Chapter 3

They found the queen not in the royal kintree, but in the feast hall of the late House Lathniel.

Leras slowed as they neared the end of the winding steps. A pressure grew in his head, a strain he didn’t think was from the earlier exercise or even the crucible before him. Only rarely had he returned to this place.

To where he’d first wielded sorcery.

Or so he’d been told. It having occurred when he was only five springs old, time or trauma had robbed him of the memory. Yet in his eagerness to rediscover the potential he’d once shown, he’d extracted all he could of the events.

He knew what he’d done. How he reached into the Lattice, the very fabric of sorcery, and wielded its threads as if born to it. How, in defense of his family, he threw a dreadknight, the greatest of Voidic monsters, back into its rift.

No mortal should have been capable of it. The wielding of the Lattice—even the sight of it—was supposed to belong to dragons alone. Yet there had been too many witnesses that day to deny what had occurred.

Since then, he’d had only glimpses of the Lattice. Never again had he touched it. Despite the many accounts from people he trusted, he doubted what they’d seen. It had been amid a battle against a creature supremely possessed of sorcery. Who could truly distinguish between what had been seen and imagined?

He tried to accept that he’d never possess sorcery. But, the same as his past yearning for his absent father, some dreams never die.

His father noticed him slowing and turned back. “Nothing to fear here, lad. The mages have the rift sealed as tight as your Uncle Aelyn keeps his arse clenched.”

A surprised laugh burst free of Leras. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Bran flashed a crooked grin. “I’ve said worse to his face.”

Turning the final corner, Leras took in the blackened walls and broken filigree of the feast hall. The flickering light at the far end drew his gaze. Its source was a dark slash twice his height. Threads of white light pulled together its edges, like sutures through a weeping wound.

The Voidic Rift.

Despite the sorcery keeping it closed, the rift oozed a violet light. The rays seemed to reach inside Leras’s chest to squeeze his heart. He drew to a standstill before his father urged him on.

“She’s not that frightening, is she?” Bran murmured.

Leras forced a laugh, then followed his father across the vast chamber. Though much of the damage from the long-past battle remained, the carved floor was free of detritus. An elevated platform rose at the far end, above which the hellish tear hovered.

The Queen of Gladelyl stood several paces away from the platform, facing the rift with her hands clasped behind her back. Leras had vague memories of her dressed in simpler clothes when he was young, but these days, Ashelia Venaliel embodied her position. Her pine-green dress changed hue with the slightest movement, like shadows across a forest floor. Silver thread laced the sleeves and hem, and a short cape fashioned after the ostentatious feathers of the aristocrat bird hung from her shoulders to her hands. Her hair, tangled and bushy when left to its own devices, was woven into intricate braids adorned with small emeralds, complementing its alternating brown and blonde hues. A hint of celadon tattoos, ensorcelled upon her tawny skin, peeked around the back of her neck in a flourish of leafy vines. The whitewood crown of her station completed the picture of the regal Elf Queen, the envy of the Westreach, if not all of Aolas.

As ever, the queen wasn’t alone. Attendants in matching emerald robes were busy composing messages in her name or stiff at attention, ready to be called upon. Beyond them was the Queensguard, clad in armor made of kintree bark, but enchanted so it gleamed like metal. Leras had always resented the constant presence of others due to his family’s royal status, but his upbringing had taught him to ignore them.

To either side sat enrobed elves at desks, out of place in the blighted surrounds. Even if he had not intuited who they were, their colors and amulets would have betrayed them as mages of the Chromatic Towers. This day, a master from the Onyx Tower, whose devotees studied the darkest aspects of sorcery, and one from the Ruby Tower, whose expertise lay in diplomacy and sorcerous communication, bent their heads together. No doubt they discussed the nearby rift. Fourteen years had passed since it was opened, yet none of the mages’ efforts had yielded a way to seal it. All they could do was keep the foul denizens on the other side from crossing into the mortal plane.

At their approach, Ashelia turned, slate-gray eyes taking them in. Bright tendrils lit up her eyes like sunlight behind storm clouds—tendrils Leras had inherited, though the rest of his irises were the simpler brown of his father. As the queen smiled, the majestic aura faded. Once more, she seemed simply his mother.

“Both of you coming to visit.” She narrowed her eyes. “An ill omen.”

“Come, my mangrove flower.” Bran used his honeyed voice, one Leras had always found too saccharine to long tolerate. “Is it not enough that I wish to behold your lovely features?”

In private, Ashelia might have rolled her eyes, but she retained her composure in the public eye. “If only,” she said drily as her gaze wandered back to the rift.

“Why are you here again?” Bran stepped closer, his hand rising toward his bond before he let it fall away. With Ashelia, Leras’s father tried to maintain proper decorum, even if he often came up short. “It’s remained sealed for fourteen years,” he continued. “I doubt the wards will unravel now.”

Ashelia was silent as she considered it. Leras returned his gaze to the rift as well. He wondered if he imagined the shimmering threads spilling off of it or truly saw them. When he blinked, they disappeared, leaving only the sealed rift behind.

“The rift has been…active of late. Moreso than it has since it formed.” The queen turned to Leras. “Your brother told you about that day?”

Leras stifled his surprise and nodded. Though he had nearly come of age by elven tradition, his mother had never spoken fully of the day the Voidic Rift appeared. It was the same day Gladelyl’s civil war ended. The day his mother claimed the throne.

Bran chuckled. “That’s Rolan for you. He’s more like Falcon every day. You’d almost think he was the old bard’s son.”

The queen smiled ruefully. “Better if he had been.”

Of Rolan’s father, Yinin Lathniel, Leras knew only bits and scraps, for his brother was never eager to speak of him. Once confined to a cell for his part in his sister’s treachery—treachery that had killed the previous queen, stolen the throne, and opened the Voidic Rift—he had morphed from a scheming coward into a madman. After he chanced upon a shard of glass, Yinin had made a permanent end to his confinement. His marriage to Leras’s mother had never been of love, from what Leras had divined. But that her former bond and Rolan’s father had ended in such a way had ever haunted their House.

Ashelia didn’t seem to dwell on thoughts of Yinin, though, as she looked back to the rift. “Uncle Aelyn sent a message by Conveyance. He has discovered a sage with expertise in artifacts similar to the Blood Knife.”

The Blood Knife. Leras stared into the shimmering rift, mesmerized by its unnatural undulations. The cursed dagger was said to have created the portal by blood sacrifice—the deaths of the previous deposed queen and her bond. The genesis of the knife remained a mystery, though it was believed to have been created long before the time of elves and humans, in an age when only one race existed, the one from which all bloodlines split: the Origins.

The legacy of that long-forgotten race remained in the World and the ruins they left behind. Even the power born to Gladelysh elves and other sorcerous bloodlines was ascribed to them. Yet with the Origins having gone extinct thousands of years before, they knew little of them and their creations.

Still, Leras knew if any might discover more of the Blood Knife, it was his uncle. A potent mage in his own right, Aelyn had also founded and become master of the Opal Tower, the newest of the Chromatic Towers, formed from the desecrated husk of the onetime royal kintree House Elendola.

“A sage in Dhuulheim?” Bran ran a hand through his beard, his brow furrowed. “A dwarf, then?”

Even without a prince’s education, Leras would have understood the reference to Dhuulheim. The realm of dwarves far to the north, he’d learned much of it from his closest friend, Niom, whose family hailed from there.

“He did not say,” the queen replied. “Though knowing Aelyn, I doubt he would trust a dwarf’s expertise.”

Leras’s father grinned. “No, I imagine not. But what of Garin and Wren—still no word from them?”

Ashelia’s expression turned grave. “Still no word.”

Leras yearned to ask after the pair. Months before, they’d left on a secretive mission, bound for a destination his parents only discussed behind closed doors. Often acting as agents on the queen’s behalf, such journeys weren’t uncommon. Yet on previous occasions, Leras had been able to extract their purpose. This time, when he inquired into the expedition, he was met with silence.

But he kept his curiosity to himself. With another request to make of his queen mother, he had to follow as she’d taught him. And the wise negotiator didn’t squander valuable capital, but employed it at the proper moment.

Bran bowed his head. “Perhaps they’ll reach out soon. If they encountered delays, they may have only just arrived.”

“We can hope.” Ashelia’s silver tendrils stirred as she turned to Leras. “But you did not come to speak of the past. It was today, was it not?”

Leras kept his face carefully composed. “Today? What do you mean, Momua?”

She arched an eyebrow in reply.

Bran chuckled. “I think our little game is up, lad, if it was ever secret. How long have you known?”

“Since the beginning, of course.” Ashelia looked to a darkly clad figure standing at the far side of the stage. “A prince does not test to join the warders without their queen knowing. Not only would it bring the Prime Warder’s loyalty into question, but also the competency of my Ilthasi.”

Leras followed her gaze. The man didn’t wear green like the others standing nearby, but was clad in near black clothes with soft-soled shoes. A black hood pooled about his shoulders, and a belt secured pouches to his waist. Leras spotted a dozen places he might have hidden subtle knives.

Ilthasi looked much the same the city over. Men and women sorcerously bound to their queen, they comprised her network of covert agents across Elendol, be it aloft in the upper branches, below in the lower city, or in the merchant tiers on the levels between. Most did not make themselves so visible as this man. He stood as a symbol, a reminder that the Elf Queen’s eyes were everywhere.

“The trial,” his mother said, drawing back his gaze. “Did you succeed?”

Leras repressed the urge to squirm. “In a way.”

“He did,” his father interjected, breaking custom by clapping a hand on Leras’s shoulder. “Had Elidyr not snuck in a cantrip, he would have beaten him, too.”

Cheeks warming, Leras hurried to amend, “His was an honorable victory. As the Prime stated, warders are expected to use every tool at their disposal.”

He tried to hide his wince, but his parents knew him too well to miss it. They knew how he ached for his absent sorcery.

“You did well.” Ashelia gently touched his elbow. “Two touches is better than I did in my testing.”

He met her eyes and smiled. It was as much touch as elven decorum allowed. Just then, from her, such a gesture was as warm as an embrace.

“Then you approve?” he ventured. “Of my taking a warder’s oaths?”

The queen withdrew her hand. “This is not a matter of my approval.”

His pulse quickened. “Of course it is. All I need is your blessing for Elidyr to take me on. If you send him a missive now, I can be—”

“Kaleras.”

As with her subjects, his mother silenced him with a word. Leras clenched his jaw, conscious of the onlookers scattered about the room.

He opted for a different tactic. “Momua, please. I only wish to be a warder as you once were. As Uncle Helnor was.”

He risked a glance at her face. Emotions galloped across her serene expression. The Elf Queen was known throughout Gladelyl for her composure, but Leras had always seen it as a thin sheet of ice covering a tossing sea. That stormy soul was most often expressed in a fierce love, but he’d provoked her temper often enough to know how it could crash down like a tidal wave. Any mention of her brother, lost in battles past, was always wont to awaken her passion.

Before his mother could answer, swift footsteps echoed from the arched entrance.

Leras turned to see an imposing figure striding toward them. Clad in armor similar to the Queensguard, the enchanted bark came in more natural hues of green and brown that would provide camouflage while moving through shadowed forests.

Only warders wore such armor. And he knew this warder.

Rynari Ymalis was a pariah wherever she walked. A daughter of a High House, she was the only female warder presently in service. Taller than most men, Leras among them, she had a slender build, but with the tight sinew of those dedicated to martial training.

Yet it was her other features that made her most conspicuous. Her short-cropped hair was the white of sun-bleached bone. Her skin was nearly as sallow. Pink eyes were illuminated by tendrils the bright red of freshly spilled blood.

Paleblood, the superstitious among the Highkin whispered when she passed. Mother-cursed.

According to tradition, the mutation was a sign of Mother World’s ill favor, promising a lifetime of misfortune for the child and their family. Leras wholly doubted the belief. From all he’d seen, Rya’s greatest suffering came not by luck or spiritual influence, but at the hands of her fellow elves—the same as for him.

An unreasonable hope arose in him at Rya’s appearance. If anyone was to bear good news from the Green Garrison of the warders, it would be her. A ward of House Venaliel a decade past, when she’d lived for several years with their family—a practice used to bind Houses closer, often in eventual marriage—she was also niece to Elidyr and acted as an intermediary between the Prime Warder and the queen.

The next moment, his good sense caught up. Even if Elidyr were inclined to accept him, he could make no final decision without the queen’s say. No aid would be found outside this room.

“House-daughter.” Ashelia smiled at the approaching warder, though her brow remained creased. “I thought you had departed on patrol.”

“Your Eminence, Your Highnesses.” Despite the queen’s familiar greeting, Rya extended them their due respect upon reaching their cluster, bending and spiraling her hands in a Gladelysh bow. “My apologies for the interruption.”

“No need to apologize.” Ignoring Leras’s wince, Ashelia pinned Rya with her gaze. “Have you something to report?”

“In a way.” The pale warder grimaced. “We came across the Dragonwatch.”

“The Dragonwatch?” Ashelia questioned sharply, her maternal aspect falling away. “Within our borders? Where?”

Leras understood his mother’s reaction. The Dragonwatch had been a frequent nuisance in recent years. Originating from the knights of Avendor, their stated mission was to defend Aolas from the threat of dragons, which they claimed waxed with each passing year. 

Yet the knights caused as much trouble as they claimed the dragons did, judging by the reports of farms pillaged and temple riches carried away. Gladelyl had suffered few of these attacks thanks to the warders, but the queen remained ever viligant to their presence. 

“North on the road to Yllsalar.” Rya’s feverish eyes flicked to Leras before returning to the queen. “We pursued the, ah, intrusion—”

“You may speak openly,” the queen interrupted. “Kaleras will know soon enough.”

“Along with the rest of the city,” Bran commented with a wry smile. “Can’t keep gossip like this contained for long.”

Burning with curiosity, Leras could no longer hold his tongue. “Is this speaking openly? Sounds a good deal like Rolan’s riddles.”

The warder chuckled, wry and devoid of mirth, though there was fondness in her second glance at him. “We had only discovered scat from the dragon. It seems the Dragonwatch was—”

“A dragon?” Leras looked at the other three. “Here, in Gladelyl?”

“Aye, lad.” Bran wore a wry smile as he looked at Rya. “Been reports of it flying over the forests this past week. A great sapphire beast, near as large as their queen—leastwise, how large Yvärras was when last I saw her.”

Leras struggled to wrap his mind around this revelation. Not that he’d been unaware of the existence of dragons; indeed, he knew with more certainty than most they were real. His family and their old comrades were some of the few to have fought with—and against—dragons upon their reincarnation two decades earlier.

But in the time since, the mammoth creatures had kept to the mountains where they were speculated to have established a lair away from mortal society. Only farmers and ranchers whose livestock had been raided had interacted with them.

A memory rose in his mind.

“Where?” He looked at Rya, thinking her the most likely to answer. “Where was it last seen?”

Rya glanced at Ashelia. When the queen didn’t object, she answered, “It flew over Elendol this morn.”

The shadow. It was a leap, yet who else’s presence could pierce the canopy of kintrees? He’d felt it pass over, felt a brush of its sorcery. And, in that moment, his blood had prickled with a heat not born of dancing and exercise.

His mother spoke into his stunned silence. “The Dragonwatch, Rynari,” she prompted.

“Yes, of course, Your Eminence. A company of them came upon us where the scat had been loosed—led by Sir Rhydian himself. Looked to be about three dozen knights and at least one warlock.”

“A warlock?” It took much to worry Brannen Cairn, but his thick eyebrows furrowed at that. “What does the Circle have to do with the Watch?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Your Highness.” Rya shook her head. “He was a strange one as well. Gaunt and silent, yet smiling. And his eyes…” She shrugged. “It’s difficult to put into words.”

“It is enough to know they are involved.” Ashelia fell silent, her gaze growing distant. Leras knew as well as the others it was better not to interrupt her when she fell into contemplation.

The queen roused. “I trust Sir Rhydian has been warned not to intrude upon our borders again? And he and his Watchers are being escorted from Gladelyl?”

“Of course, Your Eminence. I alone returned to inform you.”

“You did well.” Ashelia smiled at the warder, though the strain didn’t depart her eyes. “Thank you.”

Rya bowed her head. Ashelia having once been a warder herself—and the first woman to have taken the warder’s oaths—the queen had always shared a special bond with Rya. Leras was fond enough of the pale elf himself not to feel any jealousy.

“Have you reported this to Prime Elidyr?” Leras’s mother asked.

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Very well. You may return to your duties. See that I am kept informed of any fresh developments.”

“Always, my queen.”

Dismissed, Rya bowed once more, then turned and departed.

She hadn’t crossed half the feast hall before Leras spoke. With the coming of dragons and knights errant on Gladelyl’s borders, his desire to defend his home had only grown.

“You haven’t given me an answer, Momua.”

Ashelia’s gaze sharpened as she looked at him. “I am sorry, Kaleras. This will have to wait. You heard Rynari’s report. There are many other matters I must attend to now—the rift not least among them.” She turned back to the tall, dark slash, ever expelling its unnatural light. “We will discuss this over dinner.”

Protestations reared within Leras. “Must we wait until then? You need only say—”

“Come, lad,” his father interrupted. “Let’s leave your mother to her queenly business. Evening’ll be here before long.”

Bran clasped Leras’s shoulder, but Leras shrugged him off. Bitterness called him to rashness, but the prospect of appearing a petulant child before his mother’s retainers restrained his tongue.

“I’ll see you then,” he said stiffly, then strode after Rya.