Ryl stood motionless. The army remained still. For the moment, Maklan in his rage ignored the nearly ten thousand that had mustered to his call. His focus was singular. His animosity had a clear target.
Ryl slid the Leaves back into his holsters.
“I seek information,” Ryl echoed. “As long as the boy remains unharmed, nothing more. Enough have died today.”
Maklan sneered. His lip curled up, showing his off-white canines beneath. The feeling of hatred that tickled Ryl’s sense was alarming.
The councilor showed no signs of either alexen or its counter, nexela, through his mindsight. Aside from the dim yellow glow from where Aelin remained, his vision was clear. The emotion, the characteristic malice that accompanied the Horde, was eerily present. It exuded from the king’s emissary.
For a moment Ryl was perplexed by the response. It was an unexpected ability from one who failed to possess the gift of the alexen or was of the Horde. The reality dawned on him with startling clarity.
Maklan had been awarded the Blessing of the King, the fabled elixir promised to only the most devoted. How long had the councilor held his seat? There was no validation, though from what Da’agryn had said, King Lunek the Third was the same man who had ordered the initial murder and enslavement of the phrenics over one thousand cycles in the past.
The elixir offered the gift of long life and, in such, the one thing most recipients coveted.
Power.
The undeniable benefits of the irrefusable gift had blinded those to whom it was offered to the inhumanities, both pre and post. To be willing to accept the gift, one must be willing to bid on, to purchase the life of another.
Of a child.
That flagrant sense of amorality coincided with the elixir perfectly. The taint was already within the body. The willingness to sacrifice a life to extend your own precious longevity proved the case. The blackness had already overtaken the heart before the first drop of elixir ever wet their lips.
That the pivotal source of the elixir, the prime ingredient, was sourced from a living creature, let alone a human, was never subject to much consideration. That alone should have proven the inherent revulsion unjustified.
Yet it was the eternal, undeniable hunger for more that won out in the end.
More time meant more wealth.
Greater wealth meant increased influence.
Increased influence garnered more control.
“You have no power to bargain here,” Maklan cursed. “You’ve played your hand. Your tricks have worked to this point, but they hold no influence here. It is I who hold the leverage.”
He pressed the blade against the neck of Aelin. The point dimpled the skin; a drop of crimson leaked from the wound.
Aelin’s face was bruised in places. One of his eyes was already shading black. A thin cut split the skin just south of his hairline. Blood mixed with dirt and hair, forming a sticky, wet mat over his right eye.
The boy was still clothed in the standard garb of a tribute. His pants and shirt were a few sizes too big for his still-youthful frame. A frayed rope belt held them from falling to the ground. The threadbare fabric was normally tattered, yet now it was torn in various places, exposing the angry, reddened skin beneath.
The rage burned in Ryl’s veins. The boy was far too young. Too innocent. He’d accounted for himself well, as witnessed by the sheer pandemonium of his charge. It had required overwhelming numbers to subdue the enraged youth. Maklan sought to use him as a token, yet to what end?
Ryl sensed no fear from the councilor. His haughty arrogance was all encompassing. The vile man, in his own mind, could do no wrong, and as such was untouchable. Like Master Delsith. Like sub-master Osir. The power had run unchecked for so long, they were blinded by the reality that they were not beyond question. That they could be called to task.
Ryl had lost far too many to the abhorrent misery of The Stocks. To the abomination that was their Harvest.
Aelin would not be one.
The call for action rippled through him as the alexen demanded action. The bloodlust of the unknown voice was noticeably absent.
“Take off the cloak,” Maklan hissed. “Drop those vile weapons in your hands. I want to look upon your face as they burn on the pyre.”
Ryl felt his face curl into an involuntary snarl. With the pressure of Maklan’s blade still firmly imprinted on Aelin’s neck, he was hesitant to move. His speed was unheralded, yet the force of the blade against the boy’s neck would prove his undoing. With a simple twist of the councilor’s wrist Ryl would be forced to watch the child bleed out. He needed to buy a moment of time. Needed to elicit a reaction from the councilor.
He folded his arms defiantly across his chest, ignoring the command. He knew Maklan wouldn’t hurt the boy until Ryl was fully subdued. The hatred of the councilor knew no bounds, yet Ryl didn’t believe he was an unintelligent man.
Focusing, he forced a wave of fear toward the tainted man. The feeling was never meant to garner a heavy response. He didn’t need one strong enough to move mountains. All he needed was to goad Maklan.
The councilor laughed as the feeble wave washed over him.
“Your pathetic attempts are useless against one who is all too versed in their administration.” Maklan laughed at the attempt, his body shaking with glee. Aelin, suspended in his arms, was jostled along. Ryl watched the blade slide a finger width further from the boy’s neck.
Aelin’s eyes fluttered.
“Enough.” Maklan’s mirth ended abruptly. “Drop your robe and those weapons you hide behind your back. Do it now, or you’ll watch the boy bleed out before you die. Guards, bind him.”
None moved with the command. For a moment, all were still, cautiously watching the proceedings. Even the most devout had been tempered by the ease with which the lone warrior had knifed through the army.
“You are
