Page 7 of The Ivory King (Crowns of Melowynn #2)

THE RAINS CAME AND WENT THROUGHOUT THE MORNING as great winds riled the Silvura Sea into a monster that tried its best to scale the steep, pale cliffs under Castle Avolire. Ebony banners of mourning flew from the highest towers, falling in wet lengths down the sides of the slick stone walls. Servants and guards wore black armbands. Even the beasts that called the bailey home seemed to sense the sadness aside from the geese flocks who enjoyed the soaking weather. I stood beside Atriel, my thoughts dour, as a light mist coated my traveling clothes, the smell of wet leather armor and damp horse lending to the grayness of the mood. To my left waited V’alor with his red roan gelding, Sirdal, and beside him, as always, Pasil double-checking provisions in the saddle bags upon his gold mare Gwedel. Tezen Plumwax, who had been cleared of any wrongdoings, had shed her ballgown to don her Stillcloud armor. She sat between Atriel’s ears. My horse was used to the presence of the tiny warrior, for Tezen had ridden thusly during Kenton’s heroic journey to save his people and the Verboten when I was a mere child.

I was no small lad now. I was a man grown and my heart ached like an infected wound, for I could see no way out of this unwanted situation. I had no wish to wed Raewyn or become the ruler of Melowynn. What did I know about ruling a nation? Nothing. I had been trained to oversee a vills, not a kingdom. Argue as I may have with Umeris before morning prayers, there was no changing his mind. Sadly, as much as I loathed the idea, I could see that his plan for me to wear the crown was sound. The kingdom would prosper under my steady hand, and the offspring that Raewyn and I would produce would be pure nobility.

I ran a hand over Atriel’s dappled flank.

A marriage. A wife. A child. I wished for none of those things, not now. All I had longed for was V’alor at my side. To announce him as my consort. And now that was dashed upon the slick rocks that the ocean thundered against for V’alor had already withdrawn back into that honorable shell he’d worn for so long.

“Whenever you are ready, my lord, we have a long ride to the citadel of Celinthe,” V’alor said as I breathed in the salty air of loss. It clung to everything like moss on shaded trees. I lifted my head to look at him. A flash of emotion appeared in his gaze, then was quickly buried. “Your grandfather wishes us to leave with all haste.”

“Yes, I know, but…” I turned to look up at him. The inner bailey was busy but cloaked in sadness. Puddles and piles of wet horse shit covered the ground. “V’alor, you know that this is not what I want. I do not love—”

His jaw twitched. “What we want and what duty dictates we must do are sometimes vastly different. You should cover your head with your hood, my lord, as we will be skirting the Glotte Woodlands as we follow the Vilhall River north to Tolso. Bandits are thick as fleas on a hound’s back in the Glotte and your hair will signal you are nobility.”

“Perhaps I should shore it off like one does a sheep so that I look the part of a common man. Mayhap if I wear my hair short, I may escape the virago that my life has suddenly become and I can live the life that I wish to live with the man who I love!”

He drew in a long breath. “Cutting your hair will do nothing to change your blood or the path that Ihdos, in all his wisdom, has set your feet upon. Now, my lord, we should sit on our saddles. We have a long trip before us.”

I nodded, then slung myself onto Atriel’s saddle. Tezen studied me with black eyes as water droplets ran down her small helm to drip onto the beeswax-coated cloak she wore pulled around her shoulders.

I watched V’alor mount. My chest felt tight as he gave me a cursory glance as if I were nothing more than a parcel to protect. Which, upon reflection, he did view me as that. A valuable parcel, yes, but a bundle just the same. Pasil straddled his mare and then took the lead. I was next, with V’alor at the rear to guard my back. We left the castle with our heads down, the skies weeping on us once more, and began the journey to fetch my bride. Never had a trip been so heatedly hated as this one was, but we rode on. As duty dictated.

That night we found rest at a small inne at the edge of a tiny village called Bickel’s Burrow. The Glotte woods sat on the other side of the mighty Vilhall River that roared out of the ground at the base of the Witherhorn in Tolso and flowed into Mother Moth. There the waterway crashed over the falls into the dark Eatosan Lake. Rain now fell in stinging walls of water again, the sea storm circling around and around above us, dousing Melowynn with so much water the roads were already badly rutted. The Vilhall was angry, climbing up to tease its banks, the water churning and muddy.

A large bridge, arched like a cat’s back, stretched over the river. The innkeeper, a round dwarf named Berta, informed us that crossing any of the bridges that spanned the Vilhall would surely see us robbed, beaten, and left for dead but with the recent storm that was still dropping rain in sheets again, most of the smaller roads would be impassable so that we may need to cross here and let chance take us in her hands.

Since we had no wish to end up dead, surely we had seen enough death to last us all for a season or two, we also needed to travel. Waiting for washed roads and flooded streams to dry was not an option. We would have to cross here and take our chances. V’alor was not happy with the thought.

“If you must travel near the Glotte, I suggest you hire a guide to steer you clear of the tribulations that lay in wait near the woodlands. I can send my boy after Beiro, who’s one of the best guides for miles. His feckless father used to run with the bandits, still does if what Beiro tells over his cups is truth, so he knows each camp and trap like the back of his hand.”

“Is this Beiro a drunkard?” V’alor asked as I dunked hearty bread into a bowl of rather good stew. I ate only because I must. There was little enjoyment from the hearty fare.

“Oh no, he just likes to drink now and again,” Berta replied as she leaned her ample bosom to the bar where we sat. “Can’t blame a person for wanting to drown their sorrows in some ale or between spread legs.”

“I think much the same,” Tezen announced as she emptied her thimble-sized travel stein. V’alor gave her a look. Pasil sat on his stool, eating heartily, his attention not on the conversation but on the front door.

“So where is this Beiro to be found?” V’alor asked.

Berta sighed when V’alor’s eyes did not drop to the meaty breasts about to fall out of her blouse. She tucked a wild strand of black hair behind a rather large ear.

“He sleeps at his uncle’s farm in the stables. Last farm on the left as you head west. Shabby place, filled with rutting sows that got no pens. The whole of the Vahorn family are wastrels aside from Beiro. If you go out, just pass the homestead and rattle the stable doors. Thin redheaded elf with more freckles than a spotted duck is who you’re looking for. He’s hard to miss with that fire hair of his. Tell him Berta sent you. That might ensure he don’t bury an arrow in your eye.”

She winked, then ambled off to fill a few tankards of ale for the locals.

“We shall seek out this Beiro in the morn then. Perhaps the storm will have moved off to the western coast as they tend to do, and we shall be able to forgo adding a stranger to our company,” V’alor stated. We all agreed to his plan. He was the guardian of the heir of the vills of Renedith, after all. Ihdos, how I wished we could keep our current titles…

Sitting by the fire, hood up, I listened to the villagers griping about the rich and how the king cared little about those he taxed so heavily. Obviously, word of Mirolar’s death had not spread to the outlying villages and small towns, and so they were free with their criticism. I listened closely, for if this trip was successful, those concerns would fall on my shoulders. Not just the worries of a few thousand who lived in Renedith, but hundreds of thousands.

The mere thought of it made me queasy. I pushed away what remained of a bowl of rabbit stew and went to my room. Alone. Pasil, V’alor, and Tezen had a room next to mine and swapped shifts outside my door. I lay in a strange bed listening to the winds howl and the rains batter the stout window and allowed myself that night to weep. For all the losses that had befallen me. It was greedy and shallow and unbecoming a Stillcloud, but my heart was heavy. The tears rolled silently down my cheeks to the pillow under my head. No one heard, only Ihdos, and he seemed set on his plans despite my prayers this morning for him to reconsider. Gods rarely took the whims of their followers under advisement. They were much like Umeris in that way. Yet we still prayed. Odd how divinity held us in its grip by simple promises of a possible reply to our whispered petitions.

I feared my faith was going to be sorely tested over the next few weeks.

Morning came, soggily, with winds that tore at hats and hoods and rains that grew fierce, then eased only to grow fierce again. Our horses were already sickened of the mud and rain. Atriel was in a mood as she did not care to be wet, and I had to keep a firm hand on the reins lest she try to nip at Sirdal or Gwedel, or those who rode them.

We rode west, following the lone muddy road from the center of Bickel’s Burrow. The fields of golden wheat and standing corn had not fared well in the gales. Much of it lay flat on the ground, lying in puddles that would mold the harvest quickly. Whoever sat on the throne would be looking at a meager harvest for the entirety of the southeastern parts of Melowynn.

Swiping away the knowledge that that person might be me, I plodded along with a dour pixie and two silent guards. A traveling pack of merriment we were not.

The Vahorn farm slowly came into view. Berta was right. At least forty huge sow hogs roamed about freely, little piglets of all colors and sizes at their sides. The home looked to be abandoned, for nary a candle glowed inside on this dreary day. Rain lingered on my lashes. I cleared them off as we passed the house and cut across the sloppy yard to the barn. This building looked to be in somewhat better shape. New boards on the sides and an attempt to paint said boards had been made.

“Wait here,” V’alor dictated. I nodded as water ran down my cloak to soak my hands. Atriel snorted and stamped. V’alor slid from his saddle, moved to the barn door, and hammered upon it. Pasil shifted his mare closer to me as Tezen did her best to get airborne but was blown back into my soggy chest.

“Argh! This wind sucks on the dark one’s orifice!” she snarled, pointed teeth bared as she slid down to land on my saddle horn.

“Flight is impossible today,” Pasil said as a tree to our left moaned and groaned in the wild winds.

“No shit!” Tezen barked as she climbed up my cape as if she were scaling the Witherhorn Mountains, using a strand of sodden hair that had worked free from my cape as a rappel line. I’d seen her do this a hundred times to Kenton, using his braids as ropes, but this was the first time she had done so to me. “May I sit inside your hood, Your Grace?”

“Yes, please do,” I said, and she wiggled in, her wet armor dripping down my chest. But she was warm, and it felt good to have someone, even someone as small as a hummingbird, close.

V’alor pounded once more. Then shouted. An arrow flew downward to land mere inches from his foot after slicing through the hem of his woolen cape. We all looked up into the rain, seeking the archer. A form atop the barn, clouded in a dark cloak the color of the stormy clouds, stood on the point of the roof, a long bow drawn. I reached over my shoulder for my bow, my forearm resting on my shoulder, ready if the need arose. My skills with a bow had been proven in countless tournaments, the latest disaster at the Mossbell gala notwithstanding.

“Whoever you ride for, we have no issues with any law in any vills! Now go back to your overseer and tell them that the Vahorn name has been cleared.”

“Berta sent us. We seek a man named Beiro to hire him as a guide,” V’alor shouted. The wind blew so hard I wasn’t sure the man on the barn roof would hear him. A tense moment passed. The archer lowered his bow. I let my fingers relax.

“Meet me inside,” the man shouted and disappeared from sight. I threw a look at V’alor, who seemed displeased with the rend in his cape. V’alor yanked open the door, and we rode in, Pasil leading Sirdal by the reins. The interior of the barn was dry, the air not unpleasant. The smell of animal and sweet hay filled the damp air. A gray horse stood in a stall eating hay, its ears pricked forward. Our horses grew restless under us.

The man who nearly nicked V’alor dropped down from the roof through a small hatch into the hayloft. The wind slammed the hatch shut, but his keen green eyes stayed on us as he walked to the edge of the mow to stare down at us. He was elven. Pale, pretty, and eagle-eyed. His bow rode on his back just as mine did, his quiver filled with arrows.

“Are you Beiro?” I shouted as the storm tugged at the old barn boards on the roof. His shaggy hair was indeed red, only darker than a fire red due to being wet. His face was thin and pleasant, with a swatch of tiny brown freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. He dropped into a crouch to sit above us like a spider waiting for the pluck of her webbing.

“I am, and what kind of fools are you to be out in this storm?” he asked as a flash of lightning lit the sky. Atriel laid back her ears. “Your horse dislikes the weather.”

“We all do,” Pasil stated as he watched the man in the loft closely. “Answer my lord, are you Beiro Vahorn?”

“That depends. Who are you and why do you seek me out?” the ginger asked. Two fat hens and a red rooster appeared. Sirdal sidestepped into Atriel to avoid the chickens by his hooves, and Atriel took the chance to bite the gelding. “Your mare is unhappy.”

He leaped down with grace, landing on a mound of hay, then walked toward me, his hand up and raised. Atriel snorted angrily, her ears still flat to her head.

“Now, now, my lovely lady, all is well,” the redhead cooed as he stepped closer. I tugged on the reins in fear that she would take off a finger. “No, let her have her head. She is only upset. The rain displeases her as does the thunder. There is no harm here. Rest easy.” He placed his palm on Atriel’s nose. She inhaled deeply. Her muscles began to loosen. “That is good. Good. She is calm now. The gelding needs some balm on that bite.”

I threw the others questioning looks, but we said nothing as Beiro, or so we assumed, for he fit the description, tended to our horses before he deigned to speak to us.

“So you are Beiro Vahorn?” V’alor asked and got a nod as Beiro applied a strong-smelling paste to the weeping bite mark in Sirdal’s haunch.

“I am.” He shot V’alor a quick look and then glanced at me and Pasil. “And you are a noble elf out in a sea storm with two guards and a pixie.” We all gaped. Tezen gasped inside my hood, only then sticking out her little head. “Your armor bears the mark of the Stillcloud family,” he said as he assessed V’alor and Pasil. His sight moved back to me. “Your hair is out of its binds and your guard called you ‘his lord.’ Also, I can smell your pixie,” Beiro replied in smooth tones as he massaged balm into the horse’s wound. The gelding seemed completely at ease with the stranger.

“Hey, fuck you and your pointy little elven nose! I took a bath last night before I had to squash my tits into a corset!” Tezen yelled as she zipped out of my hood to fly in front of Beiro in fits and starts. Seemed her wings were not completely dry just yet.

Beiro gave the irate pixie a quizzical look.

“I meant no disrespect for I enjoy the smell of pixie. It reminds me of the subtlest trace of yellow oak bark after it has been boiled down for use in detoxification horse liniment.”

“So a pixie smells like horse liniment? Is that what you are saying?!”

“It is a fine smell, truly,” Beiro hurried to explain before Tezen freed the war picks her hands rested on. “It is the aroma of the wilds, of the trees and sap, of crisp leaves and nutmeats. Truly, the aroma is pleasing.”

“Hmph.” She harrumphed as she sized him up and down. “That is a half-assed apology, but I shall accept it. Be warned, elf, the next time you make mention of my smell, it had best be to extoll my feminine fragrance.”

“Yes, of course.” Beiro nodded, a small glint of confusion in his clover-colored eyes. Even his brows and lashes were dark red. Ginger root hair amongst elves is quite rare. I had to wonder if he possessed any dwarven blood, for the dwarves were riddled with copper, rust, and passel berry wine heads and beards. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady guard.”

“Pfft,” Tezen grunted and hovered before him awkwardly for a moment before flitting over to sit atop Atriel’s sodden mane.

I took the moment to lower my hood. My thick yellow tail rolled down my back. “Your perception and attention to detail is sharp. I am Aelir Stillcloud, the heir to the vills of Renedith, and these three are my guards. We seek a man with a knowledge of the roads, woods, and those who lurk in the forests to guide us to Celinthe.”

Beiro paused in petting Sirdal to stare openly at me. Rain pelted the old barn. The chickens dug and scratched without a care.

“A nod of your head is in order, Master Vahorn,” V’alor called out over the wind and rainfall. Beiro lowered his hand from V’alor’s gelding. “Bowing should follow.”

“Those courtly rules mean shit out here,” Beiro stated, easing closer to my agitated mare. She flung her head to glare at him as he neared. He whispered low and calmly to the horse, his voice easing her out of her pique. A near miracle, for, as much as I loved her, Atriel could linger in a sour mood longer than any elf or horse that I had ever known. “This one wishes for a dry pelt and some hay.”

I slid off my horse’s back, boots hitting the packed earth, sending the small flock of chickens clucking and flapping. Several doves cooed down at us from their hiding spots in the rafters. Seemed only foolish elves on a wifely quest ventured out in raging sea storms.

V’alor followed after me. Beiro’s sight moved from Atriel to me to my guard captain.

“Are you druidic?” I asked, lifting my hand to stall V’alor in his tracks. I knew him well. He was surely coming up to stand before me. I did not wish for Beiro to think I found him threatening, for I did not. His shot at V’alor earlier aside as that was a warning.

“My grandmother claimed to be,” he replied, offering his open palm to Atriel, who pushed her muzzle into his hand. His eyes closed as he stroked Atriel’s soft nose.

“Ah, then that explains your way with beasts. I have friends who would enjoy meeting you, for they are of the same family as you descend from,” I said, resting my hand on my horse’s neck to find that she was fully relaxed.

Beiro opened his eyes. “The wood elves are generally not found in the company of nobles.”

“That is true, but I seek to change that and many other backward ideals. Master Vahorn, we are on a mission that requires great haste. If you cannot help us, we will take our leave and return to the inne to seek out another guide.”

“What do you offer in pay for my services?” he asked, pulling a shrunken carrot from one of the pouches on his belt. Atriel lifted it genteelly from his palm. His gaze stayed on me but his ears twitched, much like the horses when V’alor or Pasil moved. Perhaps he was more beast than elf then, like Beirich, who could shift into an elk.

I looked at V’alor, who, much to his chagrin, tugged a small bag of gold coins from his belt and passed it to me.

“My lord, I am not sure we should settle on the first man we interview,” V’alor whispered as I closed my hand over the money pouch.

“I fail to see that we have a choice. Time is of the essence in reaching Celinthe and Lady Raewyn. Unless you know of another guide with knowledge of the bandit camps and possessing a skill with beasts?” V’alor shook his head. “Then we shall hire this man if he will have us and move out.” I took two steps. Beiro held out a dirty hand. I placed the bag in his palm. “Inside you shall find fifty gold coins. When we return to Celear with Lady Frostleaf and her handmaiden, then I shall see you are given another fifty gold coins, plus a chance to apply for apprenticeship in the druidic school that my friends run.”

Beiro weighed the sack and inclined his head. “A hundred gold and a chance to study druidcraft. You are indeed a noble in a pickle barrel, for those of us in the farmlands would have to work for ten seasons to see such wealth. And schooling? Pah, none out here are learned.”

“Then this is an opportunity for you,” I said and got an odd look from Beiro before he stuffed the gold into the same pouch the sad carrot had come from. “Good, then that is settled. We need to leave as soon as you can ready yourself.”

“It will take me little time to be ready. I only need to saddle Hasulett, and we can set forth,” our newly hired guide said before giving my horse one final pat.

“We are willing to wait for you to tell your family that you are leaving,” I said as Pasil, still atop his yellow mare, sat quietly as he wanted to do, watching and listening like a harrier sitting in a tree waiting for a hare to burst forth from the hedgerow.

“My family will not care,” he said over his shoulder. I threw V’alor a look, but my love found a dove to study instead of meeting my gaze.

We waited for the slim man, who seemed to be possessed with some sort of beast touch, to outfit his gray gelding. When he was on its back, he rode out the door, not looking back, into a tempest that made Atriel sigh wearily. I felt her pain. I, too, had no wish to go back into the deluge but life sometimes left us with no choice but to ride forth, head down, and brave the storm.

I tapped my heels into her sides and we reentered the downpour.