Zarryiostrom Chapter Three
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Chapter THREE
“Tensions”
The first thing Phaedron, the Earl of Daane, noticed was the smell. The sharp tang of salt water filled his nostrils, and he breathed deeply to take in as much of it as possible. As he enjoyed the scent, out of the corner of his eye he spotted his younger half-brother shaking his head in amusement. Phaedron turned his horse slightly towards his grinning sibling and gave him a mock-severe look.
“Is there something you find amusing, Valeriad?”
Crown Prince Valeriad, unrepentant, grinned even wider.
“You. I can always tell when we’re getting close to the ocean. You get this look on your face of smug satisfaction, and then snort in as much air as you can. I don’t understand why you do it: the air smells exactly the same here as it did fifty yards ago.”
As Valeriad spoke, Phaedron began shaking his head in feigned sorrow.
“Spoken like a Fireborn. You spend too much time setting things ablaze. It has probably affected your sense of smell. Too much sulfur or something. I feel sorry for you. Truly sorry.”
Valeriad laughed, his long white hair flowing with the movement.
“There’s nothing wrong with my sense of smell at all, Phaedron. In fact, my keen nose has detected something distasteful nearby. Very nearby.” He cocked his head to the side as if contemplating something, tapped the side of his nose with a gloved finger, and took three delicate sniffs. “I can’t quite make out the stench. Pretty rotten though.” He paused for effect, and then took a significant look toward Phaedron. “Say . . . are you sitting upwind?” He leaned closer, took a much deeper sniff, and then shuddered dramatically. “Never mind. I think I found the source.”
Phaedron laughed brightly.
“I wish I could disagree with you, but you’re probably right. Six days on a saddle will do that to you.”
“Oh, I don’t think six days in a saddle would be enough to account for a smell this bad. I think it took much longer. In fact, I’m fairly certain this particular stench needed time to marinate.”
Phaedron laughed again.
“Marinate? That word had three syllables. I’m proud of you! Your tutors must have needed a lot of treats to train you. I think they deserve a raise. Or a medal. Pretty soon they might have you housebroken!” He crossed his fingers and looked toward the sky as if praying to the Archon to make it so.
Before Valeriad could phrase an adequate reply, a soft, melodic voice interrupted their conversation.
“Boys. That will be quite enough. Six days of your incessant bickering and one-upmanship is wearying.”
Both of the young men turned to look at the speaker and answered as one.
“Yes, Mother.”
But as they turned back to look towards their destination, a bright expression crossed Phaedron’s face.
“Statues! That’s it! They deserve statues!” he said.
Queen Aveliad of Dakkadia shook her head in exasperation as the two young men launched right back into their never-ending exchange of witty repartee and mutual insults as if she had never spoken. Riding next to her was her youngest child, the Princess Deirdre, who was listening to her brothers insult each other and giggling whenever a particularly telling blow struck home. Any time one of them made her laugh, the boys would press home the point to elicit even greater laughter from the younger sister they both adored. Aveliad suspected that if walking barefoot on crushed glass or hot coals would have amused the golden-haired Princess, either one of her sons would have gladly done it again and again just to please her. The thought made the queen smile.
She leaned back in her comfortable seat and half-closed her eyes behind her ornate porcelain mask, while surreptitiously studying her sons’ profiles. Valeriad, her younger son and the Crown Prince of Dakkadia, was an exceptionally handsome boy, with clear blue eyes, fair skin, and flowing white hair that almost reached his lower back. Among Dakkadians that white hair marked him as an oddity, for although white hair was fairly common amongst the Fae, it was practically unheard of in a Dakkadian who tended toward blue-black hair. Valeriad was seventeen years old, just the right age for marriage, and the eligible daughters from every house in Dakkadia and the surrounding lands were finding reasons to visit the capital city of Blackstone. The fact that he stood next in line for the throne would have been more than enough reason for an endless stream of young women to show interest in him, but once these eligible young women set eyes on him they quickly found that doing their duty for their families and kingdom as their parents insisted wouldn’t be such an onerous chore after all, for even among the Fae he would be accounted as extraordinarily beautiful. For his part he seemed to enjoy the attention, but so far despite the temptation he hadn’t taken advantage of the situation. Instead, his attention had been diverted to other pursuits, as Valeriad had just entered service in the Dakkadian military as tradition decreed, and had taken to his duties with a will. He had always been a serious boy, and the military lifestyle suited his demeanor quite well. Aveliad had no doubt that Valeriad would make a wonderful soldier one day, though truth be told she had her own reservations about his putting himself in harm’s way.
Her older son Phaedron was a marked contrast to his younger half-brother, for where Valeriad was exceptional for a Dakkadian, Phaedron was the very image of a traditional Dakkadian noble, with long blue-black hair marked with a single white stripe unique to the nobility. Aveliad loved both of her sons dearly, but it was Phaedron who held a special place in her heart, for he was the son of her first husband, Lord Phaedril Daane. Phaedril had died over twenty years ago in a tragic hunting accident, shortly before Phaedron was borne, so Phaedron had never known his father. Despite that, Phaedron was every inch his father’s son, for he had Phaedril’s lighthearted demeanor and quick wit, and with every day that passed he looked more and more like his father. In a way, it was heartbreaking for Aveliad to even look at him, for she had never fully recovered from the loss of her beloved Phaedril. But knowing that a part of him lived on gave her all the comfort she needed. She glanced down at Phaedron’s side and noticed the hilt of his father’s rapier riding at the proper angle on his belt. Valeriad was in training to be a soldier, and one day would make an excellent one, but Phaedron was a warrior born. No one in the kingdom could match his skill with a blade, and through sheer merit he had been appointed as one of the military leaders of Dakkadia. As Master of the Light Horse he led a new formation, known as the Dakkadian Pistoliers; lightly armored horsemen that were known for bold charges and lightning attacks. His courage and tactical brilliance were already the talk of Dakkadia, and almost as many women were coming to see him as they were his younger brother. If the women were coming to the capital to try and trap him in their webs they were destined for disappointment, for Phaedron rarely spent time at the capital. Instead, he spent his time at his own home or riding with his men around the periphery of Dakkadia keeping the borders secure. As the Earl of Daane he owned a sizeable estate that he had inherited from his father, and that was where he spent the vast majority of his time.
The reason for his constant absence wasn’t that he hated court life or the attentions of fawning young women, it was that he bitterly hated his stepfather, King Madari. For his part, Madari had tried halfheartedly to win the boy’s affections, but had finally given up his efforts as a lost cause and had instead allowed his stepson as much freedom as he wanted away from the capital. Phaedron enjoyed that freedom immensely, and hadn’t wanted to attend the Convocation, turning down invitation after invitation until Aveliad had asked him to do it as a favor to her. Despite his reluctance, Phaedron hadn’t been able to refuse a direct request from his mother, so here he was, riding beside the carriage and trying to make the most of the situation by bonding with his siblings.
Her thoughts were interrupted when she caught sight of her husband riding towards them from the front of the column and all happiness seemed to drain right out of her. She reached up unconsciously, as she had done countless times before, and checked to see that the white enameled mask that covered her eyes was in place. The mask was graceful and elegant, adorned with feathers and jewels, but it seemed out of place anywhere except a court ball or an opera. Despite this, she never removed the mask outside of her own bedchambers; chambers she did not share with her husband, nor would she as long as she remained Madari’s wife. Phaedron had his own reasons for hating his stepfather, but what he didn’t know was that Aveliad had reasons of her own. The “accident” that had stolen her husband from her had in fact been nothing of the sort, and though she couldn’t prove it—yet—she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt exactly who had been behind the murder. When I find the proof I seek, I’ll have my revenge. And on the day that Phaedril’s spirit is finally at rest, I’ll remove this mask and try to forget that you ever existed . . . my husband.
As King Madari Dhaerhan of Dakkadia rode to the middle of the column, he pretended he didn’t see his wife checking her mask. He had long since stopped caring that she chose to hide her beauty as much as possible around him. What did that matter? Her beauty was legendary, and everyone already knew that she belonged to him: the mask simply made her more alluring, if indeed that was possible. Aveliad was half-Fae, but the exotic beauty of her Fae half had been leavened perfectly by her human blood. He had been smitten with her the day he had met her, and it didn’t matter in the slightest that she had belonged to another. He had pursued her with single-minded determination, and when his advances had failed and she had married another, he had turned to . . . other devices. The end result was his marriage to the most beautiful woman in the world. What mattered then the means? Unfortunately, success in this case had its price. To others, she may have been the most exquisite woman in the world, but for him she was ice, as cold and lifeless in bed as the alabaster her skin so richly emulated.
The three children saw him approaching and their faces spoke volumes. Phaedron, Aveliad’s child of her first marriage and the eldest at 20 years, closed his mouth and assumed a rigid posture that mirrored his mother’s almost perfectly. That boy had learned his lessons well from his mother, and Madari fought down a killing rage. The ungrateful wretch didn’t seem to realize that he was lucky that he hadn’t been killed at birth. Madari had considered it when he learned his future wife was with child from her first marriage, but women were always unpredictable about children. Had he killed the child he might have woken up one fine morning with a dagger in his heart—or worse—and wouldn’t that have been fun? The other two children were different. Valeriad, Madari’s only son and 17 years of age, smiled when he saw who was approaching and raised his hand in greeting. Deirdre smiled as well at the father who doted on her and waved vigorously.
At 14 years old, Deirdre was at the age where she wasn’t quite a woman but was no longer a child, and she was becoming more beautiful by the day. Fair skinned and golden haired, she was going to be every bit as beautiful as her mother one day, if not more so, and greatly Madari looked forward to receiving offers of marriage for his daughter’s hand. She would make a fine wife for some royal, and a strong alliance for Dakkadia, and that was exactly what he wanted for her. In fact, Madari hoped he could arrange marriages for both of his children that would bring even greater power to Dakkadia than he had already achieved.
When he reached his children he reined in his horse and said,
“We are nearing the port, and the outriders have informed me that Lady Prudence Daemira is awaiting us with the Sovereign. Do not get lost, do not wander off, and do not cause trouble. I do not want you to slow our departure by a single second. Am I clearly understood?”
Phaedron nodded solemnly, and Valeriad touched his heart with his right hand in the traditional Dakkadian salute.
Deirdre, clearly excited beyond measure, could hold silent no longer.
“Father, I can’t believe we are going to sail with the Corsair herself! She’s the most famous pirate in the entire world! I can’t wait to meet her!”
The girlish excitement in Deirdre’s voice made Valeriad laugh, before he covered his mouth with his hand, shining eyes and shaking chest giving away his silent laughter. Phaedron lost his stony gaze and covered his eyes, a wide grin visible under his hand while he too shook with suppressed mirth. Deirdre didn’t notice her brother’s reactions, for all of her attention was focused on her father.
Madari turned a stony gaze toward Valeriad who instantly stopped laughing and assumed an admirably grave expression.
“It’s ‘privateer,’ not ‘pirate’, sweetling. And you would do well to remember the difference and mind your tongue around her. Despite what the Illymari may believe, Lady Prudence is not a pirate at all; she’s a court-sponsored privateer. That means she sails under the flag of Dakkadia and is able to attack merchant vessels and capture prizes legally. Privateers are soldiers; pirates are criminals. Remember that, and remember as well that we are merely guests aboard her vessel. Lady Prudence has graciously allowed us to make use of her ship to ferry us to and from the Convocation, but no part of our arrangement says that she has to waste her time answering your questions. Make any trouble for her and she’ll toss you overboard and let you swim home.” He paused. “And I’ll let her!”
Deirdre nodded solemnly, wide eyes not changing in the slightest.
“Phaedron, Valeriad, you will comport yourselves with absolute dignity aboard the Sovereign. Our house isn’t exactly on the best of terms with the Daemira, and I had to call in a great many personal favors to get her to agree to bring us to Illymar. I want nothing at all to jeopardize our arrangement. It is more important than you know for us to put our best foot forward from now, until we return home again. Appearances are everything.” Valeriad nodded to his father, but Phaedron sat unmoving, his posture and expression still a mirror image of his mother’s. Madari looked directly at Phaedron, and asked in a harsh voice, “Am I understood?”
Phaedron, unphased by the tone, merely inclined his head in the slightest of nods. Madari stared at him for a minute longer, then turned his black charger back toward the front of the line and urged it into a canter, quickly leaving his family behind.
Valeriad rounded on his half-brother, all traces of mirth gone in an angry frown.
“Why can’t you even try to get along with him? He’s a great man and a great father, and you refuse to see that! Nothing he does is good enough for you!”
Phaedron turned a cold gaze upon his younger sibling.
“This is not an argument we should be having in public.” When Valeriad refused to back down, he said, “To you he is a great man and a great father. To me, he is simply the man that married my mother after my own father died. Your devotion to him blinds you to his reality, Val. He’s a tyrant, and many people hate and fear him. People that go against his wishes or stand in the way of his ambition disappear or are found dead of ‘explainable circumstances’ and he remains untouched. His father and both of his brothers died to clear his way to the throne. He’s conquered every one of the kingdoms surrounding Dakkadia, sometimes brutally and without justification, and he keeps the heel of his boot on their necks. I don’t appreciate his tactics, I don’t respect him as my king, and I absolutely refuse to acknowledge him as a ‘father’. I had a father, and he’s as dead as everyone else that gets in Madari’s way.”
Valeriad felt his anger flare up at the veiled accusation, and the air heated around him as he began summoning his power.
“What did you say? Are you accusing my father of something, Lord Daane?” At that, Valeriad’s eyes began to glow red, and he curled his fingers into claws as a ball of fire materialized between his hands. In response to the threat, Phaedron’s eyes turned a shimmering blue, and a white aura of frigid air surrounded him. Though he was young, Valeriad Dhaerhan was already an extremely powerful Fire Mage even if he hadn’t yet undergone the Testing, but both of them knew that Phaedron was an even more powerful Water Mage. Furthermore, Valeriad knew that Phaedron’s frost shield would easily stop even the most powerful fireball that he could generate. Once his defenses were in place Phaedron made no attempt to attack. He simply waited until Valeriad calmed down enough to speak.
“That’s my father you’re talking about, Phaedron, and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself where he’s concerned. You don’t like him? Fine. I can accept that. But whether you like him or not he’s your king, and as his vassal you owe him both your fealty and respect.” He let the ball of fire dissipate as he finally released his hold on his power and allowed the flames to extinguish.
“I know that you didn’t want to be here, Phaedron, and that my father is the last person you want to see, but it’s going to be a long trip, and the two of you are going to be on the same ship for the entire journey. So, I’m warning you now, keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself where he’s concerned or the two of us are going to have a problem. A serious problem.”
Phaedron hesitated for a few moments before releasing his own hold on his power. Once the frost shield had disappeared he bowed in his saddle.
“I spoke out of turn, My Prince, and I apologize. I humbly beg your forgiveness for the insults and insinuations that I made about your father. I’ll try not to let it happen again.” The words were proper, but Valeriad could see a hint of defiance remaining in his eyes. Despite that, Valeriad decided to let it pass.
“Good.”
Madari rode to the front of the column, and slowed his charger when he reached the front. A slim figure mounted on a black stallion nodded to him, long black hair marked with a white Dakkadian stripe perfectly arranged with not a single strand out of place despite the six long days on the road. Dressed in a fine black velvet robe embroidered in thread-of-silver, Morvandis looked every inch the powerful Mage Madari knew him to be. To Madari’s unrefined tastes, his half-brother seemed to be almost foppish, but he knew better than to make the mistake of judging the Mage’s character by his clothing. Madari had seen the iron fist concealed by the velvet glove and knew never to underestimate its power, or it’s cunning.
Morvandis was the Mage-Lord of House Dhaerhan, and wielded more power than any other three Mages in the world combined. It was hard to tell actually, because no other Mage in the world had dared to challenge him directly. Madari couldn’t evoke at all, but Morvandis more than made up for it.
“We will be there shortly, Your Majesty.”
Morvandis almost never wasted breath on pleasantries or unnecessary conversation and Madari admired that about him. He always went directly to the heart of any matter, with no evasion or prevarication. Madari himself was like that, but in action, not word. Plain spoken and direct, he had been accused more than once of being coarse. As the absolute ruler of Dakkadia he answered to no one, and if someone took umbrage to his words, it mattered less than nothing to him.
“I want your oath that there will be no trouble between you and Daemira’s pet Mages, Morvandis. This is too important to risk on personal vendettas. The Sovereign is our most visible and successful privateer. Even the Illymari fear and respect her reputation. Arriving aboard her sends exactly the message I want to convey to every noble at the gathering, and if that means you have to spend a few days in the presence of a man you hate, you’ll just have to bear it.” Madari turned a hard eye on his Mage, and Morvandis inclined his head.
“You have my oath that I will cause no trouble. The problems I have with Mage Rantrefal are philosophical in nature. It is true that we hold no love for each other, but I feel no need to escalate the conflict between us. Had I been so inclined, I could have killed him outright years ago. I think he knows this, and is willing to let the situation stand as is. For all his faults he is not always a fool, and he certainly doesn’t want to die . . . especially not at my hands.”
Madari snorted in amusement. That was true enough. The “philosophical” problems the two Mages had were quite simple: Cahrick thought Morvandis a murderous bastard, and Morvandis thought of Cahrick as a weak-willed fool.
The problem was that many years ago, shortly after Madari took power, Cahrick had made a very drunken—and very public—speech implicating Morvandis for the murder of the former Crown Prince of Dakkadia, Madari’s older brother. Morvandis had been a child at the time, and everyone who had heard the speech dismissed it as the ramblings of a man too far into his cups, but a few years later Morvandis had heard the entire tale from one of his informants and had not been pleased. He had ordered Cahrick’s immediate arrest, but the Water Mage had somehow gotten word of the warrant and fled the port before Morvandis’ agents could reach him. After that, Cahrick had found powerful patrons to ward him, but more importantly he had learned to keep his big mouth shut. Queen Aveliad herself had finally ordered the warrant revoked, and it was her patronage that had kept the Mage safe ever since.
To this day Cahrick claimed that he couldn’t remember what he had said to make an enemy of the most powerful Mage in the world, but Morvandis had never been known for his kind and forgiving nature. Madari knew his Mage very well indeed: Cahrick would pay for his transgression someday, for Morvandis never forgot an insult.
Cahrick Rantrefal wasn’t a happy man. As he stared intently at the half-empty bottle of rum sitting next to him, he cursed his miserable lot in life for the thousandth time.
“I’m a dead man. Dead. Cold and dead. Might as well slit my own throat.”
Even as he said it, he knew he didn’t mean it. He would never give Morvandis the pleasure of seeing him dead at his own hand, and as he reached for the bottle to try once again to drown his misery, someone clapped him hard on the back.
“Time to go, old man. Cap’n wants you on board . . . .”
The speaker didn’t have time to finish, as several things happened at once. Cahrick hadn’t even heard the words at all, he simply reacted in shock and blind terror to the unexpected touch. He simultaneously screamed, cursed, and tried to stand up, and managed to send his stool, his bottle, and his glass flying away in different directions as if shot from a cannon. He spun around quickly, grabbing his heart and gasping, and several more things happened. The bottle and glass landed in the middle of a table populated by truly unsavory characters, and all of them leapt to their feet, grasping daggers, blackjacks, and suddenly-broken bottles. The stool landed in the middle of another group of miscreants—equally unsavory—with similar results. The two groups whirled around looking for the poor, unfortunate, soon-to-be-dead soul stupid enough to provoke them, and caught sight of each other, weapons drawn. Both sides drew the appropriate conclusion, and with blood-curdling screams battle was joined.
Cahrick didn’t even notice. Still clutching his heart, he caught sight of his shipmate and best friend, Rory Sornin, staring at him in shock.
When Cahrick could finally speak he shouted.
“Are you trying to kill me?!”
Rory ducked a flying bottle and shouted back.
“No! Cap’n wants all hands on board immediately! I came to fetch you!” A barmaid wielding a cudgel fell against him and he pushed her back into the fray without a moment’s pause.
Cahrick shot his friend a murderous look.
“I’m not going! I already told the Cap’n that! I’ve spent the last 20 years avoiding that blackguard, and now she wants me to be on the same ship as him? I’m no fool! I’m running as far away as I can! I don’t want him within miles of me!”
“Too late for that!” Rory said, shaking his head. “The King and his entourage are entering the city even as we speak. If you really wanted to run away, you should have done it days ago! So now you have two choices: either you get back to the ship and trust the Cap’n, or you die like a dog! Which is it going to be?”
As Rory made his point, a large hand clamped onto his shoulder and spun him around suddenly. The large sailor covered in scars and tattoos had a balled fist ready and had already begun to swing when Cahrick grabbed a bottle and broke it over the sailor’s head. The suddenly boneless sailor dropped to the floor instantly.
“Let’s go.”
Cahrick was no fool, or at least he was no longer a fool, and he’d known that running wasn’t the answer days ago, and that if he forsook the captain’s protection now he really would be as good as dead.
The two of them forced their way through the melee, finally making it to the unhinged door. The brawl had already spilled onto the street, and people were joining in left and right. The fight was rapidly turning into a full-scale riot, and they both wondered how in the hell they were supposed to get to the ship through this.
“Wonder what started the fight this time?” asked a bewildered Cahrick to an incredulous Rory.
Rory didn’t bother to answer. He simply grabbed Cahrick’s collar and dragged him bodily towards the docks.
