Page 41 of The Truth

Behind Alvira, Chora Sarn smiled at Aeson, gently pressing her fist to her chest. The woman was a strict mentor, but she was fair and never had a day passed on which she had let him down.

In an instant, everything was moving. Alvira led the group through the corridors, out across the bridge, and into the great council chamber.

Aeson dropped to a knee the moment he crossed the threshold, the statues of the gods looking down upon him, the golden dome above glistening in the candlelight.

Willam and Chora carried on walking towards the centre of the atrium, but Alvira stopped. She looked over Aeson for a moment, then knelt beside him, her hand pressed to her chest.

The Archon gave him the slightest of nods, then bowed her head.

Every hair on Aeson’s body stood on end, and he felt a weight settle into his throat as he spoke. “Varyn, watch over me, for I do not know where I walk. Heraya embrace me, for I do not know where I will stop. Elyara guide me, for I do not know the path. Achyron protect me, for I do not know the shadows. Neron still my heart, for I do not know my own depths. Hafaesir stay my hand, for I do not my strength. Enkara, do this, for I am yours.”

When Aeson was finished, Alvira whispered, “Well spoken, Draleid. In an ever-changing world, it can be easy to forget the gods.”

Alvira gave Aeson a fleeting smile, then rose, gesturing for him to follow her into the centre.

Aeson wanted to ask what was happening, but he held his tongue. The mere fact that the Archon had bid him join her was an honour he did not deserve.

It was Eltoar Daethana who arrived first, spied by Lyara, watching from the skies, as the Shadow of Death spread his wings wide over the bridge, and the First Sword dropped to the stone.

Just as Aeson had done, Eltoar lowered himself to one knee upon entering the chamber, whispering blessings before joining the others at the centre of the atrium.

He cast a curious glance at Aeson, then inclined his head.

The two had met on many occasions. Eltoar frequented the training yards and often aided Chora and the others in education in matters of the Spark. In fact, he and Aeson had sparred on a number of occasions, though he had not been too pleased with several of the outcomes. There were few whom Aeson respected more.

“What news?” Eltoar asked, looking to Alvira. He narrowed his gaze slightly at Willam. “Reports from the east? Aerilon?”

Alvira nodded, grasping Eltoar’s forearm in greeting. “They move.”

“Upon who? Yarrin? The Indalusians?”

“Orinhale.”

Even Aeson turned his head at that. Orinhale was hundreds of miles from Aerilon. He’d not heard even a whisper of animosity between the two kingdoms.

Eltoar looked at Alvira as though she were attempting to trick him. “That makes no sense, Alvira.”

“I’d rather not explain twice. Once the council arrive, you’ll know what I know.”

“Ahhh…” Eltoar pursed his lips. He said no more, but Aeson could feel the mood shift around him. The conflict between the First Sword and the council of The Order was an open secret. More so, Eltoar Daethana’s opposition to the council’s decisions was not a position he held alone. Aeson had overheard many such conversations amongst more than just the Draleid. Mages, guards, soldiers, whenever cups were emptied it was always the first point of argument.

Alvira didn’t say a word in return, but the look they exchanged cast the chamber in silence.

Quite a while passed before the sound of footfalls drifted in through the doors, and all eight council members strode in together, an escort of Highguard and Battlemages at their side.

What struck Aeson more than anything else was that each of the council was garbed as though they were to take an audience with a king. The sun had set some hours before, and he would have expected at least some of the council to be garbed in bedrobes. Either they had slept in their fine clothes, or they had not come when called and instead taken the time to don their finest silks and jewellery.

“What is the meaning of this?” one of the councillors said as they reached the centre of the atrium. He was an elf, Councillor Thoren Kalas, Aeson believed. His hair was black as night and hung at his elbows, his shoulders narrow, eyes a shimmering gold that matched the trim of his silken robes. As the elf moved, he seemed to clink, and a closer look revealed to Aeson that the ringlets of solid gold were actually woven into the robes. “What travesty has occurred that could not wait until morning?”

“Those robes, I believe.” Eltoar’s hushed voice was loud enough that it could never have been intended as a whisper.

“Witty as always, Daethana.” The elf’s lips drew into a thin line, and he rolled his eyes.

“Could you not find any more gold, Councillor Thoren? I could fetch some if you like?”

“Enough of this.” The man who stepped forwards was one Aeson knew well – Councillor Matharius, the single longest serving councillor in over a century. Many passed in and out – such as Thoren Kalas, who had only been re-elected that same year – but Councillor Matharius had held his seat on the council for decades running. The man had seen his sixtieth summer, and he could not hold the Spark to keep the passing time at bay. His dark skin was wrinkled and his hair grey as stone. He was one of the few who wore clothes that didn’t look more expensive than a war horse.

The other councillors gathered round as Matharius stepped forwards. “What matter is of such urgency, Archon, that we are to be woken in the middle of the night? Have the Karvosi returned?”