw tightened.
‘This isn’t a game,’ he said, his voice firm. ‘This is survival.’
She shook her head, turning away.
Saylong sighed, raking a hand through his hair. ‘We will get Kalltor. And Volnaire. Alive. They’ll be yours to do with as you see fit.’
She didn’t answer.
Saylong exhaled, quieter now. ‘But Chalm still holds the others. So, unless...’ He hesitated, his voice dropping lower. ‘Unless something happens to him, all we can do is hope they see reason before it’s too late.’
The words sat heavy between them.
Deyra said nothing. She didn’t need to. The thought hung between them, unspoken yet understood.
For four days, the road carried them beneath an ever-darkening sky, the northern chill creeping into the air. Saylong spoke often, filling the miles with the weight of his vision, speaking of alliances, strategies, and the shifting tides in Haithe. Some of it Deyra took in, but much of it she left where it belonged, in the halls of men and women who spoke of war but had never held the blade themselves.
By the time they reached Mermard’s Town, she had heard everything. And here, closer to the North, she felt the shift. The stiff, watchful gazes of the South had faded into nods of acknowledgment. The weight of scrutiny lifted from her shoulders.
They had spoken of strategy, of how to bring the northern tribes to the table, how to unite them in Madita. Grand ideas, but still only shadows on the horizon. There were still days ahead, and though she had grown weary of Saylong’s tireless ambition, something in her had settled.
She was no longer seething. No longer restless.
For the first time in weeks, she felt the edges of contentment. She finally felt like she was coming home—not just passing through, but truly returning.
◇ ◇ ◇
The Mor ò Thail inched into the fjord and anchored well out of sight. Volnaire captained the lead vessel, the other five trailing in its wake, slipping into the cove like shadows.
The Varkellon was Kalltor’s now. Its Armekalian crew had been sifted through the other ships, ensuring any whisper of insurrection was silenced before it began. But so far, there had been no signs of resistance. The Drenzaris bore its own reminder of the cost. Captain Wolst’s remains dangled from the prow, his body swaying gently with the tide. The crew, too, had been spared, provided they swore their loyalty. Tolgeen had taken command with a near-frenzied glee, overseeing repairs with the Armekalians laboring under the sharp gaze of their new masters.
Force had barely been necessary. Armekalia’s navy valued its own survival over the honor of its banners. A few brutal executions had been enough to ensure compliance. The pirates had grown. Not just in ships, but in men.
Under the fading light, the captains and a handful of crew rowed ashore. The sun sank low, but this far north, the night never truly fell.
The village was long abandoned. Simple wooden huts, once home to merchants and soldiers, stood hollow against the fjord’s edge. The West had claimed these lands when they first landed on Elanwyn’s shores, eager to control the trade of Plocetol, the liquid of the rare mushroom that had changed the way Teloshka waged war.
Plocetol forged Syllanian steel. The Herastium Plocedes, a Tripolistic mushroom, yielded a liquid that, when alloyed with other metals, created blades that were sharper, stronger, and lighter than any other known to man. The West had once bought it from the East. Then they had tried to take it by force. That had been the beginning of the Herastium Conflict, a bitter war that ended in the West’s defeat. Now, only the ghostly husks of their failed footholds remained, silent relics of an ambition that had burned away.
And now, those husks belonged to Kalltor.
The ships would be repaired. The wounded would heal. They would take what they needed and move before the East came hunting.
Sartise had been bound to the old light mast that once guided Western ships into the fjord. Blindfolded, tied tight, he had been left there since they came ashore. He would stay there until Kalltor was ready.
A group of men prepared to set off inland for more supplies, including women, ale, and whatever else they could take. The nearest village was two days away, but that didn’t stop them from volunteering.
Kalltor approached Sartise at last.
The bound man stiffened. Even blindfolded, he could sense him. The stench of the sea, the scent of blood, and the weight in the air were all known to Sartise as surely as death itself. Kalltor yanked the blindfold free. Twilight claimed Sartise’s face, his vision taking a moment to adjust.
He exhaled sharply.
‘Why don’t you just kill me?’
Kalltor smiled. A slow, humorless thing.
‘There’s time for that still.’
He broke off a piece of bread, shoving it toward Sartise’s mouth. He spat it out. Kalltor answered with water instead, tilting a canteen to his lips.
‘I survived on less,’ Kalltor murmured.
Sartise’s voice rasped. ‘Yes. But I am not a monster.’
A smirk curled beneath Kalltor’s beard.
‘No. You are. You’re more of a monster than I will ever be.’
He turned and walked away.
The waves rolled lazily against the pebbled shore. Kalltor walked the length of the water’s edge, his thoughts as restless as the tide. Volnaire’s footsteps crunched against the stones as he fell into stride beside him.
‘Two weeks at most,’ he said. ‘We’ll be ready.’
Kalltor nodded. His gaze remained on the fjord, on the black water stretching into the horizon. ‘Send word. They need to be ready. Or none of this works.’
Volnaire gave a slight nod before peeling away, heading back toward the glow of the firelit village. The scent of burning wood thickened in the air. The men were already drinking.
