5
Majesty had been badly damaged in the fight with the vortex, a sending of Chaos that came very close to ending Prince Nalderick’s mission. He ought to have had the airship ported directly to Karellon… there was manna enough in the tanks, after defeating that powerful, sentient storm… but Nalderick hated to limp home in tatters. He was an elven prince, after all; pride and appearance were everything.
So, he ordered repairs, first; proceeding to get rather drunk while the airship was being patched up and then seeing to one or two other small matters. Drinking alone is dangerous, for that is when spirits and shades and other nightmares creep into the unguarded mind.
Nalderick summoned those two northern lordlings, having Filimar and Valerian brought to his cabin. Next set his wards and brought out the liquor. Not wine, for this was no dainty social encounter. Unflavored Tiefling whisky, which tasted of nothing but scorch.
They sat at an oval table under the skylight, as timbers creaked and aerriors rushed about on the deck overhead. Nalderick set out three glasses, charmed against poison and spells of compulsion. He poured the drink out himself, too, tipping amber-red fireball liquor into each glass. Chose one at random, then wafted the other two glasses across to his guests.
“Health, peace and safety,” grunted the slim, green-eyed prince, lifting his drink.
“Honor and courage,” responded the lordlings, raising their glasses in turn. They waited (as was proper) for Nalderick to drain his own libation, then did the same. And that was round one.
It was not until after their fifth round of drinks that Nalderick got to the point and started to talk. Slamming the bottle down on his cabin table, the prince gazed at them closely, then asked,
“You have fathers?”
The pair exchanged startled glances, then nodded.
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Filimar, cautiously. “Would… you care to hear of them?”
“I would,” declared Nalderick, using a clumsy spell to haul their glasses away for refilling. He had set out to drink and to find things out, and by all the gods’ names, he meant to arrive (possibly cross-eyed and wobbling) at the actual truth. “You first, Filno.”
Filimar nodded, accepting a brimming, sloshed glass. Probably his, though they’d completely lost track of ownership by that point.
“To our wives and girlfriends… may they never meet!” he said, lifting a glass in salute.
“Aye, that,” responded the others (Valno, a little reluctantly).
All three elves drained their whisky, blinked and gasped before Filimar started his tale, saying,
“By your leave, Your Highness… My father is Lord Tormun, once Arvendahl, now become Tarandahl at the invitation of Valerian, my heart-brother. He is… was… an airship captain in the Grand Fleet of Milardin but was stripped of that rank… and almost his life… by High Lord Arvendahl. Our branch of the family is not prominent, My Prince, owing to Father’s marriage. He met a beautiful wood-elf (my mother, Faleena) while he was off north as part of an embassy.”
Nalderick perked up, refilling glasses with a good deal more generosity than accurate aim.
“Go on. Met a hot woodling. Fell in love, did he?”
Filimar nodded and smiled.
“Yes, Your Highness. So much so that he threw everything else away for her, as she did for him, departing the high druid’s council to leave with my father.”
“And… they were happy?” probed Nalderick, shaking the bottle and muttering spells to refill it.
“Indeed, My Prince… except for the loss of my sister (who’s back now) and then Dad’s partial death. I have never seen two people more deeply in love. It is… a little intimidating. I have never been struck so, myself. Chased after many a saucy glance and had numerous tumbles for sport… but nothing that’s lasted.”
That needed drinking to (three times over). After round nine, Nalderick converted the bottle to Fey-wild Brandy (capable of reaching into one’s past and future and crossing the planes to get even your other selves drunk). Pouring more liquor onto the table than into their glasses, Naldo confessed,
“My parents wed… by dimp… by diplomatic arrangement. Princess Marika of O… Okuni on Faraway Isle. She ‘rrived, married ‘im… stayed out the contract. Then… year an’ a day after Genna’s birth… went back to ‘er own land and people. Seen her twice, since then. Not in love, mother and father. In treaty.”
That was a hard one, and both lordlings murmured their sympathy. Such things were common in high noble houses, but nobody liked to admit it. They were bottle-brothers by then, ready to swear eternal friendship, everlasting loyalty and lifelong commitment, which was exactly what Nalderick had been aiming for. He turned to the big, blond northerner next, saying,
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“Now, you. Your father.”
Valerian bowed in his seat. Had a good head for liquor, that one. Didn’t seem very much drunk.
“Yes. By your leave, Your Highness… My father is Lord Keldaran Tarandahl ob Galadin, first heir to the high seat of Ilirian. He is a war-leader, and an artist. He paints, Highness. Mostly portraits or scenes of the hunt. His marriage to Lady Elisindara came about because of a scandal at court. Her father tried to eliminate a political rival with poisoned fish. Ended up killing the fellow’s cook, his chief taster and favorite dog, instead. Wound up in exile, while her ladyship… my mum… was packed off north to a hasty marriage and rustication. She is not to cross Ilirian’s borders on pain of permanent death. Rough start, but mum and dad are… about as happy together as one would expect.”
Nalderick stared at Valerian for a moment, then whipped out his formal dagger and drove it, point first, into the table. It crashed through with a sharp BANG, splintering wood and causing the glasses and bottle to jump. Stuck there, vibrating slightly and making a very faint hum.
“Truth,” growled the prince, first nicking his palm on the dagger blade, then slapping his hand flat to the tabletop. “In blood and bottle, the truth!”
Rather startled, both young lordlings followed suit, slicing themselves on Nalderick’s dagger blade, then pressing their bloodied hands to that drink-spattered table.
“Aye, Sire,” they chorused, bowing.
It was to Valerian that Nalderick aimed his first urgent question. The Prince Attendant’s green eyes were hard, his expression perfectly sober as he demanded,
“Tell me truly… You are descended of one who is not to be mentioned or named, are you not?”
Valerian inhaled sharply, put very much on the spot by that over-blunt question.
“I… Your Highness… there is only rumor. The matter is not much…”
“But everyone knows, don’t they?!” insisted the dark-haired prince, leaning forward. “They all know that your line after Galadin springs from the one who was exiled!”
Valerian lowered his head, nodding, but not looking up.
“That is the rumor, My Prince,” he whispered, sounding lost.
Filimar shifted restlessly in his seat, gathering and refilling glasses (a thing that wasn’t done, as it risked poison to Nalderick… but he wanted to break up the tension).
“Round ten?” he suggested, slushily. “Friends f’rever, so witness the gods?”
“Friends for all time,” the other two answered mechanically, having to finish the toast. Then Nalderick surged to his feet, not taking his gaze off the blond northerner.
“Your bond here and now, Valerian. In truth… have you come here seeking the dragon throne? Heir to exiles and criminals… are you part of some plot? Have you come for revenge?!”
Valerian shook his head vehemently.
“No, Sire! I…”
“Swear it!” snapped the prince, extending his still-bleeding hand. “On blood and bottle… before all the gods… Swear to me that you have no designs on the throne!”
Valerian took Nalderick’s hand, mingling manna and blood. Clasped hard and then started to speak, but…
“Kneel!” snarled Nalderick, hauling Valerian out of his bolted-down seat and onto the deck with a crash. “On your knees and then swear it!”
Filimar was up, as well, cycling rapidly through his faerie pockets for water to throw. Nobody paid attention. Valerian knelt before the furious prince, who glowed with the light of dawn. Their hands were still clasped and the truth charm in place. Neither could lie if they’d wanted to.
“Sire… on my oath and my bond, I have no desire to take your future throne, or anyone else’s. I am part of no plot. Just, always get pushed further away, when I’d rather be home in Ilirian.”
He lowered his head then, pressing his forehead against their clenched hands. Valerian glowed now, as well, making the truth of his words quite evident. Nalderick sighed. Squeezed his friend’s hand briefly, then said,
“Rise. Take your seat, Valno. You, as well, Filimar. I had to be certain, is all.”
Another round followed, once they were all three seated again. After surviving their twelfth, Nalderick added,
“I had to be sure about both of you. I want Sheraza back, and I want you to find her… but carefully. Quietly. Father prob’ly knows all about this, but I think it’s me an’ Genna he watches, not you two.”
Filimar had cheated, spelling himself sober after Nalderick’s outburst. Now, very carefully, the blue-eyed young lord said,
“My Prince… it may be worth considering that Lady Sheraza is safer in hiding than she would be if caught and returned. Lord Arvendahl’s partial death may have settled the matter and helped prevent war… but the sea-elves might want her, or His Majesty could order her slain to avoid any future revenge plots.”
Nalderick uttered a low, impatient growling noise deep in his throat. Said,
“I am aware of all that! While you two are off after ‘Raza, I mean to sound Father out. If it’s safe, you’ll bring her to me. If it is not… then you’ll hide and watch over her, maybe until I am the emperor. Then we’ll be married. She’ll come to love me… sometimes they do… and then you will have your reward. Within bounds, of course. No asking for half of my realm.”
They drank again, and then Valerian said,
“All I would ask is to be freed of my Honor Guard duty, Sire. All that I want is to be back at home, with my family and heart-brother.”
“So be it,” said Naldo, inclining his head. “Find my lady, keep her safe, and Ilirian is freed of the obligation, now and for all time to come. That’s two boons you’ve wrested from me, already. Costly folk, you northern barbarians.”
Next, turning to look at Filimar,
“And you? What would you have as reward, Son of Tormun the Revenant?”
Filno considered a bit. Then, bowing, said,
“I… if it is possible, Sire… I would have my father’s rank and his place in society restored. I don’t know that he has any political ambitions after all this… but he is wise, good and strong. He would make an excellent warden or councilor, Highness.”
“Nothing for yourself?” asked Naldo, cocking his head to one side. Filno glanced over at Val, then shrugged, smiling.
“Just to stay with this worthless bog-maggot. He needs all the help he can get, Sire.”
Which was true, so they drank a few rounds to that one, as well. But later, when Majesty glided up to her palace docking tower, lost amid all the fanfare and fuss, two cloaked figures went over the rail and away.