pride, my refusal to ask the
Tetriarch for help has brought us to
this. We need the radiance of our
sigil tower to blaze forth once
again and kill this dark contagion.
For that, I need a magistra. Tessa
was an incomplete substitute for
my wife. A tender, willing heart
cannot replace the genetics and the
schooling that make a magistra a
true conduit for power. I have
wasted precious time that might
have brought an end to this
nightmare.”
“My lord, the corruption beset us
on multiple fronts. You made the
best decision at the time. You
couldn’t have known the blight
would spread with such speed and
devastation.”
Bernard’s words didn’t lift his
sense of guilt. “Tell the people I
have gone to the new capital,
Sylvan Mintoth. I will return with
a magistra, a healer and more briteweed. I will beg for charity on my
knees if I must.”
~~~
After a long week of arduous,
perilous travel, Hel reached his
destination. In a surge of force, he
stiff-armed the immense double
doors to Queen Fleur Constante’s
audience hall. Boom! The thick,
metal-strapped doors flew open
and rebounded against the walls of
chiseled stone. The resonating
crash silenced the hum of voices
and pulled all eyes to him. The
only noise came from the papers
fluttering down from overbalanced
stacks on a trestle table. The table
flanked a throne-like upholstered
chair on an elevated dais at the end
of the hall. A group of half a dozen
or so men and women clustered in
conversation with a diminutive
woman seated in the chair. Their
conversation ceased and their
heads raised as if a herd of chital at
a waterhole alerting to a predator.
Assorted palace guards hastened to
encircle the queen in a ring of
bristling weaponry.
His keen senses absorbed the large
chamber of polished stone floors
and rugged walls before he took a
second step into the audience
chamber. Heavy beams of entire
trees supported and braced a roof
rising at least thirty feet. Clerestory
windows ranging the length of
each long wall flooded the
audience hall with natural light. As
befitted the first noble house of
Verdantia, the crimson DeHelios
banner, his banner, with its
rampant white stallion surrounded
by the rays of a sun, hung beside
the purple and gold crowns of the
currently ruling House Constante.
Below them hung the banners of
the thirty lesser noble Houses of
Verdantia.
Hel snorted. “I have not forgotten
all civilized behavior. I come
unarmed.”
He shed his heavy coat and hat of
icebear pelt as his aggressive,
confident strides took him down
the center of the great hall. The
mass of previous supplicants fell
a way in silent recognition of a
superior force to allow him
unfettered passage. “I am Prince
DeHelios of the standard that
hangs by privilege of rank beside
your own. House Constante will
provide me a skilled healer, a
magistra level five or higher, and
ten pecks of brite-weed. Time is of
the essence. My people are dying.”
In the unnatural silence, his
resounding baritone carried his
demands to the furthest parts of the
audience hall.
Immediately, three men—and a
woman dressed in battle leathers—
stepped in front of the upholstered
chair and screened the queen’s
person from him, a living
barricade. Their hands rested on
the pommels of their swords.
A man dressed with austere
elegance in close-fitting black
leather stepped forward. “I am
High Lord Ari DeTano, Primo
Signore of the Second Tetriarch,
and Consort to Queen Constante.
You may address your concerns to
me.” His bearing and commanding
voice conveyed the expectation of
obedience.
Hel casually examined the High
Lord of Verdantia. So, this man led
the forces that defeated the Haarb.
“I heard the Constante queen had
taken two lovers. My words are for
our monarch, not the men who
warm her bed.”
DeTano stiffened and his cool gaze
became arctic.
A tall, blond man of ethereal
beauty moved to stand beside the
High Lord. “I am Visconte Doral
DeLorion and Segundo Signore of
the Second Tetriarch—the other
lover. Who in the seven hells are
you.”
The blond’s quiet voice held
menace. If Hel wasn’t mistaken,
the man had palmed a throwing
knife into his right hand, poised for
a lethal strike. Hel suspected either
man would prove formidable in
combat, but something about the
slender blond suggested the killing
edge of a well-honed razor. He
must be DeTano’s assassin.
A third male crossed his arms over
his chest and with a low rumble of
laughter, relaxed his stance.