This, Zeryth thought, was quite unfortunate.
He pulled his brow into a thoughtful furrow, doused his voice in well-meaning concern, and leaned forward in his chair. “My Queen, I still do not understand this change of heart.”
Queen Sesri sat across from him, her hands folded delicately in her lap, swathes of velvet and cascading blonde waves falling over her shoulders. They were in one of the Queen’s private meeting chambers, a small room that was still opulently decorated, and her seat was raised so that she looked slightly down on Zeryth despite her small size.
She did, Zeryth had to admit, look the part of a princess. Perhaps one day she would look the part of a Queen, too, though she was probably close to a decade away from really seeming like she belonged anywhere near a throne.
“I have told you my reasons,” she said, haughtily. “Is it so strange to think that I have reconsidered whether fighting blood with blood is the best approach?”
She sounded confident, or at least, her words were even if her voice wavered slightly. But the real giveaway to her uncertainty was the way she shot a little glance at Tare after every sentence. Her Valtain advisor sat beside her,
unsettlingly quiet as always, sheets of straight silver hair framing his face.
Aw. How cute.
“The House of Laurel is not loyal to you,” Zeryth said. “Lord Laurel is a known rebel conspirer.”
Sesri looked at Tare, who nodded. “He is.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Perhaps there is another way.”
“Force, my Queen, is the only way to deal with such things.” Zeryth gave her a comforting smile. “Though it is very admirable that you have such a benevolent heart. Just like your father did.”
The mention of the late king, predictably, sent grief spiraling across Sesri’s face. She looked down at her hands, frowning.
Zeryth took that opportunity to shoot Tare a pointed look, arching his eyebrows. Tare stared back blankly, offering — as always — no expression. But he turned to the queen.
“There is no other choice, my Queen,” Tare said, gently. Sesri pondered for a moment, then she shook her head.
“There must be. I do not want to inflict suffering on my people this way. It has gone too far.”
Hm. Interesting.
Sesri had expressed these kinds of sentiments before, but she had never gotten this far with it. Never remained steadfast once her father was brought up, or once Tare began pushing her.
Zeryth gave Tare another sharp glance.
“Sesri.” Tare’s voice grew more pleading. “I urge you to consider what the Arch Commandant is saying.”
“I have. I will not attack the Laurels. We will have to do something else.”
She shook her head again, more firmly this time. She wasn’t going to change her mind.
But that, Zeryth decided, was just fine with him. The timing was acceptable. Ideal, even. In fact, he would be
lying if he said that a part of him wasn’t hoping that this would happen.
“Very well, my Queen.” Zeryth stood, then dropped to a low bow. “The Orders of course support whichever course of action you wish to follow. I shall begin working on some alternative plans.”
He excused himself, and Tare followed to escort him from the Palace. The two Valtain strode down the hallways in silence, Zeryth’s footsteps echoing with commanding force and Tare’s so light that they were nearly silent. As they walked, Zeryth ran his eyes down the hallways, taking in the elaborate mosaics and gold filigree that lined the walls. So much gold. He preferred platinum, himself. A little more elegant and understated.
“I take it that we’re at a clear understanding, correct, Tare?”
“Give her time.”
“We don’t have time, and even if we did, there’s no reason to waste it.”
Silence. “Would it be better to wait until Nura returned?”
Zeryth almost laughed. Oh, Tare. So sweet. So naive.
No, it certainly wouldn’t. In fact, he considered the fact that Nura had not yet returned to be of very deliberate benefit to this situation.
“She’ll understand,” he said, and gave Tare a confident, sparkling smile.
 |
NORMALLY, Zeryth would have chosen to use a Stratagram to get back to the Towers. On foot, the journey took close to a half hour, and Zeryth rarely found himself inclined to waste that kind of time. But today was a beautiful day —
brisk, crisp, with a particularly salty breeze off the sea. He decided to walk. He could spare the extra time.
Today, after all, was lining up perfectly.
He had received a letter from Nura that morning detailing the — rather exciting, by the sound of it — events that had occurred at the Mikov estate. Tisaanah had proven herself to be every bit as powerful as he hoped she would be. So powerful, in fact, that he was actually glad that she had proposed a Blood Pact. Normally, Zeryth tried to avoid getting himself wrapped up in such things. But after what he had seen in Threll, he now found himself awfully relieved that she was bound by blood not to act against him.
But it was the bit about Maxantarius that Zeryth found especially intriguing.
He had not wanted to involve Maxantarius in this at all. He was too unpredictable, too unabashedly vitriolic towards the Orders, and, most importantly of all, Zeryth found the idea of spending extended time in his presence to be about as appealing as the idea of stabbing both of his eyes out and then eating them.
For the life of him, Zeryth had not been able to understand why Nura would bring Tisaanah to Max, of all people. And once Tisaanah had proven herself, he had been adamantly opposed to allowing Max to remain involved, at least not without many precautions. Zeryth was not about to let himself get stabbed in the back by Maxantarius Farlione, of all rutting people. It would just be too great of an indignity to lose a decade-long feud on top of the already-significant indignity of being dead.
But then, the night of the ball, Nura had returned to the tower and calmly stated that they had their precaution: Tisaanah. “If you have her,” she had said, “then you have him. It’s just how he works. And we’ll have a grip on her that’s ironclad.”
It was so shamelessly cold that Zeryth had to admire it.
And as much as it pained him to admit it, she had been completely right about all of it. Maxantarius was turning out to be a good investment after all. All the pieces were lining up perfectly.
He now had not one, but two outrageously powerful weapons at his disposal. And he finally had a real foothold in Threll, a coveted step that he had been working towards for years now. Ara was divided by a deeply unpopular ruler, all while the ruling Lords were slowly, one by one, replaced by Order allies.
And, best of all, his surly and untrustworthy Second was far across the ocean for at least a five more days. Nura had always been an ally of necessity in this scheme. She was brilliant, and she hated him. A combination that made Zeryth all too happy to set this all in motion while she and her hidden knives were far across the sea.
Zeryth reached the Towers and hummed to himself as he went to his office. He took a moment to admire the thrashing sea, more vividly beautiful than ever in the shadow of a distant storm, before sitting down at his desk and composing a letter to his dear Second in Command.
By the time you read this, he wrote, Sesri will be dead…
