Days Of Light And Shadow (7 page)

“A failure of nerve?”

“No. Simply my duty elder.”

“An excuse then.” The elder pounced on him. “But there can be no excuses in a matter of this urgency.”

“By the Divines!” Iros gave in with a resigned sigh knowing that Yossirion would not stop. Like a wolf at a kill he never stopped until the carcass was stripped bare.

“Maybe I’ll try to squeeze in something at the Court this afternoon about how we have always admired the lack of prisons and stockades in Elaris.” It was as much as he could do, and probably more than he should, but Yossirion was a friend. Besides, it might add a little life to the proceedings.

“Is that it?” For a heartbeat the elder let his disappointment show. But he covered it up quickly. “I suppose it is still more than the high born could find it in their hearts to agree to. Not a one of them is worth the time of day!” It didn’t seem to occur to him as he vented his frustration in public, that many of those same high born elves were passing them on the river stone paths. Some of them were even greeting them politely, paying his words no attention. Doubtless they’d heard the elder’s rants before.

Of course the others, the low born, those of poor families or mixed blood, were enjoying his rush of blood. Iros could see several of them laughing quietly, mouths carefully hidden behind hands, faces turned away as shoulders heaved in merriment, and he could guess what the gossip in the inns would be that evening.

So maybe it would be worth it to say something in the Court that afternoon. If nothing else it would annoy Finell and his black robed advisor and that was always enjoyable. And after all nothing important ever happened in the Court.

Chapter Seven.

The garden was peaceful as always, the sun shining, the birds singing. It was a haven of calm in the busy city, just as it was meant to be. Which was why Sophelia loved spending so much time in it, tending to the flowerbeds, weeding, mixing in the fertiliser, or simply enjoying it. Some days she thought, she might have been happier having been born into a lower house that concerned itself with such things instead of a trading house like House Vora. But such was not the way the Mother had decided things should be.

Of course it wasn’t the Mother’s choices that troubled her this day. It was her cousin’s. And once more he had delivered an unpalatable brew of problems for the house. Problems her father as First of the house would have to deal with, and she as his eldest daughter would have to speak to.

“Father, we must speak against this.” And as she walked beside him through the garden, she knew his thoughts were running in the same direction. As were surely many others. Like a stampede of fell oxen, the traders knew only one direction.

“In sooth, but calmly.” Was she letting her emotions show again? Was she letting them cloud her judgement? Sophelia wasn’t sure. But she was sure that there were two wrongs that had to be addressed in Finell’s latest edict. The damage it would do to the finances of many houses. And the simple unfairness of it.

Still she took a moment to calm herself. To let her normal composure take command of her face. People often said that she was too calm. Too serious. Too composed. That her eyes were the cold blue of the ocean, not the warm blue of the skies. Even her friends sometimes said it. But few of them realised that it was all a façade. That inside she was just like everyone else. That she fretted over some things, and took pleasure in others. That she would have liked to be able to smile and even laugh openly. But these things were not permitted of a woman of her station.

Sophelia only allowed herself two eccentricities in life, and they were minor. Things that might be noticed, maybe even remarked upon, but never dismissed as unworthy. The first was her clothing. She favoured yellow as a colour, and so her robes always carried a few threads of gold or lemon woven in them. Not so many as to make them gaudy or shocking, but enough that they weren’t quite the orthodox white favoured by most. Yellow was such a happy colour, and it went with the blue of her hair and eyes.

The other foible she allowed herself was her necklace. A piece of polished amber on a moon silver chain that she wore everywhere. But it wasn’t for its beauty that she wore it. It was because trapped inside the almost glowing amber was a firefly, and often she felt as though she and it were kindred spirits. Trapped together in life and death.

In everything else she was the epitome of an elven maiden. Her hair was always washed and combed, and hung straight to her waist, exactly the right length. Her face was always perfectly clean as were her clothes, and they of course were perfectly tailored. She nodded politely to all she was supposed to and spoke only those words that were proper. None could accuse her of being anything other than proper.

So instead when she heard the comments she maintained her composure, and suffered the criticism stoically. Still it hurt when they sometimes said she could be quite pretty if only she would allow a smile to grace her face now and then. Sometimes she wondered what her betrothed Berris of House Allel must think of her. Though he too was of the great houses and surely knew the same rules. Perhaps one day, when they were married, she would ask him.

For the moment though, in the privacy of her own home and walking with her father, she thought she should have just a touch more freedom. Especially given what Finell had decreed.

“Calmly yes father, but firmly. It is not just the cost to the house that must be argued against. It is the indecency of the edict.”

“House Vora has always been known and respected as a house of fairness. And this tax, it is both unfair and indecent.”

“It is both.” Tenir stopped to study one of the orange blossom trees. “And we shall speak against it. But with our arguments in order. Finell will not listen to accusations of inequity. Not while that black blood whispers in his ear.”

He was right. She knew that. Not only had their cousin been ascended to the Heartwood Throne when he was too young, even now he was only nineteen, he had the worst of all advisors in Y’aris. A man of poisoned heart. Yet the two of them made an oddly apt pair. The boy with a permanent sneer on his face matched perfectly by the by his arrogance and endless mockery. And the advisor filling his head with dreams of greatness, and his heart with suspicion. Finell would not listen.

“We must speak to the financial cost. To the burden that will have to be carried by all the trading houses that deal outside of Elaris. Because we will all employ outsiders in our business, and to have to pay an extra tax for them, will leave us at a disadvantage to the other traders from other lands. Elaris will be weakened by this unjust tax.”

“And of the inequity? The indecency?” Sophelia was dismayed by the thought they could ignore such a grievous injustice.

“We will ask Elwene to dinner when she returns and put the case to her. She has far more sway with her brother than we do. And she will support our argument.” He was probably right, she hoped. Elwene would support them. But as to how much she could achieve, that was another matter. Finell loved her. Of that she had no doubt. His sister was probably the only one in the entire world he cared for. But would he listen? She doubted it when she already knew his justification for the tax.

Supposedly it would encourage the houses to hire only their own people. So there would be fewer elves without work. Save that there were no elves without work. There was a shortage of workers in almost every calling. But it was still an excuse to use, and she worried that Elwene might fall for it.

Sophelia loved her cousin. Often she wished that she could be more like her. Built of faith and with an eternal smile on her face. But she did not have the sharp mind of a trader. She could be fooled.

“We will have to teach her well of all the arguments, both good and poor.”

“In sooth daughter.” Done with the tree her father moved on at a leisurely pace through the garden, and Sophelia walked with him. She knew that there was much more still to discuss about the tax, not least how House Vora would deal with it. Because she knew that Finell would not overturn his edict quickly.

They couldn’t dismiss their workers simply because of their blood. It would have been dishonourable and a breach of their agreement. Besides which most were in their house’s employ because they could provide services that others couldn’t, like familiarity with other realms. So they would have to pay the tax and take the loss.

But maybe, she thought, just maybe, they could take that cost out of Finell’s allowance. After all, he lived off the house’s coffers, and a little belt tightening would not go amiss in his life. Now that was an amusing idea.

The only questions were how to raise the idea with her father. And how to do it without letting at least a small smile grace her face.

Chapter Eight.

Iros had to control his natural instinct to fidget as he sat in his assigned seat. But it wasn’t easy when he was uncomfortable.

In Leafshade he wore his ceremonial armour cuirass and neatest linen all day every day. After two years in the city he had at least reached the point where it no longer chaffed, but it still wasn’t comfortable.

The swords still bothered him too. As a member of the Royal Dragoons he had grown accustomed to wearing his swords everywhere. But there was a difference between how a soldier wore his arms and how a lord did. As a soldier he had carried them on a thick leather belt that strapped firmly to his waist, with a tie down the bottom of the scabbard around his leggings. It worked well as it meant his swords were always ready to be drawn. As an envoy though he wore them instead attached by a thin strip of leather that hung from the bottom of his highly polished cuirass. While it might look more respectable, it meant that the swords swung wildly whenever he moved in too much of a hurry, and threatened to stab him every time he sat down.

For the same reason he wore his family cape wherever he went, the green garment with its golden fire drake covering his armour and flapping around in the wind. And when he sat down the thick material tended to bunch up behind him and catch on the backs of the seats.

And though it annoyed him he shaved every day, and let his hair grow a little longer than he liked before he combed it flat. He had to look presentable at all times. The slightest sign of untidiness, of clothes not properly laundered, a face smudged with dirt or hair unwashed, would be taken as proof of his lesser blood. But still with his face constantly shaven so closely and his hair combed hard and flat, he itched.

He worked hard not to show it though. An envoy had to master his expression as well as his tongue, and Iros had spent years learning to maintain an earnest, respectful demeanour. Sometimes it still didn’t come off perfectly, and he looked more naïve and even innocent than a man of his years should. But that could work to his advantage. If people saw someone young and unworldly they could foolishly believe they might have the upper hand in a negotiation. And to the high born who would always see him as human first, at least he seemed harmless to them. They wouldn’t want him as a friend, but at least they didn’t fear him.

Not that the elves were bad people. They weren’t. But they didn’t regard other races as worthy. Certainly the high born didn’t. And being seated amongst so many of them, their high lord looking down on him, that added to his discomfort.

Of course it could be worse. He could be a dwarf. If there was one race that the elves regarded with pure loathing, it was the dwarves. The feeling was reciprocated naturally enough, and the two peoples had a long and bloody history of wars and feuds between them. Even trolls found better acceptance among the elves than dwarves, and they were truly wild. They were also the only ones who dared to call the high lord on his edicts, and he admired them for that. They had no fear and no respect for anyone who couldn’t ride a horse, and swing a sword. Or better yet an axe. On the other hand their trade deals suffered for that boldness. But ever since Finell had ascended to the Heartwood Throne, everyone suffered. This afternoon was simply another exercise in suffering.

The current victim was a wife and mother who had come to beseech the high lord for her husband to be freed from the prison. Apparently he had said something in the market and been overheard. But Finell was never going to listen to her pleas. As he listened to the high lord berating her for daring to question his judgement, Iros knew that. He had always known it. The woman was part elf and part gnome. A mixed blood. She had no rights in Finell’s eyes.

Though he felt sorry for the woman, Iros knew that there was nothing he could do for her. As envoy for King Herrick he had permission only to speak for him. Though he was still hoping to squeeze in the comment he had promised Elder Yossirion. So instead he busied himself by studying the court.

The Royal Chamber was full as always for the meeting of the court. Every seat was taken. They had to be.

Every high born family had to be represented even if nothing was to be said. They had to be seen, sitting proudly in their seats at the front of the chamber. And so the seven Firsts were there, and with them their most trusted advisors. Every envoy from the six realms was there as well, even if they too had nothing to say. It was simple respect, and of course there was the ever-present worry that if they weren’t there something important would be said that affected their people. The dwarves of course were always especially worried about that. Given their long and bloody history with the elves it was understandable, and so Gurtmond and his aids made sure to be there long before the court was called, and remained there long after it had officially ended. Just in case.

The seats behind the throne were reserved for the high lord’s officials and advisors, and attendance for them was compulsory. If they didn’t attend the chances were that they wouldn’t keep their positions, and a man’s position was one of the things that added to a house’s reputation. They could not afford to lose them, even if privately they disagreed with their master. Every one of them maintained a carefully neutral expression as they listened to their high lord telling off the poor woman. But he couldn’t imagine that anyone with even the slightest hint of decency could agree with him.

And then of course the sessions were open to the masses, so as usual at least a couple of hundred others had turned up and were filling the pews. Some of them were even eating their lunch, and Iros’ stomach growled a little at the sight. He’d missed his as first Yossirion and then an endless stream of merchants upset at various new laws, had beset him, demanding action. For them Finell’s rule these past couple of years had been as if Aris herself had cursed them. Misfortune at every step.

That had never made sense to him. Finell was of House Vora, and House Vora was a trading concern. It had trading posts and warehouses and homes spread across all the realms. The house had a reputation for making a sharp deal, but also being able to provide almost anything a customer wanted. Trade should have been in Finell’s blood. But it seemed to him that Finell’s blood had thinned over the short years of his life. Not that Iros would dare say such a thing out loud.

Not when at the front of the Royal Chamber High Lord Finell sat, perched on his throne, looking down upon them all, like a hooded vulture searching for his next meal. And that meal would likely be anyone who spoke against him. Iros did not have any liking for the high lord, and in that he was far from alone. No one liked him.

Even Finell’s family, seated in the chairs set up to one side of the Royal Chamber, seemed unhappy with him. Blue hair, blue eyes, and pointed ears sticking out flat to the ground, they were surely of his family. But they seemed no more pleased with him than anyone else. In fact his cousin Sophelia sometimes spoke out against some of his more harsh rulings, and her father Tenir usually wore a face of thunder when his nephew spoke. This day was no exception save that he looked even angrier than normal.

Tenir couldn’t speak against him, as First of House Vora his word would have carried weight over Finell, and Finell was high lord. That could not be allowed. So he was forced to sit there in silence each day. But his expression spoke volumes, and his daughter was a capable speaker. Iros wondered briefly if she was going to speak against him shortly. She looked to his eyes, as quietly angry as her father. But if she did he knew, it would cost her in some way. Finell didn’t forgive slights against him. Even imagined ones.

The only one though, who could really control his mean streak, was his sister Elwene, and her seat was empty as she continued her pilgrimage. It had been a long month without her. And if one day, as the bards claimed she would, she took the robes of the priesthood, she would be banned from the Royal Chamber and the Court. That would be a dark day for Elaris.

Further around the chamber Iros let his sight rest upon the dwarves, a people he actually quite liked for their normal bluntness. But in the Royal Chamber even they had to contain themselves. Gurtmond and his party looked distinctly uncomfortable. The chairs had never been designed for dwarves. Thick cushions in their back stopped them falling backwards in their seats, but their legs hung over the edge, unable to reach the floor. Finell they all knew, would never allow them to be given seating more suited to their stature. He never missed a chance to be petty.

Beside them the sprites looked much more at ease, but he wasn’t fooled. The silver elves followed the Mother first, and hated the very idea of the Heartwood Throne. It was why Solaria and Elaris had separated. They had their own throne, but it was in a temple and their queen was an elder. And with every time that they attended the court and saw Finell harming his people, they surely grew more certain that they had made the right decision. He could see that certainty in their green eyes as they tried to maintain their calm.

Iros’ gaze moved on to the audience. It was easier than staring at a tearful woman being brutalised some more. For some reason the Royal Chamber seemed more crowded than usual. Maybe it was the black clad watchman standing proudly at the walls. They seemed to be growing in number even here, something that did not fill Iros with ease. But at least the chamber could accommodate the numbers.

It was a huge wooden hall, but unlike all the other structures in the city, it had been grown as much as constructed. The giant spruce that was the very heart of the city, stood hundreds of feet tall as it spread its enormous branches wide, and from those branches a spider web of ropes hung down, supporting the roof over their heads. It of course wasn’t attached to the rest of the chamber, and so as the tree grew, and even at five thousand years of age according to the scholars it was still growing, the roof lifted a little higher. In high winds it tended to swing a little, alarming him as he sat underneath, but in the summer the design also allowed a gentle breeze to flow freely through the chamber.

As for the chamber itself, other than the roof it was fairly typical in design. Tall straight walls, big ones standing easily fifteen feet high, stood proud, framing the hall, making it appear almost solid. On a calm day you could almost forget that the roof wasn’t attached to them, that it floated at least three feet above them.

The artisans had been busy with the walls over the centuries, and all along their length they had carved enormous arched windows that let in astonishing amounts of sunlight. But then considering that the entire structure stood directly under a massive tree that tended to steal the light, they needed to. The glass smiths had also added their own touches, and every arched window showed an image from the elves’ history, lovingly depicted from tiny coloured pieces of glass. They weren’t just windows, they were works of art. Paintings in glass. Some days the Royal Chamber reminded him more of a cathedral than a meeting hall or throne room.

And then there was the throne. The Heartwood Throne on which High Lord Finell sat looking down upon them all. It wasn’t a chair. It wasn’t carved or crafted. It was an actual tree, somehow growing inside the chamber. A small heartwood tree, its trunk divided into three, and draped over the middle a few furs and cushions to make the sitting comfortable.

Of course as the tree grew over the centuries so too did the throne and so beside it was a small wooden staircase that Finell had to climb each day to reach his perch. And each time he saw him climb those steps, a part of Iros secretly hoped he’d trip and fall flat on his face. He suspected he wasn’t alone in that wish.

Even with all of that beauty though, it was the floor that impressed Iros most though. It was a simple wooden floor, the boards carefully laid and sprung so that they didn’t clatter, but its perfection constantly amazed him. There were no high spots and low spots in it. There were no knots and whorls in the timber. And the glaze that they had placed over it was so thick and hard that it became a mirror. A huge wooden mirror spanning a hundred paces in length and fifty in width. That took some craftsmanship. And it surely took some cleaning as well, to keep it looking so brilliant. Every night he was sure, the artisans would be out on their hands and knees with their polishing clothes, making sure that no scuff marks from people’s feet remained behind.

Unfortunately as magnificent as the Royal Chamber was, the high lord simply wasn’t. He wanted to be, he wore the robes and sat on the throne, and he made the noises, but in the end he was a stripling pretending to be a ruler. At least in Iros’ opinion. He was petty and arrogant, terrible failings in someone who held the lives of his people in his hands. But worse than that, he was filled with disdain, considering anyone not of pure elven blood as lesser creatures.

It was a view that was widespread among those of the seven great houses, the high born as they were known, and the elves that controlled much of the realm. But Finell was the worst example of them all. And he had the throne. An unfortunate happenstance. Before his unfortunate death, Finell’s father Gerwyn had been an excellent high lord, at least according to his predecessors. Fair minded and filled with a sense of duty. But Finell was not his father.