Days Of Light And Shadow (50 page)

Chapter Seventy Seven.

It was supposed to be a meeting. It was actually a shouting match. A verbal and sometimes physical brawl that had already gone on for hours. And it was an embarrassment. To the high born, to Leafshade, to Elaris. Maybe that was what it had always been destined to be.

Forget the education and manners, the ethics and morals, the calm reflection, the heart of what an elf was supposed to be; from the moment the first few guests had arrived, the barbarians had showed their faces. They simply walked in to the Traveller’s Rest, picked up an ale or a mead, walked upstairs to the meeting room, and started screaming. It had not stopped since.

“Your mother lay with a goat!” It was a mistake to say it. Argan knew it even before he yelled the insult at Pria. So did everyone else. And House Durlan prided itself on its civility. But still he yelled it. The man was simply such an ass and he was tired of being belittled by the brute. Besides he had been lucky enough to only be whipped a few times in the prison, something Argan was sure was because he had made a deal with the inquisitors. Pria denied it, but Argan had no doubt, and the anger burst from his lips. It wasn’t the first time.

“This from a family of upstart darria!” Naturally Pria was upset. He was always upset, something that hadn’t changed since being freed from the prison by the elder. If anything it had become worse and the gossip around the city was that he was touched. That he screamed at anyone for any reason. Argan was eternally grateful to the Mother that he had not been born to become one of House Lendar’s servants.

“Pig farmer!” Again it was a mistake to keep going but Argan couldn’t help himself as he yelled it at him. Not when he’d just called House Durlan a family of outcasts. It was a deadly insult, and once duels would have been fought over it.

Pria was quick to respond to his retort, by clenching his fists in anger and advancing on him. Argan was certain he was but a short step away from physically attacking him. And a part of him was hoping he would. He ached to smash his fist into Pria’s face. To see his blood drip.

“Friends!” Celia of House Tregorn immediately stepped in to stop things from sliding any further. But she was in a poor position to do so. She might be a somewhat matronly figure and well liked by all, but her house was in serious decline. Without the support of House Vora, a house that now effectively didn’t exist, she had little standing among the seven. And when they were holding their meeting in the hall above the Travellers Rest, and the wine and mead were flowing freely, people weren’t afraid to show their lack of respect.

Pria immediately snapped at her, Frit of Lendar told her to be quiet in the most unflattering of terms, and Baris of Tenarri called her an annoying old woman. Naturally Celia’s husband Demar stepped in, he couldn’t have his wife so insulted, or his House, and after that the screaming started once more. It had already been a very long morning, and as Argan buried his head in his hands he knew it was going to be an even longer afternoon.

The maids surely knew the same as they scurried about, carrying away empty glasses and replacing them with full ones. And the patrons down stairs were probably of a similar mind as they listened to the shouting. It was unseemly. Unelven. And absolutely not what those of the great houses should be doing. Least of all in public.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to hold the meeting in the hall. They should have used somewhere more private. Somewhere that the wine did not flow. But none of them were willing to meet in the homes or businesses of the others. It might be taken as a sign of a house’s right to rule, however minor. None of the six surviving houses were going to allow another house to claim that sign.

They’d needed somewhere neutral to meet, and what could be more neutral than a public hall owned by a minor house above an inn that catered for outsiders?

The frightening thing was that somewhere here among the maybe one hundred guests stood the next high lord. Argan knew that. They all knew that. Even the guests downstairs knew that. It was why the meeting had been called. To start the dealing to find him. And whoever was finally chosen would be seen as both a coup for his house, and a slap in the face for the other five. Why else would the acrimony and name calling be so terrible?

The only house not represented was Vora. Argan wasn’t sure if any of them had even been invited. Or if they could be. Their situation was unheard of and many were claiming the whole thing was a mistake. That House Vora still existed. It was hard to accept the alternative. But if they had been invited any remaining representatives of House Vora would have likely declined. Finell had shamed them too terribly, even before Tenir had made his terrible decision.

What few of the family remained in Elaris were mostly the once high lord’s most distant cousins, and they were keeping their blue hair hidden. All they had left to them, those that chose not to enter the Grove, was their name. A name with no house behind it, whatever anyone said. And some skills in trade. For that some few of them would eventually find themselves in respectful employment within other families. The rest would have to eek out a living as the lowest of the low. As less than beggars. Until they could form a new house.

From there perhaps, they could start rebuilding. A new House Vora. If they were lucky, and worked hard to restore their status, they might become one of the great houses again within another few centuries. They might even present a candidate for the Heartwood Throne within five. Maybe.

It was far more than just gold that they had lost. What Tenir had done with a single signature was to wipe out centuries and centuries of achievement. To throw away tradition and legacy. To cast aside all their positions within Elaris. To make the name of Vora worthless. And he had done it all for a son. Argan shuddered at the thought.

No one should do that. No First of any of the great houses should even consider it. It had never happened before. Not in all of the recorded history of the realm. And now every high born in all of Elaris was thinking the same thing. If one First could do such a thing, could another? Could theirs? Could he perhaps breathe too deeply of the moon mist and in a moment of madness destroy them all?

What Tenir had done cut to the very heart of what it was to be an elf. To be of a family, of a house, that was everything. Even for the low born and those of mixed blood. If they were elves they were of a family and a family was of a house. And for that seeming betrayal, were Tenir still in Leafshade, he would be a very unwelcome citizen. He was lucky to be gone. And yet in his madness he had saved them all. He might have been trying to save his son, but the very fact that all of them could be standing here in this hall, arguing over who the next high lord should be, was due to that madness. Maybe they should be grateful to him as well. Even if his house was no longer a part of them.

Argan couldn’t help but feel that they might actually be lucky in that. The Mother surely knew that he didn’t want to be in this room. Even if by some miracle his cousin Sera was somehow agreed upon to become the next high lady and House Durlan was elevated, it simply wouldn’t be worth the pain. Or the shame. So many high born in one room, the elite of Elaris, and not a one of them showing the slightest nobility. Not a touch of grace among them.

Finell’s rule had been terrible. It had been a shame upon all of them. A crime against Elaris. An offence against the Mother. But if the houses were without honour, without grace, what could they have expected? Maybe the people had got the ruler they had deserved.

The sound of pottery and glass shattering and yelps of a woman brought Argan out of his bitter musings, and he looked around to see one of the serving maids on the floor, her tray of goblets scattered everywhere. Others were upset, high born all around the fallen woman reacting to having their drinks flung all over them. Some were standing there in shock, some were trying to brush themselves off, and some were looking to start shouting.

Then someone threw a punch and the meeting was instantly ended.

People started screaming and shouting, goblets and anything else people had to hand were flung, men started grabbing each other and making more threats, before more fists started flying. After that he had no idea at all was happening. Furniture was smashed, people were running in all directions and screaming wildly, others were being thrown around the hall. He saw the sudden flash of steel among the brawlers, and then blood. There was blood on people’s faces, blood on the floor, and blood on the bodies of the fallen.

People were being hurt! It took him a moment to realise that. It was something that just shouldn’t happen. Just as was the sight of high born elves in all their finery, brawling like tavern drunks, like dwarves, in a public hall.

“Stop!” He screamed it as loudly as he could, several times, but his cries were no match for the screaming. No one stopped. No one listened. And probably no one even heard.

Then someone hit him. He had no idea who or why. All he saw was a dark shape streaking for him from one side, before something that felt like a rampaging fell ox smashed him into the bar. After that he didn’t really know very much at all except for terrible pain. Something in his chest had broken and he could barely breathe. He just fell to the floor, covered his head with his arms as best he could, and prayed to the Mother that this would all end soon. But it didn’t seem to be winding down.

Instead as he lay there hurting, his blurry eyes showed him other forms in the distance also falling to the floor, while people’s feet danced all around as they fought. Some of them had a lot of blood on them. And some of them were being trampled in the frenzy of violence going on all around them.

At least for him the fighting was over. He knew that as a strange calm began slowly descending on him. The same calm that had filled him in the prison after each beating.

His last thought before he let it envelope him completely, was that somewhere among these crazed savages who imagined they were elves, was the next high lord.

Maybe Finell hadn’t been so terrible after all.

Chapter Seventy Eight.

The Iron Cock was never a place a decent elf should be. It wasn’t a place for decency. It was a place for disease and depravity. The utra gods Sandara and Corpus dwelt within its wooden walls.

It stank of stale ale, rancid cider, vomit, unwashed bodies and rotten food. But then the wooden shutters that served as windows had probably never been opened judging from the grime covering them. Nor had it ever been cleaned. There were dark stains on the floor that Finell couldn’t identify. Blood or piss or something worse. The furniture was filthy, and when he’d sat down on the bench he’d felt his clothes almost stick to the seat. When his hands touched the table to pick up the food, the wood underneath his fingers was greasy to the touch, and he had to try not to recoil. It would have looked out of place when all of the other patrons seemed to think nothing of it.

As for the patrons, they were as bad as the inn. Mostly human, but also many with troll and dwarven blood, they were rough and dirty. Most were armed, and he suspected most were brigands of one sort or another. Hiding from the rule of law. Using the town as a base from which to strike out. Using the inn as a place to drink deeply and boast of all their terrible deeds. Robberies, murders, rapes, it seemed that all were considered virtues in this place. And many didn’t just boast of them, they carried mementoes of the grizzly acts. Trophies.

Finell did not want to be there. But he had to be there. This was where his enemy was to be found. Anders. Finally he had found a name for the scar faced man, and with it, a place.

Everyone had told him that Black Man’s Hole was his base. So he had to be there. Day after day. Watching and waiting for him to show. But it had been a long wait. Six days spent moving between the two inns. Spending his little coin on meals he didn’t want to eat. Finding dark spots in them where he could sit and watch without being noticed. Listening to the endless evil of these savages. Waiting for the man he knew would come sooner or later.

But when he saw the big man walk in the front door flanked by his comrades in arms, it still came as a shock. Finell’s heart almost stopped beating as he knew his long wait was over. He dropped the leg of chicken - at least that was what the innkeeper claimed it was - to the wooden plate, and suddenly found it next to impossible to breath. The sight of the man who’d so brutally murdered Elwene almost left him paralysed.

It was him. He knew it was him. The descriptions of the witnesses had all been so specific that it could be no other. A big man who moved like a cat. Dressed in a cloak of blackest night that covered him from head to foot. And with a face scarred on one side by the webs of a hunting spider. A brigand with his own patrol of cut throats. It was him.

And it had been so easy to find him.

Finell didn’t understand that. Even before Anders had arrived he hadn’t guessed how easy it would be to find him. But in only a matter of weeks he’d tracked down the man who’d violated and murdered his sister, when all the soldiers and bounty hunters he’d sent out had found nothing. But of course they had asked the wrong people, and asked the wrong questions. No one would tell them anything. Not when they carried the might of his throne behind them.

But a small boy looking for his father, that was something completely different. Dressed up in his travelling cloak as he was, his face smudged with dirt, his crudely cut hair washed in river silt and peat washings to darken it and hide the blue, and wearing a hood to cover his ears, he could pass easily for a small human child. Much the same as all the other curs he passed in the streets as they played their stupid games. And there wasn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t tell him everything he needed to know when he gave them his tragic tale of a dead mother and a missing father run off with bandits, who needed to come home.

Many of them wept as they told him what they knew of Anders and his men. And they begged him not to look for him as he was a true monster among men. Many of the men told him the same. That seeking out the brigands was a plague ridden journey to death. But they still told him what he needed to know. It was just so easy.

A few weeks, a lot of false tears shed and lies spread, and suddenly he was in the Iron Cock in a stupid little border town known only as Black Man’s Hole, staring at the man who had murdered his sister.

But what to do? Finell wanted so desperately as he sat at his table, to simply walk up to him and drive his dagger straight into his evil heart. But he couldn’t. The man was fast. Basilisk fast so they said, and strong with it. And he was also suspicious, and under his cloak, always armoured. The chances were slim, even with a poisoned blade, that he would succeed. And even if Finell succeeded he would certainly be caught and killed by  Anders’ men. Besides it wasn’t just Anders who had to die. It was all of them, and all of those who had given them their orders as well.

Sometimes   a man had to use his wits instead. Not like these foul human utra. He needed to find a way to kill the big man by stealth and cunning. Something he would not expect. Something that he would not even know had killed him until after it was all over. And as Finell sat at his table in the corner of the dark inn staring, hidden by the gloom, his hand instinctively found the half dozen vials of witchbane he had secreted under his cloak.

Witchbane. The perfect weapon.