Chapter 4

He caught up to the warder as she ascended the stairs outside the feast hall.

“Rya! Wait!”

The pale elf turned, a smile playing on her lips. Gone was the stiff formality, replaced by the fey humor he knew best.

“I hear your duel with Elidyr went well.”

His spirits plummeted as quickly as they’d risen. “I’d be more pleased if my queen mother would grant her approval.”

Rya winced in sympathy. As a fellow pariah of Highkin society and with only a handful of years separating them, they’d always shared an understanding. “Walk with me.”

Leras caught up and fell in step beside her. They ascended in silence until Rya heaved a sigh.

“Much as I hate to say it, Leras, dragons are unlikely to make this easier. You know how your mother is.”

Leras grimaced. “Overprotective? Stubborn? Tough as old roots?”

Rya laughed, then winced and glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll land me in trouble.”

“But you don’t deny it.”

“You’d know better than I.” She studied him sidelong. “Why do you want to be a warder?”

“Why do you?” he shot back.

Rya spread her arms and grinned. “Suits me, don’t you think?”

At her invitation, his gaze wandered down her figure, then swiftly back up to her laughing eyes. Even in armor, her shape was more appealing than he liked to admit. “Like a sword to its sheath.”

“A rather suggestive turn of phrase.” She laughed again at Leras’s pretended affront.

“Now you’ll get me in trouble!” he protested.

“I rather doubt that. I’ve heard Rolan say far worse before your parents.”

They fell silent as they reached the primary platform of the kintree. There, several more Queensguard stood with an Ilthasi among a smattering of other elves. Rya and Leras nodded in greeting, then the warder turned for the bridge leading away from the former Lathniel kintree. Lacking any direction until that evening, Leras went with her.

When Rya spoke, her mood had sobered. “You’d be a fine warder, Leras. But you’ll always be a prince first.”

“A spare prince,” he pointed out, picking his way across the swaying bridge. His words were devoid of bitterness; it was a status he preferred to the alternative of being directly in line for inheritance.

“But a prince all the same. And these are dangerous times. Dragons, the Watch, ghouls—”

“Have more been sighted?” Ghouls, one of the more common forms of nightkin—as such monsters were called—had appeared in the forests surrounding Elendol with concerning frequency of late. Once, they had needed to be summoned by a sorcerer from their home in the Void. Now, it seemed more like they manifested on their own, unless unknown mages haunted the lands around their home.

Rya shook her head. “Not for two weeks. But you never know when the next batch will brew and how many will rise in it.”

“What of it? I’ve trained years for this, Rya. You’ve helped me.”

“To your queen mother’s displeasure,” Rya muttered.

Leras ignored her. “I don’t want to stand around and pretend at being royal. I want to be useful. If our home is threatened, the best way to defend it is with spear and saber.”

The pale elf glanced at him, lips twisted to one side. “You don’t lack for courage, I’ll grant you that. But I fear your courage will mean little next to a mother’s concern.”

Reaching the far end of the bridge, Rya turned and placed a hand on his shoulder. Already an outcast, she had rarely flinched at flouting any of the unspoken rules among Highkin. Others around the platform eyed the open touch with distaste—or perhaps it was only at seeing the consortion of a paleblood and a halfkin.

Leras ignored their stares and focused on Rya. Her scarlet tendrils swam through her irises like blood spilled into a sunset pool.

“I know you, Leras. You’ll find your path, damn whoever stands in your way.”

His lips quirked. “Say that before my mother and I’ll believe you.”

She snorted a laugh, squeezed his shoulder, and turned away. “Until you two talk,” she shouted over her shoulder, “best keep your nose clean, Your Highness!”

* * *

Difficult as it was, Leras did as Rya bade. He longed to slow his spinning mind with a roll of iceleaf and a few cups of ale in a seedy den in the lower city. But to arrive besotted to dinner would only undermine his case to become a warder.

On another day, he might have dedicated himself to dancing, but he’d had enough training that day. Studying was out of the question, and even reading a diverting travelogue or epic poem wouldn’t provide enough entertainment. His closest friend, Niom, was tied up with his occupation and would remain so until their plans to meet up that night. He could have sought Rolan or their young sister, Syllana, but found he hadn’t the energy for it.

Instead, he wandered the bridges and platforms of High Elendol, barely acknowledging the gestures of respect and ignoring the occasional insolent stare. Hardly befitting behavior for a prince, but just then, he found it difficult to care.

We will discuss this over dinner, his mother had said. But she was the one who had taught him the power of deflection. As third-in-line to inherit the throne and the scion most likely to act as a courtier for Gladelyl, Ashelia had ensured he was duly instructed in courtly composure and the subtle arts of negotiation.

Sometimes, deflection was used as leverage, as the reluctant negotiator held more sway in a discussion. But his mother likely used it for its other use: to circumvent an uncomfortable confrontation. To divert from an unavoidable truth.

She has to say yes…

When he could no longer tolerate his thoughts, Leras hunted for distraction in the bustling city below. The operator of the lift eyed him with thinly veiled curiosity, but he didn’t question his prince as Leras stepped onto the platform.

Staring over Elendol during the long trip down, Leras watched the distance between the societies above and below dissipate. A few hundred paces in height, the upper and lower halves of the city were far more separated by their disparity in wealth and culture. The knowledge of his own vast privilege, persistent even through his muddled bloodlines, often made him uncomfortable at beholding the rampant poverty on the swampy streets. Despite his mother’s efforts to improve conditions, such social ills remained all too pervasive.

Yet more than his discomfort came a sense of relief. Only outside the stuffy social circles of the Highkin could a halfkin elf truly be free.

As they reached the forest floor, Leras tipped the operator a few coins, then stepped off the lift. Low Elendol—the Mire, to anyone who spent time there—smelled all the more ripe for the arrival of summer. Werelights, suspended throughout the open air, shone in gold and green, imitating the daylight beyond the far-off canopy. Heat seemed to radiate from the swampy ground that inhabited every part of the lower city not taken up by roots, paved roads, and humble abodes. Mosquitoes and midges filled the air with buzzing as they swarmed Leras, their latest prey.

Mirelings were used to such irritants. In the streets beyond House Venaliel, they carried on in their varied business, filling the muggy air with hearty conversation and shouts hawking wares. Leras reveled in the overwhelming atmosphere and yearned to join in. His thoughts wandered again to his favorite den, half a league down the winding streets.

A manicured garden separated him from the hubbub. Guards clad in armor of silvered bark stood at attention, their upright spears and hard expressions dissuading any intrusion upon the royal compound. Leras had often needled his mother for the ostentatious display, but the queen insisted it was a necessity.

We must stand apart, Kaleras, she’d told him, as we stand above. Only through awe can we maintain authority, and thus order, for the good of all.

He accepted her wisdom in many matters, but in this, Leras couldn’t agree. The blossoming flowers and glittering fountains of clear water demonstrated not order, but a sense of superiority. He’d too often suffered scorn to believe in its morality.

Humid heat enveloped him, saturating his sweat-stiffened clothes. Batting at the thronging pests, Leras ducked past the guards toward the arching roots next to the lift. Not only did the coolness within beckon to him, but he heard the bugling of his stor, his mount smelling his approach.

Stepping into the stable, Leras grinned as he laid eyes on the buck. Fable was a handsome beast. Cousins to the caribou of Sendesh, stors like Fable were native to Gladelyl and had long been bred as mounts. Though still young, the buck’s antlers spread thick and high, all the more for his generous height. A white mane, brushed to silky softness, hung in contrast to his mahogany coat.

At his master’s appearance, the stor bugled again, a high-pitched, undulating sound at odds with his look.

“Easy, boy, easy.” Leras held up his hands as he approached. “We’ll stretch your legs soon.”

Sending a stableboy to fetch a skin of fresh water, Leras set to tacking up his stor. By the time the boy returned, panting and laden with two sloshing waterskins, Leras was leading Fable toward the entrance.

“Just one will do next time,” he said with a laugh, “but I appreciate the enthusiasm.” Flicking the boy a silver, Leras smiled at his wide-eyed delight, then exited the stable to mount up. The buck danced as his rider settled, eager to be away. Tutting in disapproval, Leras lightly pressed in his heels and guided the stor through the garden.

“Your Highness, a moment.”

He didn’t have to look around to know who beseeched him. Pressing his heels in again, Fable took off at a trot for the road ahead.

“Your Highness!”

No use in pretending he hadn’t heard now. Leras sighed and drew Fable to a stop. Twisting around, he waited for the woman who had shouted to catch up. His shadow, he often called her, and not only for her darkly dyed clothes. As an Ilthasi and his protector, she never let him wander the Mire alone.

For all her attempts to remain anonymous, Faerna stood out even in the Mire. Sylvans remained rare in Elendol. Hailing from a bloodline originating among the Severed Realms to the east, she had bright hazel eyes and golden hair that had the texture of wheatgrass. Her moss-green skin was ridged like root-strewn earth, and she was nearly as short as Niom, though a fair bit more petite.

Despite her unassuming appearance, Leras had witnessed firsthand how deadly the Ilthasi could be. Though young, it spoke much to his queen mother’s confidence in Faerna that she had been assigned to protecting one of her sons. Just as potent as Faerna’s knives was her sorcery, as inherent to sylvans as it was to elves. Though her gaze alone sufficed to end most troubles before they began.

Yet he’d never been easily intimidated.

“Hail, Fernie,” Leras said, using her mocking moniker. “Didn’t hear you there.”

Her face showed as much emotion as the wood it was textured like. “You understand my duty, Your Highness,” she said briskly. “I cannot allow you to wander off without protection.”

“Of course not! I hope you’re ready for a walk.” Leras patted Fable’s flank and smiled. “Fable’s eager for exercise.”

The buck shifted his hooves as if he meant to be off that moment.

The Ilthasi didn’t rise to his goad. “Do not stray far,” she commanded, impertinent as ever in her position.

“I could say the same for you!” Leras grinned as he turned away. Little amused him more than irking his shadow.

At least I’ll have that for distraction.

He directed Fable into the Mire’s streets. Pedestrians parted around the stor with cautious glances up. Only the Highkin owned stors, and the populace knew better than to curse at their imposition. Though he enjoyed riding his buck, Leras quickly regretted taking Fable out. He would have preferred to blend in just then.

Ignoring the looks, he darted glances over his shoulder. Part of him hoped he would lose his tail in the bustle, but each time, he caught sight of Faerna’s golden hair, bristling from her head like grass in an autumnal meadow.

Soon, the swell of the crowds swept other thoughts away. A dozen scents, both appealing and appalling, filled his nose as he passed through the lower city. Shops and houses crowded the road to either side, many nestled under the great roots of the kintrees. Low Elendol was a warren to all but its residents, but Leras visited often enough that he was as adept at navigating it as any Mireling.

It being the height of the day, it took the better part of an hour to reach the edge of the city. When at last he came upon the Briar Bridge that marked its western boundary, the empty forest beyond came as a welcome sight. Built upon the roots of two interlocking trees, the bridge spanned the Sanguine River, which curved around to the north of Elendol. The bustling of the city had died down enough that the susurrus of the flowing water could be heard along with the songs of birds and the occasional throaty scream of a tree monkey.

Leras sat atop Fable, staring beyond the bridge. How he longed to escape across the river, flee the fetters of his life. Flying across wooded paths and sunlit glades, maybe then he’d leave his worries behind.

But no—a wild ride would only weigh his mother’s decision against him. He was already too disadvantaged to risk it.

When he became self-conscious of the stares from the bridge’s sentinels, Leras turned away. Fable whined, clearly having expected to run free. He patted his stor’s neck.

“Next time, boy. We’ll go out next time.”

As they passed Faerna, trailing as ever behind, Leras pressed his fist to his chest in a mocking salute, then made his way back home.

* * *

Leras prepared meticulously for dinner. Rinsing off the sweat and stink from the day, he combed his hair, taming the springy mass into a presentable state. He dressed more lavishly than he was inclined, drawing on a stiff jacket glistening with green in celebration of their House. His mother rarely stood on formality, but on this occasion, he couldn’t push his luck.

He arrived minutes before the dinner bell. Coming around the bend in the stairs, he passed through the rippling barrier at the entrance to the feast hall, a sorcerous construct that kept the interior acclimated, despite the entrance being open to the elements. Cool air washed over him as he entered, stripped of the heavy moisture that saturated the City of Spring.

Leras walked through the feast hall toward the far end, where a polished table sat atop a platform. The chamber had always felt both grand and intimate. Thousands of years before, their home kintree had been carefully shaped by mages of the Emerald Tower. In the time since, every surface had been lovingly etched with the stories of House Venaliel, resulting in a living tapestry of ancestral memory.

But since his mother’s coronation, her elevated position had blighted it, morphing the warmth and homeliness of his childhood into a gaudy creation. The arches cascading across the ceiling were adorned with silver and mother-of-pearl. Jade spread over the slender columns. At the center of the room, a statue of a buck stor had been erected in celebration of their House’s sigil, the violet crystal within the petrified wood glittering.

Once, he’d felt comfortable there, the expansive roof seeming as high as the sky, the suspended werelights as captivating as stars. Now, amid all that gold and glamor, it grated on him as much as his princeship.

Despite Leras’s timeliness, his mother, father, and younger sister were already seated at the table. All three smiled at him as he strode between the long tables, ever present for feasts and affairs hosting the Peers and other Highkin of Elendol. He returned the smiles and ascended the wide stairs to take his usual seat opposite of Syllana and next to his father.

As soon as he sat, servants appeared as if from nowhere, pouring for him goblets of glistening water and a deep red wine. Leras longed to drain the wine at once, but contented himself with a sip, conscious of the gazes of his parents.

“Where’s Rolan?” he asked as he set down the goblet.

“Late as usual.” Bran drank of his own cup, which held a dark, foamy ale.

“I heard him playing in his room,” Syllana piped up. Eight springs old, she possessed all the unbridled enthusiasm of a girl. Her hair was just as vivacious, tight brown curls erupting from her head tipped in blonde as if dipped in lye. Her eyes were bronze on silver, the opposite blend of their parents as his. When she wasn’t infected with impish behavior, her surprising composure for her age suggested she was like Ashelia in more than looks. She even possessed the hallmark of the Eldritch Bloodline: the ability to wield sorcery.

Perhaps that was why she’d faced less discrimination than he thus far for being halfkin. Or perhaps it was because she was first in line for the throne, being the firstborn female of their family, and scorn for the queen’s direct heir was too risky to indulge. Whatever the reason, Leras was glad for it. Nothing pained him more than his sister in distress.

“And squealing along with his strumming, I’m sure.” Leras smirked at his sister, to which Syl giggled.

“Merciless, you two!” Bran barked a laugh and waved toward the entrance. “At least give the poor man a chance to defend himself.”

“Are you two already persecuting this poor bard?”

Rolan strode the length of the feast hall. Unlike Leras, his older brother had embraced his role as a prince of Gladelyl—or so his rakish fashion implied. As ever, he toed the line of Gladelysh acceptance, an outlandish bulge of a cap sitting atop his head in riotous violet. His black curls were oiled where they spilled beneath the brim. His eyes, a match to their mother’s, danced with perpetual amusement. His coat matched the hat, and he paired them with white-striped pantaloons, a convention from Avendor, which ballooned out from his thighs before tucking into tall boots. Leras was amused to see his dandy of a brother even sported a short cape that evening, the latest thing to outrage their fellow Highkin.

As frivolous as it all appeared, Leras understood why his brother dressed so. It was his way of flouting staid conventions. Nor was it his only way—the songs he composed as the self-fashioned High Bard of the Queen’s Court critiqued more directly the paradoxical values held among the High Houses, pulling at the seams of tradition until they came unraveled.

“More like tearing at your throat,” Bran commented with another sip of ale. “Insulting your singing, if you can believe it.”

“When my voice is as sweet as drakes honking?” Rolan grinned and flopped into his chair, leaning so it tilted onto its back legs. Only at their mother’s arched eyebrows did he settle back. “Oh, come now, Momua. The servants won’t tell on me for my raucous behavior.”

“But the chair might needlessly break.” Despite her reprimand, Ashelia consented to smile.

As soon as Leras’s brother was sitting, servants swept in bearing trays. Aromas nipped at Leras’s nostrils as they lifted covers to reveal the dishes beneath. Venison and pears, spiced with pepper and cinnamon. Asparagus and wild garlic. Broth flavored with rabbit and onion. Mangoes mixed in honey-sweetened cream.

Ordinarily, it would have provoked his stomach to grumbling as the servants filled his plate. That night, as he took up his galli, a pair of slender wooden sticks used as utensils, he only picked over the bountiful fare.

Leras held his tongue as the others chattered about their days. Eyes on his food, he waited for his mother to speak of her decision first. But as the merriment continued, he could keep his peace no longer.

Looking to the head of the table, Leras spoke into the first lull in conversation. “You said we would speak of my becoming a warder, Mother.”

Ashelia slowly met his gaze. She could read faces like the late Queen Geminia had read minds. And she knew him through and through. He only called her “mother” instead of “momua” when he was upset.

“I did say we would discuss it.” Her rephrasing was pointed, an indicator of her poor mood. That night, though, he couldn’t tiptoe around it.

“Then you’ll give your blessing?”

Syllana shifted in her seat and poked at her food. Rolan, out of sight to Leras’s left, hummed an erratic tune. Their father wore a pained look that set Leras’s stomach to churning.

“I am of two minds, Kaleras,” Ashelia said, each word composed and deliberate, as if she spoke to a foreign ambassador and not her son. “I understand your desire to be a warder, and I commend your bravery. But you are a prince of Gladelyl. Should anything happen to you—Mother forbid, but if it should—that poses a liability to the throne. And you are not yet of age.”

“Not in Gladelyl.” Anticipating this line of argument, Leras seized upon it. “But I’m not just an elf, am I? I’d be four years a man back in Father’s village. No doubt they’d call me worse things than kolfash for being late to take up a calling.”

Little could rifle the queen, but her shoulders stiffened at his casual use of that word. Kolfash—halfkin. Innocent in translation, but a term soiled by history. Rolan had told Leras of the past crimes committed against half-blood elves like himself and Syllana. The hangings. The burnings. The examples made out of their sinful parents.

Gladelyl had come far since those times. But no one knew better than Leras the long memories of elves.

His siblings looked down at their food. Bran stared at the far wall, jaw shifting, as if he kept back words. Leras expected his mother to chastise him for speaking such a slur. Instead, she ignored it.

“There are greater concerns than if you are ready,” the queen said. “We face many threats in this moment. The Voidic Rift, the Dragonwatch, now dragons themselves—”

“I know,” Leras interrupted. “That’s why I want to become a warder. To protect Gladelyl from its enemies.”

Ashelia continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Those add to perils already known. Avendor and King Aldric’s fervency for expansion. The warlord Jolagh conquering the Severed Realms in the east. And the masters of the Chromatic Towers speak of other powers stirring across the many planes of existence. Of menaces scarcely known or understood.”

His frustration was a creature alive, tearing at his ribs. Leras leaned over the table toward his mother. “Then let me fight for us.”

“No.”

The word rang through the feast hall. Stunned into silence, Leras could only stare. Around him, his family shifted in their seats. None spoke.

“No, Kaleras,” his queen mother said again, softening. “Not now, at least. I must keep you safe. If not for your sake or the good of the realm, then for mine.”

“The good of the realm.” Bitterness poured like venom onto his tongue. Leras threw out a hand toward his little sister. “Syl is your heir! And you have Rolan for a spare. What good does it do the realm to have one fewer warder?”

His little sister, far from wilting at being brought into the argument, drew upright. “I will do my duty as your heir, Momua. You do not need to keep Leras from becoming a warder for me.”

Her seriousness might have been comical under other circumstances. But just then, Leras smiled out of gratitude rather than to tease.

Ashelia softened as she brushed a hand over Syl’s springy hair. “I appreciate that, Syllana, but this is not your decision.” She returned her gaze to Leras. Her tendrils turned faster, bright and silver as fish darting through a river. “I am your mother and queen. It is my duty to protect you.”

Leras stood abruptly, chair squealing across the floor. In the corner of his eye, Rolan winced. Leras didn’t look away from their mother. He wouldn’t give her that relief.

“And I thought it was mine to protect Gladelyl. But I guess you lied about that.”

Turning, Leras strode around the table. As he passed his father, Bran halfway stood and reached for him.

“Leras, lad…”

Leras evaded his father’s grasp and fled down the stairs and away from the feast hall. Clenching his jaw all the while so the tears wouldn’t spill free.