Page 58 of The Song of Sunrise
Where are the rocs? Outside among the snow-capped peaks, or somewhere on the campus grounds? No doubt the giant, eagle-like creatures have a preference of their own. Not only deadly with their sharp beaks and talons the size of my torso, but intelligent as well. Some Tellings go as far as saying they talk to their riders mind to mind.
My attention shifts back to the table. Opita winks her bright green eyes at Castor, and she sits across from him. Heat prickles my spine with a feeling I have no reason to claim.
Castor isn’t mine. Even if he did kiss me.
Opita is beautiful, cheekbones high and full, and her almond eyes tilt upward, giving her the appearance of a feline cat playing with its food. Like a princess that gets what she wants with a single wink.
Service staff appear from hidden panels and pour us wine in sparkling goblets, and Lord Clayoq and the Elders exchange a few short sentiments before another WatchGuard interrupts. The poor guard is trying and failing to subdue his smile over whomever awaits his announcement from the hallway.
“The Lady of the River Tribe has arrived, my lords.” He gestures toward the door and bows gracefully for being in such thick armor. “May I present Lady Neda, Lord Neilos, and their son, Prince Ladon. Protectors of the Northern Waters, home of legendary Kingfishers and the most talented Healers of the Realm.”
And now I understand why the WatchGuard was smiling like a fool.
The Lady of the River Tribe strides in the room, her dress flowing in wafts of light blue and cream chiffon. Her hair, a soft blonde, ripples weightlessly as she walks as if she’s floating. There is a youthful look about her, cheeks pink, skin poreless, and nails long and painted blue. She smiles, unlike her husband and son who stand brooding behind her, blue eyes searching the room for potential threats.
Both male Elves stand around six feet tall, but it isn’t their height that strikes me. Their hair isblue, the son’s a lighter shade than his father’s. Their posture curves around Lady Neda, like shields made of flesh and bone.
Many Tellings of the River Tribe share countless stories of Lady Neda and her Kingfishers, warriors that train from a young age in the cold, icy rivers of the north, forced to hold their breath longer than humanly possible, even for Elven standards. While she is soft and supple in her exterior, I have a feeling Lady Neda is nothing but, having earned her rank first in their defense force before ascending to the River Tribe throne. Methods for acceptance as a Kingfisher are extremely intense. I had to shut my library book twice when reading about their gruesome underwater training sessions with river predators and weighted chains. Only the most lethal Elves survive long enough to achieve the honorable Kingfisher title.
As if my thoughts conjure them, three huge warriors stomp into the room as if their feet aren’t used to walking on dry land,flanking their royals like seagulls. Their armor is covered in small overlapping metal plates, like fish scales, in shades of blue that would be nearly invisible underwater.
The son of the River Lady, Prince Ladon, stomps over to the spot right next to me, staring almost too intently. He pulls his chair back slowly and seats himself. His blue hair falls forward, shadowing his eyes, as he reaches for the wine decanter.
“My lady,” he says as he pours more wine intomygoblet. I almost choke on my own spit. Me? A lady?
It is a bold move. To serve a human, let alone the only human in the room with unknown heritage or political leverage. What is he playing at? I do not know the rules to these political games, but I will play.
I look straight into the center of his river blue eyes. “I am not a lady, Prince Ladon. You can call me Akemi. If you so please, Your Highness,” I add after a slight pause, gesturing to my now full wine goblet.
He raises an eyebrow, impressed by my equally bold response.
“Nice to meet you,Akemi.” He emphasizes my name with his hoarse voice, graveling out every syllable as if uncomfortable breathing air. Perhaps his preferred method of breathing is through the gills on the side of his neck.
A WatchGuard near the door lets out a curt cough, interrupting my thoughts. My heart begins to gallop in my chest, knowing instinctively that if both Elven Tribes arrived, the Underworld is next.
“May I present our first delegate from the Underworld Courts, our closest neighbor underneath the surface of the upper mantle, Lord Rollo of Jord, accompanied by Oksvakt, Ivar and Sigurd, Born of the Rock.”
Not a man, but two tall, near-transparent, wolf-like hounds enter the room, their needle pointed teeth dripping with drool. They growl and lead their master to the table. His hair is asblack as a moon-covered night, a sneer permanent underneath his auburn beard. He looks like a boulder, wearing layers of red, brown, and fur. An entourage enters behind him—they must be the Oksvakt—looking equally intimidating, armed with at least three axes each. Oksvakt are known to be brutal fighters, specializing in pulverizing their victims with giant axes.
My breath quickens. A large quiver of red-tipped arrows is visible beyond the Jord Lord’s shoulders. An ornate silver axe is slung at his hip.
The same axe that killed so many of my friends as easily as a scythe would grain.
The same red wax arrow that killed Marrow.
I gasp for a breath, not realizing I was holding it. Castor puts a comforting hand on my leg. I grab it instinctively, gripping his calloused fingers with my own sweating palm.
Castor recognizes him too by the way our hands clasp firmly together under the table. Neither of us move. His hand tethers me from spiraling into panic.
No one speaks or offers a chair to the Jord Lord. Even the Elders cast their gazes downward. How can they ignore the fact that a member of the alliance is pillaging our towns? One of the Oksvakt leads the hounds back out of the room, which lowers the tension only slightly.
A throat clears, announcing the last arrival. The room falls silent. The WatchGuard standing at the door looks as if he has seen the devil himself. The tension goes from thick to sharp. There is only one delegate left to enter these halls for the Summit.
“Lords, Ladies. I announce to you our delegate from the lowermost Underworld Territory of the lower mantle, Earth Breaker and Lord of Terraguard, Lord Atlys and his Coredivers, General Damaris and Lord Cadex.”
The ground begins to rumble. Not like the surface level quakes we sometimes experience, but somehow from deep within the earth. The reverberations shake me to my core, from the inside out. The amount of sheer power thrumming through the dining chamber is immense and charged with energy.
Goblets and cutlery clink on the table.
