ELIAS OF ANTHOR rode into Veldoras under a mantle of low cloud, and in an even blacker mood. Heavy rain stippled the pools of water either side of the high causeway leading into The City of Tides. Elias led his men across the glittering marshland astride Bolt, his heavy destrier. He could feel the sluggishness in the stallion’s stride. Like his rider, the warhorse was weary.
However, it wasn’t just exhaustion that dragged at Elias as he neared the solid granite wall ringing Veldoras but a growing sense of dread.
Elias’s gaze shifted from the wall to the jumble of peaked roofs rising up over the edge, with the silhouette of The Swallow Keep perched high upon a rocky outcrop in the center.
His father waited there, and he would be expecting good news.
Elias clenched his jaw and urged Bolt into a canter. To the west, he could see the Gulf of Veldoras—resembling a sheet of beaten iron in this stormy weather—while the city itself rose up from reclaimed swampland to the east. The air smelled of decay, as marshes often did. It was an overcooked cabbage smell.
They clattered into the city, thundering through the gates past sentries in black and red Anthor livery. A wide square lined by high stone buildings loomed beyond. They took the Spiral Way to the heart of the city. True to its name, the wide street wound its way like an unfurling fern toward the towering keep in its center, crossing a series of stone bridges along the way. It was busy this afternoon; wagons, carts, and foot traffic thronged the thoroughfare. Black and red uniforms were everywhere.
Noise assaulted him from every direction, jarring after the silence of the swampland. The cry of vendors selling fried sprats and spiced breads, the clatter of heavy wheels over cobbles, the chatter of conversation, and the squall of a baby’s wail all vied for dominance.
Yet for all the busyness, Elias felt an undercurrent of tension in the air—Veldoras was an occupied city after all. Many of the faces he observed were strained and dull-eyed. A young woman with tangled brown hair watched him and his men pass, her face twisted in hate.
Reoul of Anthor had conquered this city, but he had not broken it.
As Bolt clip-clopped across one of the bridges, Elias glanced over the edge of the balustrade. The tide was in, and he inhaled the tang of seawater. It reminded him of home. Mirrar Rock perched on the edge of the glittering Sapphire Sea; he hadn’t smelled brine and seaweed for many months now.
Eventually, they rode over the East Bridge into The Swallow Keep. Soldiers filled the inner-bailey, their gazes curious as they watched the Captain of Anthor ride in. Elias ignored them, heading straight to the stables.
Swinging down from the saddle, Elias threw the reins to Santino—his second in command. “See to Bolt.”
The soldier nodded; he was a lean man with a neatly-trimmed, black beard and keen eyes. “Are you going to see the king?”
“Aye, I’d rather get this over with.”
Santino said nothing more—he didn’t need to. They both knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant.
Elias left the stables and entered The Swallow Keep. Inside, he climbed the steep central stairwell, a lofty, elegant space with many windows to let in the daylight, grey as it was today. It was still raining outside, and Elias left a trail of water behind him as he climbed the stairs. He hadn’t had time to change either; he was still wearing travel-stained leathers that stank of horse and stale sweat, a sodden woolen travel cloak, and mud-caked boots.
He climbed to the fifth level, where his father’s apartments were housed, and made his way to his father’s solar.
Before the entrance, he paused, hesitating as he raised his hand to knock on the heavy door.
Funny really—here he was, thirty-four years old and nervous about facing his old man.
Shoving aside the thought, Elias knocked.
“Enter.”
Of course, his father would already have received word of his arrival.
Elias pushed open the door, entering what had once been King Aron of Thûn’s solar. These days, it was Reoul of Anthor’s domain. The space suited him: sparsely but tastefully furnished with a vast rug covering the stone floor and a great hearth burning at one end.
His father was there, sprawled upon a chaise longue by the window. A few feet away was a large rectangular table, where a great map of The Four Kingdoms of Serran lay spread out with a number of markers upon it.
At fifty-five winters, his long dark hair threaded with silver, his hawkish features vulpine, the King of Anthor dominated any space he occupied. Upon seeing his son enter, Reoul rose to his feet with boneless grace.
“Elias.” Reoul of Anthor strode forward and embraced him. However, he quickly drew back from his son, his mouth compressed. “You reek.”
Elias snorted. “So would you if you’d been on the road for days.
His father shrugged. “So … what word from the north?”
Elias didn’t answer. Yet the heaviness that had settled in his gut upon riding into Veldoras grew. “I found Princess Ninia, father.”
“You did … and is she dead?”
“No.”
The king’s dark gaze sharpened. “I’m listening.”
Elias inhaled deeply once more and then began his tale. He told it simply, not shying away from any detail. And during it all, his father’s expression did not change—except for when Elias described the Dim Hold, and what had taken place there. When Reoul discovered that Princess Ninia of Thûn could wield the Light and Dark, his mouth compressed, and his features tightened.
At the end of the story, a silence fell between them.
“So the girl spared your life?” Reoul said finally, moving over to the window and looking out at the grey skyline of towers and peaked roofs. “That was merciful of her.”
Elias didn’t reply. He knew his father didn’t expect an answer.
Reoul turned from the window. “This is disappointing news.”
Elias swallowed before nodding. His father’s displeasure was nothing compared to Elias’s rage at his own incompetence. He’d ridden back from the forest edge consumed by it.
His father moved from the window and crossed to the table, where he gazed down at the map. Silence stretched out between them before Reoul glanced up and favored his son with a wintry smile. “Since Rithmar now know we plan to attack later in the spring, we have lost the element of surprise. Nathan will be ready for us.”
“He doesn’t know about your army though,” Elias replied. “About the weapon you will use against them.”
His father’s mouth thinned. “Aye—you didn’t reveal all our secrets.”
Elias resisted the urge to drop his gaze.
Reoul picked up a marker and placed it at the center of the map—the heart of the Kingdom of Rithmar. “I have a task for you.” Reoul paused here, his face expressionless. “You will ride to The Royal City of Rithmar and negotiate peace between our kingdoms.”
Elias stared at his father. For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. Had the old man gone mad? “Father,” he began cautiously. “Why would you want that?”
Reoul favored him with a wolf’s smile. “Because it’s a ruse, boy. At the first opportunity I want you to kill King Nathan.”
Elias blinked, stunned. “His guards would cut me down in an instant.”
His father merely smiled back. “Just make sure you kill Nathan first.”
The End
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