The King and Queen ushered Prince Halcyon towards his future bride. The poor girl slipped between the folds of her mother’s dress, as if she knew the fabric was paler than what was visible of her cheek. The Prince, for his part, struck an expression of incredulity so perfected it would’ve been at home on the face of a curmudgeonly old sap.
“Are you waiting for next Fest? Ask her hand!” The King hissed, panicking.
“She’s but a baby!” The Prince hissed back. “When I asked for younger I meant me young, not young young—Agh!”
Halcyon jolted and drew his right foot closer to its pair, seething in pain. The Queen remained deadpan. Lady Kyrel urged her smile back as she steered the coyly squirming Serella towards the Prince.
“Give her a decade, your highness. She’ll blossom into the perfect rose.”
Halcyon stared down his nose at his young bride, looking as if he’d want nothing more than to make known his lack of love for flowers, but his smarting foot must have protested, for he sighed heavily and sunk to his knee, his hand extended.
Kyrel smiled as Serella eagerly laid her hand in the proffered palm and the prince bowed his brown head to kiss it. Her first smile for Serella that Kellis had seen—she’d found a use for the spare, finally. It froze at the sound of his footsteps, then continued to widen when she spotted him among the crowd.
She dipped the Corbyns the deepest curtsy she could manage, then waddled over. Motherhood had piled more flesh onto her once tight cheeks, lent glow to her hair like streams of golden silk, yet sucked warmth and life from her round blue eyes.
“Kyrel, what is the meaning of this?” He whispered. Her back to the King, Kyrel abandoned her smile. Her eyes flared.
“I was born to wait on queens. To bear sons of dukes.” She spat. “Not some fat old knight drudging in the far-flung fringes of the kingdom.”
Kellis shook his head in disbelief. His heart cracked in flames of fury. He’d always pitied her destiny, refrained from placing blame on either their father for choosing duty or her for resenting it, then she’d gone and sold her family off with glee—
“Gold runs thicker in your veins than blood, it seems. Father was wise not to trust you with the truth.”
Kyrel’s beautiful face twisted, hatred replacing triumph.
“I paid for dear Brother’s freedom—for you to sard his wife on his seat—” She jerked her head at Sylvia, “—with all I would have been. I fulfilled your duty. I atoned for his sin. Now I reap my dues.”
“What have you done to Simon? To Sytus?” snarled Kellis through gritted teeth.
“What of Serulda? Won’t you ask after her as well?” Kyrel pouted, a hand over her heart in mock petulance, then sighed, “but of course, only the men count. A rose for every hundred thorns in the side.”
She leaned in, her cheek dusted with powdered ice brushing his jaw, her lips rouged with blood his earlobe, whispering each word with relish,
“—But the rose wilts. Thorns fester. And boil.”
With a hiss, she withdrew. Her smile brightened as she watched him seethe.
“If you’d given me Coris when I asked, perhaps you would’ve saved one of your precious sons.” She cocked her head, then spun away,
“Savor your last Fest, Kellis. It’s been twenty years a-coming.”
She hobbled away, laughing with the King as they watched wee Serella teaching the Prince a clapping rhyme. A doomed memory of what his sister once was. Or what he had mistaken her to have been.
Sylvia’s hand throttled his wrist, dragging him out of mourning and the raucous party onto the balcony. She cast her eyes at the doorway, her chest heaving.
“All this to lift the Ban!” She shook her head, eyes blazing with determination. “He won’t get rid of us so simply. We have the majority.”
Kellis shook his head, his voice low and dead,
“He gave Amplevale the title of future queen. Why make such a trade if he’d be defeated?”
Sylvia froze. Her eyes widened as chilling truth snuffed out her faint hopes.
“Someone turned?” She rasped.
“And we have until the dance ends to turn someone over.”
Silence fell as they digested it, the steady beat of drums from the hall chipping at the dwindling time. They had no clue which of their anti-miner allies had defected. They must seduce an opponent—but who? And how?
Sylvia gasped, and his heart leaped.
“Graye—” She breathed, tugging at his sleeve. Kellis gaped as his swelling heart froze in his chest. He couldn’t believe his eyes—she was ecstatic. “Alden made the offer to him first! Now he begrudges him for it. He’s our only chance—”
“For what, Syl?” Kellis snapped. He snatched her arms, rattling her back to sanity, “So he can ruin our sons a second time over? He knows next to nothing about The Axel, and already he plans to overthrow the king! We can’t join him!”
“WELL, WE CAN’T STAY PUT, EITHER!” Sylvia screamed. She tore her flesh from his claws, her voice breaking with tears as she jabbed a trembling finger at the party. “If Kyrel gets to speak, they will die! You know The Axel is the dowry! And she’ll tear our boys open to get it!”
Fists clenched, Kellis turned sharply away. The price was clear. If he chose Graye, it might mean the end of Latakia, but if he chose Latakia, his sons could very well die.
Sylvia’s nails gouged into his arms, her fierce voice choked with sobs as she commanded,
“You must stay on the Council, Kellis. Or there won’t be a future for any of us.”
----------------------------------------
The return journey to the Dragon’s Crossing wasted as much time as the departure. Mum and Dad retired straight to their room for first sleep, but the spoiled little Lord or Lady Hadrian or two squatting in Meya’s belly now decided they did want dinner, after all. And, much like their father, their demands were particular in detail.
Thus, Meya joined the congregation before the fireplace in the Hadrians’ chambers, trying her best to pay attention over the masterpiece on her plate as Coris relayed to the Graye sisters his puzzling encounter with their father.
“And you’re sure your letter reached him?” Agnes pressed her sister for the third time.
“What else could have prompted the King to summon us?” Coris pitched in from across the ring. Persephia had opened her mouth to again stand her ground, when the door opened and in came Zier and Arinel.
“Wha—the feast’s over?” Meya sat up, tossing her headless fried anchovy back to the mess on the plate.
“The Council’s begun?” Coris echoed her. Zier shook his head as he led Arinel into the room.
“Father sent us back.” He froze halfway to the ring of chairs, his nose twitching. His eyes found the culprit in Meya’s hands, then widened in terror.
“Is that…battered anchovy and tomatoes? With custard and honey?”
Coris rolled his eyes as he waved his mother’s feathery fan in Meya’s direction.
“One is a genuine demand from Little Lexi. The rest are my wife’s sinful favorites disguised as a mother’s duty. Care to bet?”
“Remember your mother’s cravings, Coris,” said Arinel coolly.
“I craved pickled frog garnished with rose jelly—set to Corien’s Harp. Be grateful I left out the frog before the soothsayer,” recited Coris under his breath. Sensing Meya’s death glare as she chomped the head off another anchovy, Coris turned to his brother with every ounce of seriousness he could muster.
“Is everything all right?”
Zier shared a look with his lady, then heaved a sigh.
“Serella’s marrying Prince Halcyon,” he met his brother’s gaze with haunted blue eyes, his voice hoarse. “Aunt Kyrel wants Father’s seat on the Council. They’ll vote on it.”
A pause of silence followed as the room’s occupants digested the news. Again, Coris was first to the answer. He fell against his chair with a flump, staring eyes unseeing.
“So that’s what,” he breathed.
Meya frowned at her husband, then cast her eyes around the ring. Hers was the only relieved face. Arinel watched Coris as she caressed Zier’s arm, as if to gauge how dire it was. Agnes glanced between the Hadrian brothers, a trembling hand rising slowly to her lips. Persephia gawked at Zier. What had she missed here?
“That’s—that’s great, innit?” She prodded Coris. He’d bent forth, elbows on his knees and fingers weaved under his nose, lost in feverish calculations, so she looked to the bearer of bad news instead. “Your auntie’s on the Council and your cousin’s the future queen.”
“It’s a trade, Meya,” said Agnes, her single eye boring into Meya’s, “The King offered me the title of future queen if Father delivers him The Axel. What do you think it means, now that he’s given it to Serella?”
Zier thawed out just enough to pull up a chair for Arinel, then sank limply into his own.
“Aunt Kyrel is the one behind the summons. Seems your father didn’t tattle, after all.” He tossed the Greeneye Graye a sideeye.
“But I was so sure—” Persephia shook her head, still staring at the patch of nothing Zier used to occupy.
“He’s likely saving it for a better use, a better time,” suggested Coris darkly.
“—Or your letter might not have reached him,” Agnes cut in, eyes narrowed at Coris in annoyance.
“I slipped it in with a shipment of finest gum. Father personally inspects those!” cried Persephia, hammering her fist on her knee.
“Still not foolproof, Persie!” Agnes cradled her head.
“We were discussing whether Grimthel still believes them dead,” said Coris, seeing the two newcomers blinking blankly at the quarreling twins.
“Why? What came up?” Zier’s deep voice arced an octave shriller.
As Coris again recounted their meeting with Baron Graye, Meya pondered Agnes’s words. Her hand froze on her chin at the chilling realization—
“Your auntie knows about The Axel?” Coris turned to her.
“That it’s inside me, yes.” He nodded. His narrowed eyes darted across the divide to the Graye girls. “The more worrisome matter is whether your father knows.”
Meya sighed. There he went again. Since Baron Graye made no attempt to contact Persephia, nor did he threaten Baron Hadrian to hand her over, nor made any mention of The Axel, Agnes doubted he’d received Persephia’s letter at all. Now that it turned out Lady Kyrel was behind the summons from the King, it was clear Baron Graye had nothing to do with this bullcrap.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Yet, Coris left his fangs stubbornly lodged in his calf, so used to playing mental Heist, he assumed everyone in the three lands was as much a fingers-steepling, eyes-glinting schemer as him.
“The Heist, Zier—What were his instructions? His exact words.” Coris rounded on his brother.
“I can’t possibly remember—” Zier sputtered.
“—Did he tell you to swallow it?” Arinel offered a compromise.
“—No, it was on impulse!”
“—’Course it was! Even you’ve never seen The Axel ‘til now. How could the Baron have known ’tis small enough to be swallowed?” Meya threw up her hand. With a huff, she set aside her plate and stood,
“Look, we got our answer. Baron Graye hasn’t got Lady Persie’s letter. He doesn’t know where The Axel is. He hasn’t tattled to the King. He’s not behind the summons. He still thinks Lady Agnes and Lady Persie dead. The true culprit is Lady Kyrel. And she’s your aunt—”
“—And Simon’s mother. Look what good that did him,” muttered Zier.
“He could also be waiting for the perfect moment to strike, Meya,” said Coris. Meya spun to face him. It’d been a while since a foe hit so close to home, she’d forgotten how cold and emotionless he once was. This was a betrayal he hadn’t expected, the worst he failed to foresee. But was it truly a betrayal? Wasn’t he Kyrel’s favorite, after all?
“Kyrel has the King’s ear now, but when the King doesn’t find The Axel with me, she’ll lose his favor. Why would Grimthel risk speaking when Kyrel has already set herself to fall? When he could scheme to keep The Axel for himself?”
“Then tell her the truth! She’s your aunt! Why’d she even think of getting you killed? Why d’you even think of letting her fail? She can get the King to allow surgery for Zier. She can talk him into letting dragons pass. ’Tis all’s well that ends well!”
“You’re forgetting a crucial detail, Meya.” Coris remained unnervingly serene, “Kyrel wants to replace Father on the Council. Why would the King back her if she were on our side and would vote to keep the Ban?”
Meya briefly faltered. Yet, she just couldn’t believe it. Of course she’d heard how nobles would kill even family for power, but having become so close to the Hadrians, she just couldn’t imagine Coris’s aunt—Simon’s mother—being that sort. And she was pregnant, for Freda’s sake!
“She doesn’t know the truth, does she? She probably did what she thought was best for Amplevale. She’ll change her mind once she knows what’s at stake.”
Zier snorted at her hasty offering. Meya whipped around to find his sardonic grin.
“In your dreams, maybe.” He shook his head, chuckling, then fell solemn. “This is a mother who hates her own son, Meya. You didn’t see her with Father back there. Like twenty years’ worth of poison ate through her skin and out spilled the she-serpent. She told the King old Lord Sytus is ailing, but not a word about it in her letters to Simon. Now Simon’s gone quiet. Don’t you think it’s suspicious?”
“Now she’s parading her swollen belly about, selling her five-year-old daughter to the Prince. Where’s her twin? Where’s Simon? Does she seem like someone who’d give a rat’s arse about Greeneyes? Her Hadrian duty?”
“You haven’t been fooled by Kyrel and Grimthel, Meya. We have.” Coris rose to his feet, his dead eyes locked with hers, “They cannot be trusted with The Axel. Father must keep his seat. He must keep the secret—”
“—In short, the status quo?”
Coris froze, taken aback. Meya lowered her gaze to the dancing flames in the grate, giving him pause to remember as she delved deep inside, peeling away fear and turmoil to find what she truly believed, what she wished for.
“I’ve been thinking over what Vyrgil said. He’s right. We should trust more in dragons and humans. Dragons just want to go home. The King wants to save Latakia, wants his reforms so his people can prosper. And Greeneyes are his people. Without their dragon army, Nostra is no longer a threat. And if we get the dragons to Everglen, we’ll know where our ore ships went.”
Coris avoided her eyes, so Meya turned to the others, pleading in earnest.
“Don’t you ever think the reason this never ends is because we keep assuming the worst of each other? So we strike first, destroy them to be safe? Or live in secret, in fear? And I’m tired of it,” Meya cried, her flailing arms flapping lifelessly to her side.
“Kyrel and Graye can’t be trusted. Fine. What of everyone else? They can’t all be greedy cowards who won’t understand there’s enough good for both sides that’s worth working toward. Tell the Council the whole truth. How else will they ever trust us? Let them help us fight those two. We can’t do this on our own.”
“What if it turns out we were wrong?” Coris broke his silence at last. Meya spun around, met his hard, fearful eyes, “Will we have a second chance? How much will we lose?”
Step by step, he moved closer, his words chilling her colder as he went,
“What if the King and the Dukes turned against Greeneyes? Like Philip the Usurper did? What if they lifted the Ban, resumed mining, and exploited Greeneyes? What if Nostra attacked us? Like they did Rutgarth? What if the rest of the dragons didn’t want to return to Everglen? What if goodwill doesn’t win against fear and greed?”
He stopped. They stood face-to-face, once again, in the clash of moonbeam and firelight. Coris sighed, gazing at the rippling shadows on the carpet.
“We Hadrians are not worthy to guard this secret, nor do we claim to have the sole right to, nor do we know the answer,” he shook his head, then raised his shadowed eyes to her, “but fate cursed us with this duty. And we’re trying our damnedest. That means sacrificing the luxury of trust.”
Meya’s breath caught at the familiar gleam of resignation, of dilemma in his eyes. Baron Hadrian was right. History was inherited, handed from father to son. Coris was becoming a father—his father. Ever since she’d professed her unwavering love, ever since he realized she was pregnant, he had become cautious, wary—indecisive.
Coris raised his trembling hand. His fingertips dragged like tears of ice down her cheek.
“I agree with you, I always have. I wish things could’ve been so simple. I wish we could’ve taken the risk. It amazes me that after all you’ve seen, you haven’t lost what I love above all else in you, what drove you to save me all those years ago. And I pray you never will.”
Meya pursed her lips against despair. Coris urged her into his embrace.
“That’s why I can no longer be reckless.” His hand slid down to cradle the subtle bulge of her belly. “I have so much to lose.”
----------------------------------------
Whenever a decision of such consequence arose that the Council of Nine was called to convene, the members would gather in a circular chamber at the heart of the Blue Palace.
Six dukes and two barons took their places on each of the eight faces of the hollowed table. All familiar faces to Kellis but one. Duke Merilith had been substituted by his heir—Lord Cavalon, Christopher’s elder brother.
Kellis eyed the young man clad in seafoam green as he settled on the chair to his right. Cavalon’s gaze, however, was fixed upon the king. When they last met at Coris’s wedding, he was his father’s eager, amicable aide, the opposite of his taciturn little brother. It was as if an impostor had replaced him. Or rather, the contrary.
So this explained Christopher vanishing after he left to find his father. It was Meriton that turned. The worst he could’ve anticipated. Meriton didn’t gain from the Mining Ban nor its abolishment, having grown rich on thick woodlands and roaring fields. The king must have appealed to their fear. Fear of the creeping drought, the demands of Amplevale’s army putting a strain on Meriton’s crops. It was harder to reassure fear than satisfy greed.
The mystery that remained was—How had Cavalon waylaid his father? The same method Kyrel used on her husband? And had Christopher divulged anything about The Axel?
At the center of the ring, the king’s chair stood empty on its rotating platform. In Devind’s time, Kellis saw little but the chair’s back. Since Alden took it, the chair seemed fixed to confront him.
“We have but one agenda for tonight’s convening. Whether we should put to vote the removal of Hadrian from the Council, and the nomination of Amplevale to take their place.”
King Alden prowled the ring, his eyes on the rich Corbyn purple painted over Wynn Blue on the seamless wall. Unlike most of his predecessors, the incumbent monarch would pace as he laid out his arguments. Most blamed it on his previous post as knight commander. Kellis attributed it to paranoia. A man shows his back to those he knows wouldn’t knife it. Having severed a crooked spine to come upon his chair, Alden’s back was erect and ever turning, save for whenever his eyes fell upon Hadrian.
Alden’s boots halted before him. Kellis raised his eyes to the young king’s bright blue. The fall of his eyebrows met the rise of his narrowed eyes, underlining his deep-rooted distrust.
“For two hundred years, the defense of Zarel Pass has been trusted to Hadrian. Despite Amplevale being the frontier. For reasons known only between you and the Wynns.”
Alden spun on his heel and swept back to his seat. He hung from the edge like an impatient crow, hands like claws gripping the golden knobs atop his armrests.
“Now Amplevale is crippled by the drought and the lost ships. Our troops must be fed. They must be armed. And still you insist the Mining Ban must be upheld. Tell me, Kellis, is the Ban key to Latakia’s survival? Or your own?”
Kellis sighed inwards as he stood. In his prior life—the one before he learned The Axel’s secret—he would’ve been shaking his fists at Alden’s side, while his father sat stone-faced in this very chair. Knowledge is power. An uncontrollable weapon. If he could just foresee how many lives would be lost in one sentence—Greeneyes are dragons, the decision would’ve been easier. And when time pressed him, he wouldn’t have to resort to repeating lies that burned his tongue—
“Your Majesty, I stand by concerns I have raised which the Council shares. And the conditions we agreed on when we pledged our allegiance—”
“We?” Alden raised a mocking eyebrow. He jabbed a finger at the surrounding men. “You didn’t put forth those conditions, they did. You didn’t pledge allegiance to this crown, they did—”
“Our allegiance—” Kellis raised his voice, “—we pledged to Latakia, my liege—which is why we examine your intentions. You may very well be espousing innovation, exploiting crisis to seize control of our serfs, our resources to create your army. Following in Devind’s footsteps—”
“And I’ve promised—for the last ten years—so long as Amplevale and Graye are armed, you’ll retain control of mining in your demesne!” Alden sprang to his feet, his finger hammering his armrest. He threw his arms wide, glowering at Dukes Damerel, Easthaven and Aquar—staunch anti-miners Hadrian could always call upon. Meriton was for once spared the lecture.
“You have nothing to fear. Nothing to lose but the comfortable present. You put your power, your riches, your people’s support before the good of our country. We are a kingdom, not an empire. You are not kings of your land—you are stewards of our land. And in these trying times, we must all sacrifice to keep this land together. Your duty does not dwindle with distance from Nostra. If the west falls, how long will it be before the east crumbles as well?”
Cavalon nodded fervently, proving suspicion beyond doubt. Like clockwork, the vote had been decided by the queen’s machinations beneath the pearly face. The king’s pleas, however sincere and ardent, were wind on wooden ears. Hadrian’s seat would be put to vote. Hadrian would lose that vote. Unless—
Kellis clenched his fist around the voice of temptation. How easy it would be to give up The Axel and have only his sons to protect. How easier would life become if he could just shrug off the burden, let them all suffer in his place. Let them know. Let them decide. Freda knew they were more suited for this task than him—
“The Mining Ban must be abolished. No more ships to Everglen. We need every man slated for sea in the fields and down the mines. Shipmen, felons, Greeneyes—”
Kellis froze. For the first time in two decades, chaos stilled within him.
Greeneyes.
Greeneye blood, milked for fireproof lacquer. Greeneye men, herded onto ships, slated for Everglen in droves to mine metal. If Alden had his way, Greeneyes would be shepherded down the mines or had their eyes harvested for whatever innovation he was chasing. Latakia wasn’t ready for the truth in this state. Threatened by the drought and the lost ships, they’d clamor for the easiest way out for their kind—humankind.
Sylvia’s screaming plea echoed in his ears, but blazing just as bright were her silvery eyes on her son.
You seek to protect him from that path, but he’s already chosen it for himself.
I just thought ’tis time she faces her destiny, time I let her choose.
Sylvia had longed for the Harp’s song. The soothsayer then predicted his son’s fate would be tied to the laments of the past.
Dizadh had let go. Mirram had let go. Perhaps, after eighteen years struggling and failing to keep Coris from his calling, this was Freda’s sign for him to set his son free.
Kellis raised his gaze to falling silence. Alden stood panting, eyes darting wildly across the ring. When he spoke again, his fire had frozen to ice,
“I am done assuaging your fabricated fears. I am done cowering to mine. Your sole concern is what we all know but do not speak of—The Axel.”
Air held its breath. The unspeakable was spoken. Alden glared at Kellis. Step by step he advanced, a beast cornering prey.
“Two hundred years. One unspoken rule. Cross the Hadrians, Latakia suffers. To that I say, so be it.”
He hissed through gritted teeth. They stood face to face, two men fighting for the greater good. He was simply a wilder dreamer than Alden.
“Your sister offers what she knows for your place on the Council,” Alden began. “I give you one final chance before we move to the vote. What is The Axel? And where is it now?”
“Your Majesty, we cannot take such drastic measures until we have exhausted every option,” Kellis offered Alden his own final chance, although the man would never know, “We must send ships to Everglen to investigate. I have sent resources to Amplevale, sent men to investigate the drought. And you can double that effort. Time is our enemy, and it’d be better spent finding the cause and solving it than starting anew—”
“—The Council is asking you, Kellis Hadrian! What is The Axel? Where is it?”
Alden snarled. The king’s patience had run dry. It was time.
Kellis pored into his eyes. The man truly believed The Axel would be the cure for all ills, the answer to all their troubles, when it was the cause.
And so he spoke the words that would decide his family’s fate, and the fate of countless others.
“I am bound to secrecy by the pact sealed between the Baron Hadrian, the Wynn King and the High Priest. This pact does not end even as two of the triumvirate are no more. It is not our fate but Latakia’s that is at stake.”
Silence lingered as they locked eyes for a seeming eternity. At last, Alden nodded, his expression carved in marble.
“So you have chosen.” He concluded quietly, then declared to the room, “I propose we put to vote in tomorrow’s convening whether to replace Hadrian with Amplevale.”
He extended his hand and beckoned from the shadows a figure veiled in violet—save for its hands, which clutched a midnight-black box with six faces. A slave of wooden ears and knotted tongue, reared for the sole purpose of guarding the Casket of Nine.
Kellis lowered his eyes to his plaques—two pentagons each the size of his palm, one black, one red. One by one, the councilors slotted their chosen color into one of nine slits, their vote hidden by generations of practice.
Kellis fed his red plaque to the Casket. The keeper turned the box and moved on to young Lord Merilith. Once Duke Aquar had cast his vote, the servant knelt before the King, the casket held high above her head.
Alden didn’t bother with secrecy. He took off the casket’s lid and tipped it on its side, displaying its contents for all to see. Eight pentagons rested in their grooves, four black and four scarlet, one fellow short of a perfect hexagon and a decisive vote. Alden completed it with his black plaque.
“Five in favor, four against.” He tapped each black pentagon, reclaimed his, then returned the casket to its voiceless guardian. “Tomorrow, we vote on Hadrian’s removal and Amplevale’s nomination. Council is dismissed.”
The king swept from the circular room without a backwards glance. As the Casket keeper did her second round of the table, returning each councilor’s plaque, Kellis sat numbly in his seat.
He’d finally chosen. After nineteen years. There was no returning now.