Chapter 18
Conflict Brewing
Days had passed since the Queen last stood upon the training field, and now the air within the citadel's great hall was thick with murmurs and the faint scrape of quills on parchment.
Queen Elara sat upon her throne, not draped in the heavy silks of courtly display but in the attire she preferred when the matters before her were of war and state. A black, thin-cut top left the smooth line of her stomach bare to the cool air, her arms bare beneath the coat that hung loose from her shoulders. Baggy trousers fell from her hips to her boots, the cuffs pooling slightly over her ankles. Her crown rested at an angle, catching the afternoon light like a blade's edge.
Before her stretched the long marble table, its surface veined like the frozen rivers of the north. At her back stood two guards Miss Vance, sharp-eyed and statuesque, and another in the steel-lacquered black of the Queen's personal retinue. Across from her sat the kingdom's heavyweights: Warlord Blackwood, towering and grim; Warlord Vance, the Queen's old comrade, face like weathered oak; Councilor Morel, his voice as clipped as his graying beard; Financier Rossi, lean and restless; and a scattering of house representatives in layered silks and crested doublets.
The air was restless with talk rumors, grievances, and fears. Word of the Queen's "veil ways" drifted from village to city, from tavern benches to merchant stalls. In the capital, the whispers grew louder: that she had grown cold, that she hid something from her people, that her rule was shadowed by omens.
More pressing still were the Ardonian troops massed at the border. They claimed to be hunting bandits—yet the numbers they sent, armed and armored, were far beyond what any brigand band could justify.
Councilor Morel's voice cut through the room. "Your Majesty, with all respect, no man believes the King of Ardon sends a thousand lances merely to flush out thieves. Our envoys return with smiles and empty assurances, while their banners press ever closer to our gates."
"They are provoking us," Rossi added, his fingers drumming the table. "And while they do so, trade across the border dies. Caravans turn back, ships dock half-empty. Merchants grumble, coin dries up, and unrest festers."
Vance leaned forward. "And their commander Lord Chatre Valcors does nothing to ease the strain. His patrols block roads, seize wagons 'for inspection,' and send traders home lighter in purse than when they set out."
The marble chamber thrummed with voices, each man and woman vying to be heard above the others. Tapers burned low in the sconces, their light gilding the carved beams above, catching in the rings and buckles of those seated at the long table.
Councilor Morel, eldest of the Queen's advisors and a man carved from habit as much as from bone, struck the floor with the ferrule of his cane. Tok. Tok. The murmur fell to a hush.
"Your Majesty," quoth he, rising with the stiffness of his years, "it is the mind of this council that the realm stands upon a precipice. Should we rouse our banners now, King Theron will clothe himself in the garb of righteousness, proclaiming Veridia as the hand that struck first. Then shall the courts of kings brand us the aggressor."
At the far end, Warlord Blackwood, broad as a siege door and twice as unyielding, leaned forward until the table groaned beneath his arms. "And should we sit idle, my lord, what then? Shall we wait until their lances are at the city gate? Nay war comes apace, whether we beckon it or no. Best we meet it upon the field, whilst our men have strength in arm and spirit, than cower 'til the noose is drawn."
Financier Rossi, ever the steward of coin, laced his long fingers together. "This kingdom bleeds already, Your Majesty. The caravans from the east return empty, and the ships from the southern ports lie half-laden. Grain spoils in our storehouses for want of buyers, and the markets in the lower wards murmur of hunger. Without the trade of Ardon, our coffers run dry, and with them the loyalty of our people."
Vance, who had until now kept his counsel, spoke with a voice low and even. "All the while, Lord Chatre Valcors tightens his grip upon our border roads. He stops wagons under the pretence of search, levies coin, and sends our merchants home poorer than they set out. 'Tis not merely insult—it is provocation, calculated and precise. If this continues, the commons will cry for Your Majesty's sword as loudly as the warlords do."
From the far side, Lord Albrecht of House Dorn, a hawk-faced man whose voice carried the smooth venom of the court, added, "And yet, Majesty, to draw sword first is to give the Ardonian king his cause entire. We would be painted as wolves who set upon the shepherd."
At this, Queen Elara stirred. She had sat silent upon her throne, her chin resting lightly upon her knuckles, the tilted crown casting its shadow over eyes that missed nothing. When she spoke, her voice was not raised, yet the air seemed to still to hear it.
"My lords," quoth she, "let us not clothe the truth in silk. Lord Chatre Valcors is no hunter of bandits. He hunts time—time to plant his camp like seed in our soil, to let the roots grow thick and deep until no plough may tear them free. Each letter from King Theron is but a tapestry woven to hide the steel beneath."
Her gaze passed slowly along the table, resting for a breath upon each face. "We shall not meet such deceit with folded hands. Our levies shall be readied in silence. Grain and steel shall be moved under other banners, so that the Ardonian eye sees not our preparations. And one last envoy shall ride to their court—bearing words of peace so plain and so public that, when history is writ, none may say Veridia sought war."
The words fell like a slow toll of iron upon stone.
Warlord Blackwood gave a grunt of approval, the ghost of a smile creasing his scarred face. Rossi's fingers ceased their restless drumming, though his brow furrowed still. Councilor Morel inclined his head, though his eyes were troubled.
Elara stepped from the dais, the dark fall of her coat sweeping behind her. "Mark me," she said, softer now, yet with the weight of iron in her tone, "if war comes, it shall come upon the ground of our choosing… not upon our knees."
And in the pause that followed, no man dared speak.
Beneath the citadel, away from the murmur of council and the measured tread of courtiers, the Queen's private training room lay bathed in the pale light of late afternoon. Tall windows of leaded glass filtered the sun into long, angled bars that struck the stone floor. The air bore the faint scent of oiled steel, dried herbs, and ink—an odd mingling that suited the place, for it was neither wholly an armory nor wholly a scholar's hall.
Kai sat cross-legged upon a carpet woven in the colours of old Veridia, its frayed edges a reminder that some things endured not by preservation, but by stubborn use. He had shed his coat, leaving only a loose shirt with the sleeves rolled high. His posture was easy, almost lounging, yet his eyes followed every movement in the room.
Before him, Master Thalen Dorrin, the royal alchemist, worked with the steady precision of a man long accustomed to coaxing danger into drinkable form. His hair was the colour of snow tarnished by smoke, bound back in a silver clasp, and his fingers bore the faint stains of a hundred tinctures. Upon a small brazier simmered a squat bronze kettle, from which rose a thin thread of vapour, pale gold and shimmering faintly as though it carried light within it.
Serra Veylan, the Queen's librarian, sat to Kai's left, her long gown of slate-blue pooling at her feet. A stack of leather-bound volumes rested upon her knees, and she turned the pages with care that bordered on reverence. Her spectacles sat low upon the bridge of her nose, giving her the air of one who saw the world over the rim of perpetual disapproval.
"Attend me, lad," quoth Thalen, lifting a vial filled with liquid like molten sunlight. "This draught is thy bridge to the third stage of conjuring… and, if fortune frowns, thy bridge to the grave."
Kai arched a brow. "Ever the bringer of cheer, Master Thalen."
Serra did not lift her eyes from her reading. "Of those who drank such a draught in the old records," quoth she, "four in ten passed unharmed. Two in ten perished. The rest… changed."
"Changed?" said Kai, with a flicker of a grin. "Changed into what?"
Serra's lips thinned. "Into creatures unfit for mortal company. Or into husks, hollowed of reason."
He rolled the vial gently between his palms, watching the way the light fractured through it. "You know," he said, half to himself, "Elara never tells me when she plans these grand councils of hers. I'd have gone today, just to watch her glare when I spoke out of turn."
"Perhaps," murmured Serra without looking up, "Her Majesty sought peace for herself."
Kai smirked, leaning back on one hand. "Peace, from me? I'm her dearest brother."
"Aye," Thalen muttered, measuring out a powder into the kettle, "and oft the greatest vexation of her day."
Above – The Courtroom
The council chamber had thinned; the lesser lords and house envoys withdrew in clusters, whispering like leaves caught in the same wind. Only Elara, her closest advisors, and the guards remained. The marble table now bore only the soft reflection of torchlight, its earlier storm of words fading into memory.
Vance leaned a hand upon the table. "Shall I ready the riders for the envoy, Your Majesty?"
"Aye," quoth Elara, her gaze fixed upon the high windows where the day's last light bled crimson into the glass. "Let them ride with the words of peace, yet armour their hearts against deceit. King Theron is a man who smiles before he strikes."
Warlord Blackwood gave a curt bow. "And the levies?"
"They will march not by trumpet, but by whisper," Elara replied. "Every bale of grain, every cart of iron, every length of spearwood will pass under other names. Let the Ardonian watch the river, whilst our current runs beneath."
Vance's lips twitched in approval.
For a moment, Elara let her thoughts drift from the room. She felt the faint pull of the wards below, the pulse of energy where her brother now sat with Thalen and Serra. A small part of her—a sister's part—wished to be there to watch over him. The Queen's part knew she could not.