Page 36 of The Truth

“Then does it not seem strange that I would then spread these words throughout The Order?”

Eltoar folded his arms and pressed his right fist to his chin, staring into the flames of the hearth fire, his eyes glowing incandescently.

“What do you feel, Eltoar? Is Alvira fit to lead the Draleid?”

The elf snapped his attention from the flames to Fane, the look on his face as though Fane had simultaneously stabbed him in the heart and caught him naked in the streets.

“Of course she is.” The elf’s tone was short and sharp, his eyes narrowed to points. “She is Alvira Serris. I have fought at her side for a century, and I have watched her grow into the best of us. There is not a thing she does in this world that is not for the better of the Draleid and the people of Epheria as a whole.”

Fane nodded, sipping his whiskey. Another question added to the fire. “I never doubted as such,” Fane said, raising an open palm. “I simply ask a question to know your heart.”

“And you have my answer.”

“Indeed, and long may Alvira carry the flame.” Fane lifted his glass in the air before downing its contents and rising to pour himself another, gesturing for Eltoar to drink his.

“May I say, though,” Fane unstopped the bottle and poured, “it’s a shame that Epheria never got the chance to see Eltoar Daethana don that mantle. Archon of the Draleid. From the stories I’ve heard, there isn’t a Draleid in all Epheria that wouldn’t follow you to the pits of the void.”

Fane returned himself to his seat, the warmth of the fire caressing his skin. He sipped at his whiskey and watched Eltoar stare into the flames.

“Some things are not meant to be,” Eltoar replied after a few moments.

“Mmmh. Perhaps your time will come.”

Eltoar lifted his gaze with sharp precision, the movement of a predator, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I mean nothing by it,” Fane said, careful not to push the elf too far. “I simply mean that there are many years left in your legend, and a new vote will take place in only eight years. Perhaps Alvira will tire from holding the weight of the world on her shoulders. Who are we to begrudge her?”

“The council would never allow it,” Eltoar said, finally holding the glass of whiskey and pressing the rim to his lips.

“Allow it? What say does the council have in the affairs of the Draleid?”

“More than you would ever think.”

“And they would keep you from the mantle of Archon?”

Eltoar laughed, sipping at the whiskey and nodding.

“Why? That seems like insanity.”

“Vastillion,” Eltoar said with a shake of his head. “Ever since that day…”

“The battle of Vastillion? Where the Antiloch army laid siege? From what I’ve heard, they have no right to any ill will from that battle.”

Eltoar furrowed his brow. “You were not even alive when that battle took place.”

“No,” Fane said. “I most certainly was not. But I have studied every text in Ilnaen’s library. Well, almost every text,” he admitted. “And I have also heard many a whisper.”

“I thought you disavowed whispers?”

“I do, unless I have thoroughly investigated their legitimacy.” Fane sat forward, holding his glass with his fingers spread out over the opening. “Vastillion is not only the largest silk-producing city on the entire continent, but only two years prior to the siege of Vastillion by Antiloch, the largest gold deposit in all Epheria was discovered some three miles west of the city.”

“That is well known.”

“It is,” Fane said, holding a finger up in the air for Eltoar to wait. “But what is not well known, is that in the same year, the queen of Vastillion refused a request to pay a portion of the mine’s gold to The Order for the requisitioning of new armour and weapons for the Highguard, stating that they already paid more than enough.”

“More talk of whispers,” Eltoar said, dismissing Fane with a wave of his hand and sitting back into the couch.

“I’ve seen the letters myself and can retrieve them for you before your glass is even empty. Some even contain not so thinly veiled threats from Loik Hass himself.” Fane leaned back and raised an open hand. “But all that is of little import, of course, given Antiloch’s attack on the city. Unless, of course, the attack itself had been orchestrated…”