When Elves can live for five thousand years, and only elders inherit titles, the game of succession is one that must be played with utmost care.

If you commit sedition to advance yourself, nobody can know: Five thousand years is a long time to have enemies.

And if you are found out, you must be thorough in your victory.

To the ruthless go the spoils.

The cover for The Liar's Throne by SM Reine [https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_fullsize/plain/did:plc:u3ver6jdpmd7ecys2usy676u/bafkreigq3b2ukkuymc57trys234om2zond33ra5g2ozugjlmhjj4klhnay@jpeg]

Chapter I

The Patrician's Bride

Ladies arrived for the fête above Barren Cliffs in droves, drawn from the furthest reaches of Säxe by the promise of marriage prospects. Uniformly, these were beautiful lasses with finer breeding than the remoteness of the manors might imply. Any House could buy fine wardrobes for their daughters. The poorest mother knew how to arrange a young doe’s hair to emphasize her neck and decollete. The only obvious marker of status was the size of the daughter’s entourage: lone keroterase and a single brother escorting the least of them; a full hexant keroterase and a Lord Mayor escorting the greatest.

It was widely accepted that Patrician Lorent would be drawn toward the latter. Lorent was heir to Great House Vulasir; he would one day become Lord Mayor of Säxe and required someone well-bred to make his heirs.

Yet Lorent surveyed dozens of beautiful females and felt nothing besides impatience.

The parade of females had distinct aromas, each of them more pleasant than the last: this one like freshly baked bread, that one like lavender, another like spun cloudthread. They resembled one another visually aside from altering palettes. None of them were thicker in the waist than around his bicep, all of them had long legs, each one was flawless in skin. These does wore their hair hanging loose in straight lines down to their waists, and whether it was red, gold, black, or otherwise did not seem to matter greatly.

Without needing to search the Heraldry records for details, Lorent knew that they all came from old Houses, if not necessarily Great Houses. None had grown up outside a manor. They were clearly mujan dwellers with those weak skinny feet. Muscled hands without any scars suggested embroidery, but not hard labor. A few did not have the posture given a lass by her finishing, but most of them looked too young for it, rather than suggesting their families were without coin. Lorent came from a well-appointed family, but not so well-appointed that he could afford to marry poor.

He was nonetheless unmoved by the sight of Lady Ornonea of Great House Karwe. He did not rise to greet her until his mother prodded him to do so.

Lorent offered a cursory bow. Jaw-length curls swept in front of his features just in time to conceal an eyeroll.

Of course a Lord Mayor’s daughter was powerful, and she was equally beautiful. She had been dressed to display her finest attributes. Her bare shoulders were the color of unripe plum, her lips as juicy, her bosom as round. Her fruit pit eyes batted heavy lashes. She was graceful in the practical way of such well-born ladies. Nary a Light had passed where Lady Ornonea had not been shaped into a bride by a maiden-of-the-garden.

“Do you spy any hint of personality, or has that been cut out to make room for larger breasts?” Lorent muttered to his Uncle Sorlen. He spoke quietly, hoping his mother wouldn’t hear.

She heard. She pinched him hard enough to bruise his ribs. “My son asks for your first dance this Light,” said Lady Śanveswe.

“It would be my honor,” replied Lady Ornonea. In a musical undertone, she said, <> All of the High could sing at the exact same time as they spoke, and only someone who understood the tongue could perceive their dual meanings.

<> hummed Uncle Sorlen as she glided away.

“If you two cannot be kind, I will have you both made into keroterase,” said Lady Śanveswe.

Lorent winced. “You would never do that to me.” Male keroterase were eunuchs. He couldn’t exactly carry on the family line in such a condition. “Sorlen, on the other hand...”

“She’d render me a kerotera,” said Sorlen.

“Without thinking twice,” said Lady Śanveswe. Her tone was threatening though her smile remained fixed. “Sweet Lore, you know I love you so. Yet you should also know that if you embarrass me at this fête, I may decide to prefer your brother.” <>

“Come now,” said Lorent. “Inheritance is Tatà’s choice, not yours. And I don’t think my father cares about this nearly as much as you do—else he would be here.”

“He trusts me to attend these sorts of matters,” said Śanveswe. “That is the value of a wife. Having someone who knows better than you about most things. Someone with your frivolous heart will need a much wiser one!” With that, Śanveswe stormed away, seeking another drink of wine. She was a beautiful doe herself. Her finishing had not been forgotten after a thousand years; her posture, stride, and even the reach of her fingers grasping for wine were more graceful than any possible bride.

“You do look like an automaton,” said Uncle Sorlen.

“I have no idea what you mean,” said Lorent.

“You’re not taking this seriously. Your mind is a thousand spans away.”

In fact, Lorent’s mind was sixty-two spans away. That was the distance to the marina where his swoop was docked, waiting for him to break free of his obligations so they could sail again. “I don’t know what would give you that impression,” said the young Patrician, trying to look clueless as possible. “You know I’m eager as my mother to find a śanvensäko that pleases.”

“I think she’d settle for a ‘säte. Any chance for an heir would lift a mighty weight from her delicate shoulders.”

The guest list to Great House Vulasir’s fête did suggest desperation. Lore had never met many of the cousins still filing through the gates of Nipande Courtyard; his mother had invited every manor from the strait to the Sou’eastenlands to attend. That included the most thin-blooded relatives who shared great-great-great grandparents with him but worked humble professions to afford life as nobility. Barely even High Àlvare.

Lorent had rejected every possible match from the nearer family and their social circle, too. His mother’s net had no choice but to cast wider.

“I’m glad you came, Uncle,” said Lorent. “It’s nice to have a little masculine energy amid all the...” He couldn’t think of polite words to finish the sentence. Nipande Hall was nearly full to capacity and so many ladies attended that their colorful robes flooded the courtyard like glitter. The general pitch of combined voices approached soprano with very little in the lower register.

“I came not for your benefit, Nephew. I should seek a mate too,” said Lord Sorlen.

At last, Lore fully regarded his uncle. Sorlen was an attractive Àlvar in his middle years, perhaps approaching his third Millennium, and the glassy shine to his flesh smoothed all creases. The sweep of dark-russet hair over his forehead could have been spun from marsh silk. He concealed the wisdom of an ancient tree behind features which looked no older than those of his fourth-century nephew. His śanvensäko had been lost to Wasting around the time Lore was born, yet Sorlen was not old, really; he had plenty of time to get lonely.

“I didn’t think you would take another wife,” said Lore.

“Time moves onward,” said Sorlen. “Familial expectations do not.”

Lore hoped that Sorlen would find a match at the fête. His mother might leave him alone another century if she could be occupied with someone else’s marriage and efforts to reproduce.

The next young doe approached.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

This female possessed only one guard as escort—clearly the poorest cousin of Great House Vulasir. She wore the same dark-blue-and-gold as Lorent.

It was their only resemblance.

Lorent emulated his mother’s learned mask of politeness flawlessly; this new lady’s expression was forcibly blank rather than schooled. She also lacked the careful posture of one raised by a maiden-of-the-garden. She must have been young—she was dewy-skinned and large-eyed—yet she moved with confidence. Shoulders back, chin lifted, strides long. Her hair did not possess a singular color, but shimmered in the smoky haze of lanterns heating a cool desert Light. The hair was onyx and ebony leaf, but it was also tannin-rich sumac, with a hint of potash blue in the shadows. It was cut short except for two long braids, which were pulled back to be pinned at the nape of her neck by sparkling gold clips. It was a few millennia out of fashion.

She was exquisite.

“Who is that?” Lorent breathed.

“Lady Enura,” replied Uncle Sorlen. He was holding a leather journal folded open to a page of guest names.

Enura. Lorent took the name into himself like it had a flavor worth considering. He thought, based upon Enura’s frozen features, her name would have tasted like sour of fruit— needing only a pinch of cane to make it sweet.

She reached him and curtsied.

“I am your cousin, my lord.” Lady Enura’s voice was husky. “I come from Liverwort Manor, an outpost on the Federation’s border. My father shepherds the old tribal lands and repels efforts to resettle.”

Now Lore recognized the family. At least, he recognized the role they fulfilled in governing Orkish lands. He’d always thought of Àlvare settling freeports and colonies as a classless type, incapable of comporting themselves in accordance with blood demands. They were looking for excuses to fight and hurt. Anyone normal would choose a cosseted life at some inland manor and pass the millennia without ever seeing a lesser Illuminated Being.

Did that not mean they were sadists at worst and fools at best?

Neither insult struck Lorent at the sight of Enura. His observations denied him easy assumptions about her upbringing. Her hands were strong, but so was the rest of her; she wasn’t scarred enough for labor, but she wasn’t old enough to look so wiry otherwise; she radiated maturity but looked hardly older than a fawn. His complete absence of certainty left him speechless.

He was still not so ill-mannered as to ask her age, no matter how badly he craved to know it. “You traveled a considerable distance for this event.”

“When the śanvensäko of Lord Mayor Círin calls, who may refuse her?” asked Enura.

“Let’s dance,” Lore said abruptly.

She said, “Pardon me?” and the kerotera stepped forward with a hand on his belt knife.

“My apologies,” said Lorent, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. “That was ungentlemanly. I only meant to offer my company. I’m sure you are among strangers so far from home; I offer a dance if you like, a chamber in the palace, and a guide throughout the xilcadis for the week.”

Enura curtsied and murmured thanks. “Nobody warned me there would be such generosity here. From what I am told, the xilcadise are filled with savages.” She remained at the bottom of her curtsy. Her eyes were averted. There was no searching her expression for sincerity or sarcasm. “I must return home as soon as obligations are fulfilled; I’ve no use for quarters or a guide.”

“I see,” he said, disappointed.

“Surely you can spare one dance for my nephew,” said Uncle Sorlen.

Lorent kept his smile fixed until he turned so that Sorlen could see him, but his cousin could not. “Do not insist on my account,” Lorent said through clenched teeth. “I can handle a doe.”

Sorlen laughed. “Terribly sorry for trying to help.”

“I will take that dance after all,” said Lady Enura. During Lorent’s brief aside with Sorlen, Enura had taken an aside with her kerotera, too. Lore assumed their exchange had been enough to shift her heart.

Lorent’s heart leaped. “Wonderful!”

He extended his arm, Enura curved her hand around his elbow, and she allowed herself to be led onto the floor.

Other couples danced under the watchful eyes of Säxe nobility, escorts, and keroterase. Lady Enura’s kerotera kept an especially sharp eye on them. He was distinctive: red-haired, scarred, and far more fixated on his charge than any other of his kind. He followed their every move.

“He’s protective of you, isn’t he?” Lorent asked. She nodded. “He knows you are safer here than anywhere else in the sise, does he not?”

She nodded again.

Lorent took Enura to the line of does and he joined the end of the buck’s line. Immediately, they were drawn into the chain of dancing. These were courtly dances, of course; physical contact was limited to passing moments and partners occasionally changed.

Enura stepped in time with Lorent, circling as the other couples circled, and he was captive in her eyes. There was a single fleck of pink on her right iris, like a blossom fallen on the tepid surface of a pool, or a drop of ink at the end of a love letter.

“I would remember if I met you before,” he said. “Where in the House are you, cousin? What lord fathered you?”

That earned a twitch at the corner of her lip, which he thought to be a smile. There was a scar at the corner of Enura’s mouth. Lorent imagined a handmaiden had touched it with a spot of face-paint to diminish its appearance. Once he spotted it, he could trace its route across her face to her ear, and another curving over the bridge of her nose. Once, she seemed to have nearly lost her face. He imagined it was from falling off an elk or a branch striking her in a storm.

Lorent banished thoughts of tracing the scar with his fingertips. The kerotera wouldn’t have been the only one offended by that.

When they stepped shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite ways, he could not help speaking.

“You are so beautiful,” said Lord Lorent.

Lady Enura’s mouth did not even twitch.

The orchestra increased its tempo. Lorent could perform every dance automatically, skipping through four centuries of practice. It left his full attention to analyzing Enura. She was graceful and practiced as much as anyone else in the line. He wanted to guess she had been dancing for at least a century, but he couldn’t be certain. She didn’t look even fifty.

They came together to step in a circle. Their arms braced their bodies apart from one another, but it left their faces aligned around the axis of their turn. Her plush lips, round nose, and high brow made her look mildly wondering. She studied him as he studied her. She did not bat her eyelashes and demur the way other ladies did.

“I’m not a marriage prospect for you,” said Lady Enura. “Dismiss the thought.”

“You’re so confident you know what I’m thinking,” said Lorent.

“Life is not easy on the edge of civilization,” she replied crisply. “Confidence is often the decider between life and death. I came by obligation, but practicing courtly comportment doesn’t benefit my ordinary lifestyle.”

“Does pragmatism dictate everything you do?”

“No,” said Enura lightly. “Sometimes I am also motivated by blood lust.” She smiled.

Lorent smiled too. “Hilarious.”

She spun out of his hold back into the line of does.

He counted the steps until she came back.

“Roc wax,” he said.

“You have a queer manner of exclaiming randomly, don’t you?” asked Enura.

“You smell of roc wax, such as I use to oil the strings on my lyre. Do you play?” asked Lorent.

For the first time, Enura missed a step. She stumbled against his chest. They stopped as the lines of dancers continued around them. “I haven’t played lyre in some time,” she said belatedly.

He imagined she had some other use for roc wax. It must have been decadent against the skin. He had noticed her hands felt terribly soft.

“What do you do for fun, my lady?” asked Lorent.

She did not miss another step. If anything, she swept into the next bout of turns and exchanges a moment too early. The increasing tempo became more difficult to keep up with—and certainly didn’t allow for Lorent to gaze at Enura any longer. Several of the dancers began confusing the moves of the dance. It was a little too quick. But the joyous music encouraged them to laugh rather than grow frustrated, and Lorent was lifted by the mood too. He grinned at Enura over the heads of others until they came back around again.

Enura stumbled into Lorent. Her hands clapped against his sides.

He didn’t mind.

<> she sang, and her tone was a full octave deeper than he expected. <>

Lorent begged to differ. “Do you have to leave?” he asked, brushing a few stray hairs off her cheek with the back of his hand.

“Yes,” she said. “Right now, in fact.”

She broke away. Lorent would have followed if he could have, but the movement of the crowd divided them. He couldn’t resist being pulled into the spin. He stepped out at the first opportunity, stumbled back to his dais, and got up on a step to look for Lady Enura. She had already vanished.

“I think I’m in love,” said Lord Lorent breathlessly.

He didn’t feel the ache of a needle thrust under his arm until she had already walked away. By the time he found a spot of blood, it was too late.