In the immediate days after learning of Antero’s passing, the number of advisors waiting to aid their sovereign had been close to sixty. When no executable plan for Cassè’s destruction was fixed, their numbers dwindled considerably. Now, as Emeric throws open the doors to the waiting area adjoining the war room, only the top six council members can be found.
Lord Destry, the king’s highest ranking general, faces the opening door with his arms crossed. His stoic face betrays nothing as he silently marches inside. Heavy metal armor clanks with every step he takes, and a huge broadsword swings on his hip. His dark eyes never stop roving around the room, as though he is certain that danger lurks in every corner just waiting for his vigilance to falter.
Lord Gregoire, the self-proclaimed leader of the Windwalkers, tries not to sneer at Lord Destry as he floats into the war room on a fluttering breeze. He does not acknowledge Emeric as he glides through the doorway, purposefully tilting his head away from the glorified servant. “Your Highness, it is always a pleasure to be in your presence,” Lord Gregoire announces. “How can we be of service to you, my liege?”
“You never cease to amaze me, Lord Gregoire,” Lord Destry interjects, cutting his gaze to stare at the Windwalker in contempt. “How you can hold your nose so high and still manage to shove it so far up the king’s ass is astounding! You should be proud.”
Emeric barely conceals his eye roll as he watches the pair jockey for the seat closest to the king’s right hand. It’s a long-standing rivalry among those blessed by Windwalker abilities and those that are not. Windwalkers have always believed themselves to be a cut above the others. In turn, regular humans have always done everything in their power to make the Windwalkers look small, petty, and foolish. Even still, these two lords take that antipathy to new heights, always seeking a means of belittling the other in the presence of the king.
Alaric welcomes this rivalry and even entices it to run deeper in the hearts of his advisers. Malice glitters in his eyes as he watches Lord Gregoire stir up a breeze filled with dust just to irritate Lord Destry’s nose.
“Stop that, you bastard!” Lord Destry snarls, unsheathing his broadsword even as he sneezes.
“Stop what?” Lord Gregoire whispers, a small smile creeping across his face. Though he feigns ignorance, his watchful eyes miss nothing as Lord Destry glowers, a shiver of doubt staying his sword. Then, Lord Gregoire carefully assesses the bloodstains dripping from the map, drifting down to the king’s broken knuckles, in keen understanding. Lord Destry’s eyes follow his rival’s, and wordlessly the pair eases into their seats, fearing that their impulsive king’s anger is riled.
“Your king awaits, my lords,” Emeric drawls, turning a scathing look at Lords Marcoux and Balere. Both of the young men lounge on a plush velvet settee, still too drunk to trust their legs with their weight. They make no effort to move, each fearing that if they try to stand, they will tumble to the ground or vomit. Emeric feels his teeth gnashing as he glares at these two young men who only earned their ranks through their birthrights. Ignorant clods! They are no better than I am; they just have the privilege of birth. They squander their days on the pleasures of court, while I scratch and claw my way after crumbs under the king’s boots. How I hate them!
“We can hear from here.” Lord Marcoux’s words slur as his eyelids droop.
“Now.” The king’s voice, though it is as soft as the faintest whisper, radiates through the room like a hammer striking an anvil. “Don’t make me ask again.” At once both men stumble to their feet, swaying and falling as they attempt to obey their king. No one, not even the town drunkard that’s already elbow deep into his vice, would be foolish enough to risk the king’s wrath.
The last two council members to enter the war room always raise Emeric’s hackles whenever they are close. Lord Xanti, the leader of the king’s magicians, seems to have the power to stare into your very soul. Even before Emeric can call him, the magician materializes beside Emeric’s elbow. His smile is too wide; it reminds Emeric of a coyote after it glimpses a young hare in the field. “W…w…welcome, my lord,” Emeric stutters, his shoulders quaking as Lord Xanti’s icy fingers tap his forehead lightly.
“Emeric,” Lord Xanti replies, his voice a deep growl. “When you are ready to act upon your impulses, find me.” He hisses a soft chuckle as Emeric’s face blanches, eyes darting to Lord Marcoux and Lord Balere. Leaning close to Emeric’s ear, he whispers, “There are plenty of poisons, my friend. No magic necessary. But if you want a truly diabolical way of ending them, then that can be arranged too. Your king might even reward you for it. Just say the word, and—”
“No thank you, my lord.” Emeric’s teeth chatter as faintness locks his knees. Can he hear my thoughts? Can he somehow read my mind? What kinds of magic does he wield?
“Relax,” Lord Xanti continues as he glides through the doorway. “One only has to look at your face to see everything you’re thinking.” Emeric feels no relief as Lord Xanti winks and declares, “Just let me know when you are ready.”
Yet to Emeric, even Lord Xanti is preferable when compared to his counterpart. Wherever the magician can be found, the Lady Vatusia is always close at hand. As silent as a shadow, she still manages to radiate power and danger. Her bright green eyes sparkle under their darkened lashes, locking with Emeric’s pale face as she steps close.
