Wrath of Lions (17 page)

“What are you doing?” asked the elf, keeping his voice a harsh whisper. “Leave him alone.”

“Shut your mouth,” Ceredon retorted, casting a glance over his shoulder, the gravity of which stopped the rebel cold. “I do what I must.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Had I not stumbled upon you, you would have shared your friend’s fate.” The dagger finally did its job, and the head of the dead elf tore away from its body. When Ceredon gripped it by the hair and lifted it, a small bit of spine dangled from the severed flesh of the neck.

Ceredon showed it to the rebel.

“This could have been you,” he said. “I hope you appreciate the gift I gave you.”

“But…why?” the elf asked.

“Because I wanted to,” he answered. “Now not another word—just listen. Tell your people you have a friend within the Quellan. Tell them I will protect as many as I can so long as I am able, but never say my name, if you know it. Should that happen, your only ally will be lost. Do you understand?”

The rebel nodded.

“Good. Now leave.”

The elf, wide eyed, finally lowered his bow. He twirled around and darted between the trees, disappearing into the dark recesses of the forest. Ceredon watched until he could no longer see the rebel’s outline, then stood, rolled his shoulders, and licked blood from his lips. His face and neck were sore from the beating Teradon had laid on him, but he was otherwise in one piece. He lifted the severed head, stared at the empty eyes for a moment, and then broke into a light jog.

It wasn’t long before he ran across the scene of a massacre, stepping into a small clearing to find a battalion of ten rangers of the Ekreissar surrounding a heap of headless corpses. The heads were stacked in their own pile a few feet away. Aerland Shen, the chief ranger, stood in the center of the carnage. His tight-fitting armor,
made from the black scales of swamp lizards and waxed to a sheen, glistened in the meager blue light. He held his two great swords, Salvation and Condemnation, out wide. Both blades dripped blood by the cupful.

Aerland’s head was huge and nearly square, and his wide set eyes flicked in Ceredon’s direction when he emerged from the thicket around the clearing.

“Master Ceredon,” the chief ranger said, his speech slow and deliberate, his tone deep like a grunting bullfrog. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be with us.”

Ceredon reared back and tossed the head he’d hacked from the rebel’s corpse. It bounced twice and rolled, coming to a stop at Shen’s feet.

“I heard fighting,” he said, “so I followed it. The advance party fell under attack by a group of insurgents. I arrived too late to save your rangers, but I was able to kill two of the traitorous bastards before they fled.”

“Rebels succeeded in killing my men?”

“Yes. They were taken unawares.”

“Yet you live.”

Ceredon shrugged.

“Both were wounded, and this time I was the one doing the ambushing.”

The chief ranger grunted, cocked his head, and deliberately sheathed one of his two frightening swords.

“Do not run off again, Master Ceredon. You are under my protection while we patrol. Should you fall prey to the insurgents, the Neyvar will make sure it’s
my
head on that pile.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Ceredon said, “I am under your protection, but not your orders, Chief Shen. Should you have a problem with that, you can take it up with my father.”

Shen pointed the other sword at him and then slid it into the scabbard on his back beside its twin.

“Watch the way you speak, young prince,” he said.

The Ekreissar went about clearing the area. A group of twelve Dezren was summoned with six flat carts, onto which they slung the corpses of their renegade brothers. Ceredon tried to appear untroubled though he raged on the inside. These elves were cousins to his kind, two races created by the hands of the same goddess. Yet now the Quellan were considered the Dezren’s betters. Any Dezren elf who refused to bow before the Neyvar was thrown into the dungeons beneath Palace Thyne. The populace lived in fear, knowing that the slightest word might be taken as an offense worthy of execution.

He had argued vehemently with his father when he first caught wind of the plot to occupy the city. The Neyvar had chastised him and then locked him in his chambers for days without food. In the end, Ceredon had yielded. If he were to save these people, he would do it from the inside, with the support of an entire nation at his back.

His first act had been to free the Dezren of Stonewood from their cages, allowing them to flee the emerald city, and it was Aullienna Meln’s face he saw on the body of each dead elven girl that was carted past the palace gates. He wondered how she was, whether she were safe. He dreamed almost every night of the precocious young princess who had become like a sister to him.

For you, Aullienna,
he thought.
I do this for you.

As well as for yourself,
his conscience corrected. He could not justify the cruelty he’d witnessed. His father was wrong if he thought he could belittle the populace into submission. The rebellion was proof of that.

The Dezren threw the last body on the carts and then collected the severed heads. With a crack of whips, they rolled down the path back toward the city. The Ekreissar followed, forming two equal lines, with Chief Shen in the lead. Ceredon lagged behind, looking at the darkened treetops one last time. He swore he saw the
twinkling of eyes among the branches. He lifted his hand and made a fist, his thumb and pinky finger outstretched to either side in the Dezren gesture of unity. If there were indeed any rebels hiding up there, he hoped they saw him. And understood.

Palace Thyne was an immense structure of pure emerald, its spire rising two hundred feet into the air. Ceredon tramped up the steps leading inside, gladly leaving the gloomy afternoon behind. His head pounded from lack of sleep, and his jaw still ached from his clash with Teradon. The spiced tea and wickroot he’d taken to alleviate the pain had not yet performed its magic.

He passed by the Chamber of Assembly, a massive space that functioned as a throne room in a land without a king. Pausing, he glanced inside to see Lord Orden and Lady Phyrra Thyne kneeling before the giant statue of Celestia that dominated the rear pulpit. Their backs were to him, their heads bowed in prayer. He felt conflicted just looking at them. The Thynes had betrayed their own people by allowing his father to tramp over the populace and imprison whomever he wished.

Stop it,
Ceredon thought.
You cannot be too harsh on them.
It was true. It wasn’t their fault they had been taken off-guard by a gesture of friendship veiling a darker purpose.

Lord Orden cleared his throat, and when his head swiveled around, Ceredon hurried out of view. He continued down the hall, made of solid gemstone, until he reached the entrance to the main stairwell. Deckland, a member of his father’s personal guard, bowed and stepped aside so he could enter.

It was a long climb up the fifteen flights of steps to the palace solarium. The sun-filled space was a tall and slender room, its walls smooth and shimmering green, filled with furniture crafted by centuries of talented Dezren hands. His father had once told him that
all that remained of the history and glory of Kal’droth, the former home of the Quellan and Dezren before Celestia split the land in preparation for the coming of man, resided in this very place.

Neyvar Ruven Sinistel sat in a high-backed ivory chair positioned before the southwest-facing window, allowing the Neyvar a view of both the immense clearing in which the palace and supporting buildings were situated and the forest city beyond. His father’s long white hair was loose over his shoulders, so long it reached his waist. His flesh was as smooth and flawless as Ceredon’s own.

“Son, I’m glad you have come,” said the Neyvar, his eyes still gazing out the window.

Ceredon approached the chair and knelt beside it. “Why did you call, Father?” he asked.

The Neyvar tilted his head to the side, gazing on him with forceful gray-green eyes.

“I was told you broke etiquette early this morning. You left those meant to protect you.”

“I did,” Ceredon answered. He spoke cautiously, measuring every word. “I knew the scouts had been sent ahead, and then I spotted a group of insurgents leaping through the treetops. I tried to save the scouts, but I arrived too late.”

“I told you not to leave Aerland’s side,” his father said harshly. “You are my only heir, and you placed yourself in unspeakable danger.”

“I am a man grown, Father,” he replied, touching the smooth flesh on the back of the Neyvar’s hand. “I have lived for ninety-six years. I am more than capable of surviving without a platoon of men looking over my shoulder.” He paused, then said, “And I’m more than capable of besting an enemy.”

Neyvar Ruven nodded. “Yes, I heard you put an end to two rebels.”

“I did.”

“How did it make you feel?”

Ceredon shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “These creatures are beneath us. Those who betray our doctrines and strike at us with swords and arrows will receive the fate they deserve.”

His father withdrew his hand and patted him on the arm. He nestled back into his chair, a strange expression on his face, almost as if he were disappointed. “A hard doctrine. I suppose I should be proud.”

“So,” Ceredon said, trying to bridge the subject casually, “have you received any word from the rangers you sent out in search of the Melns?”

“No,” said his father. “I recalled those rangers months ago and sent them back to Quellassar. Lady Audrianna and her family are irrelevant now that outside parties have ‘forgiven’ our transgressions. If they live, they are without home or sanctuary. Let them suffer in the wilds. They pose no threat to us.”

The Neyvar shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes. Ceredon glanced around with uncertainty, then stood up and grabbed a second chair—this one simply wooden, though gracefully etched with vines and roses and lacquered to a shine—and placed it beside his father’s. He then sat down, staring out at the sparkling emerald city.

“This is ugly business,” Neyvar Ruven said after a short silence. “But some find it necessary.”

His father’s tone was delicate, and every word that came from his mouth sounded heavy with regret. It was a moment of weakness that took Ceredon off guard. He had not spent much time with his father over his near century of life. His mother, Jeadra, had raised him, teaching him his lessons and showing him how to love, and his servant Breetan had accompanied him on hunting excursions, demonstrating how to string a bow and swing a khandar. Neyvar Ruven had always been a lingering presence, one that offered harsh criticisms and pointed words, but not much else. There were times when he wished his mother had remained in Dezerea instead of returning to Quellasar to maintain the city, for Ceredon had come
to look on his father as one who existed solely to inform him of his unworthiness.

There was none of that attitude now, and the suddenness of the change frightened him.

“What are you saying, Father?” he asked. It was near impossible to keep his voice from shaking.

The Neyvar turned to him once more, those gray-green eyes holding none of their usual force. He reached over and squeezed his son’s arm, though his grip seemed weak, as if all energy had been drained from him in the last few seconds.

“Look upon this place,” he said. “Gaze upon the beauty it has to offer. Dezerea is the crown jewel of our people, Ceredon. It says much that Celestia chose to descend from the heavens to help build it. You must appreciate it for that.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” he said. He felt his eyebrow twitch involuntarily, a nervous tic he hadn’t felt since the first time he’d spoken with Aullienna Meln.

His father shifted in his seat, leaned toward the window. He sounded almost whimsical when he spoke.

“You were not yet born when we turned down Celestia’s offer to foster the humans, and you were only two when the land was divided to make way for the brother gods and their new children. How much do you remember of leaving the ruins of Kal’droth?”

“Some,” Ceredon replied. “I remember Mother gathering our things, and I remember sailing south on the river and the hike that followed, but mostly I simply remember Quellassar being…home.”

“Yes,” his father said with a nod. “As well you should. After the destruction of our homeland, we were given the Quellan Forest to call our own. Previously there had been naught but a small fishing village there, but we went to work directly, creating a city among the trees.”

“Yes.”

“We are a capable people, driven and hardened by time and trial. But the Dezren…they have always been the more sensitive of Celestia’s children. Lord Orden refused to relocate to the Stonewood Forest, where Cleotis and his small faction of the Dezren had taken up residence long before. He blamed me for our race’s refusal to assist in the upbringing of the new humans—and he was right on that account. Because of his innocence, he wished to remain as close to his former homeland as he could. He pleaded with the goddess, and his pleas must have been hearty, for she appeared before his people in this very clearing and, with a touch of her glorious hand to the ground, she allowed their spellcasters to raise the structures you see before you from the very earth.