David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“You’re late,” Clovis said. “Tardiness is not an admirable trait for the Left Hand. In an altercation, the left strikes first. If the left hand is slow, the right will not be able to land the finishing blow.”

It was a phrase Crian had heard a thousand times before. Inwardly he rolled his eyes, but he kept his expression as firm as granite. His father was critical of all his children, expecting the absolute best of them at all times. In his own way, Crian guessed, it was how he showed he cared.

“I beg your pardon, Highest,” Crian said, dropping to one knee, taking his father’s hand, and kissing it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Avila smirk. “I was not expecting you back so soon.”

After he stood back up, his father fixed him with a sideways glance.

“And what were you doing?” he asked.

“I was getting some rest, Father.”

“But it is nearing noon. A little early to be tired, is it not? I have just ridden for a week, sleeping in a dingy tent each night, and I am as alert as ever.”

Crian tried to hold back an irritated sigh, but a slight puff of air escaped his lips.

“There was a riot in the financial district last night, Highest. A faction of disgruntled laborers set fire to the Brennan Depository in response to a supposed lowering of wages. It took most of the night to get the blaze under control and arrest the guilty parties. I did not return to the castle until dawn.”

His father shook his head. “Exhaustion is no excuse. You are a Crestwell, ageless and mighty. You have many years ahead of you in which to rest.”

“I’m sorry,” Crian said, bowing. “As always, you are right.”

A hand fell onto his plated shoulder. “Stand up, son. We must make our audience now.”

They opened the doors and stepped into the throne room. Inside was a madhouse. People were everywhere, commoners and high merchants alike, shouting at each other, seeking the ear of the king with some complaint or another. The Council of Twelve, a collection of eleven men and one woman from different points around the kingdom, chosen by their people as representatives, cowered against the walls at the back of the room. Interspersed throughout were members of the Sisters of the Cloth, wrapped head-to-toe in fabric so that only their eyes were revealed. The women were legal property of the merchants, and their job was to ensure that their owners were satisfied.

The noise was thick, the vitriol thicker. Ulric Mori, the Master at Arms, stood in the center of the mass, trying to adjudicate a heated argument between fat, bald Cleo Connington and the distinguished Matthew Brennan. Sentries from both houses were being held back by the Palace Guard. The atmosphere in the room was like dry kindling, needing only a single spark to set it ablaze.

Overseeing it all was a bored King Eldrich Vaelor the First. The king was a tall, willowy man of thirty-seven, his cheeks sunken and his hair sparse, with a beard that had grown in splotchy and incomplete. The crown resting atop his head was a plain gold band- simplicity for a simple job , as Eldrich’s father, the first king, had said. He sat on an ornate throne made from grooved ivory and positioned on a raised platform on the other side of the room. Grayhorn tusks, brought from the west by the earliest traders, formed a halo of curved spikes that encircled the king’s head and torso, exaggerating the carved lion that roared from the throne’s peak. Another set of tusks formed the armrests, and the king’s fingers tapped atop them, causing a barely perceptible twang to echo through the chamber. He had ascended to the throne eight years ago, after his father, Edwin, had died, succumbing to the red cough. Having been stationed outside the city for much of his life, Crian had rarely seen the king before assuming command of the City Watch. Since then, he had gotten to know the man quite well. The king’s style of leadership was haphazard and inconsistent, and half the time he seemed drunk with his illusionary might. But his true calling lay in his ability to consolidate power. Unlike his father, most of the high merchants were completely dedicated to him, which kept gold flowing into the realm.

King Vaelor pointed at Cleo Connington and beckoned him forward. The Highest led his children out of the throng, and stepped in front of the fat rich man, cutting him off. Clovis bowed before the king and swept his arm wide.

“King Vaelor,” he said, “we have returned from the delta, and are ready to disc-”

“What the fuck ,” the king bellowed, his voice unusually gruff for such a lithe man.

Clovis straightened, a look of shock on his face. Crian and Avila exchanged glances, just as stunned as their father was.

“How dare you interrupt me when my court is in session?” the king asked. He didn’t look bored any longer, and his eyes burned with rage. “Highest of Karak or not, you are still a servant of the throne, Clovis. I will not be disrespected.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Highest replied. His voice seethed with resentment, and if a look could kill, all of the king’s insides would have liquefied in an instant.

King Vaelor waved dismissively. “Wait in the vestibule. I’ll see you when I’m done.”

Without another word, Clovis led his children around the raised throne and through the door behind it. When the door slammed shut, the ruckus in the throne room dulled to a muted hum.

The vestibule was mostly empty, and it felt like a gray, stony cave. The table where the Council debated sat squatly on the far side of the room, thirteen chairs surrounding it. Behind that was a large briarwood cabinet stocked with an assortment of liquors. Avila approached the cabinet and poured herself a mug of wormwood extract. Crian leaned against the wall, as far from his sister as he could get, his armor creaking and badly in need of oil. Clovis stood in the center of the room, his normally ashen complexion red as a beet. The man ran both hands through his long white hair, and in an instant his normal coloring returned. Not that Crian was surprised. Clovis Crestwell was an expert at controlling his emotions.

The air in the vestibule was tense, but Crian refused to speak first. Thoughts of Nessa danced in his head, and he feared he would betray those feelings should he open his mouth. His father spared him the indignity of silence by strolling up to him as if nothing were wrong and asking after his brother, Joseph.

“He’s fine. Wonderful, as a matter of fact. He sent a bird four days ago; he says the Dezren elves are treating him nicely and feeding him wine by the bucket load while they await the tournament. I think his exact words were, “I never thought being a diplomat would be so damn enjoyable.”

The Highest cocked his head. “You do not sound pleased for Joseph.”

“No, I’m very pleased for him. He’ll represent us well.”

“But you wish you had been the one to go.”

“Hardly. He’s attending a betrothal. Not my idea of fun.”

Avila wandered closer.

“But the tournament is,” she said, her breath reeking of stale liquor.

Crian didn’t answer because he knew his expression gave him away. He did not possess the Crestwell impassivity.

“Son,” his father said, “there will be other tournaments.”

Crian slapped his gloved hand against his thigh plate. “You’re right, there will. But how many of them will both the Dezren and Quellan attend? I’m the best swordsman in all of Neldar-you know that, Father. Fencing is as natural to me as swimming is to a fish. It’s not the same for Joseph. What chance does he have against those elves? Their best warriors have been wielding weapons for hundreds of years. He’ll present himself well, but he won’t win.” He shook his head. “Not like I would have.”