Page 38 of Feathers and Thorns

Callan led them up a large, curving staircase to the front gates of the castle. The guards again bowed to him as they let them pass.

The trio was left speechless upon entry, for the entire room and the hallways that lay beyond were as black as the midnight sky, an unworldly beauty. Though most would imagine it to be foreboding, the walls spoke of a quiet strength rather than darkness to be feared.

Emerald rugs lined the floors, and sconces made of hollowed-out fire opal refracted mischievous patterns on the obsidian walls. There was little in the way of artwork, but the few pieces they did see had been formed out of differing metals, melded and arced together in a fantastical array of golds and silvers.

As they reached the end of the west hallway, Callan brought them down another twisting staircase then a short, wide corridor that ended at a set of double doors made entirely out of jade. The entrance towered above them and was covered in intricate carvings, depicting kings and battles long since past. Soren struggled to keep her emotions in check as she gazed upon it. Dad would have loved this.

“When you enter, you will speak when spoken to,” Callan’s voice broke through the thought of her father.

“Easier said than done,” Soren muffled.

Callan gave her the side-eye before loosing a breath. “Just let me do the talking.”

Baz and Enara nodded in agreement, and then Callan called out, “Kedaestach, brathairs,” which meant, “Allow entry, brothers.”

They walked through the entryway, keeping their heads bowed, unsure of the customs required in meeting the King of Olecastor, but a booming voice from across the room greeted them.

“Lift your heads, friends. Hold them high, for you are welcome here.”

The voice came from the obsidian throne that lay on the other side of the large room. Atop it sat a large man, clad in armor that matched the guards, with kind blue eyes and a long beard. His previously blond hair was fading to silver, and his face was battle-weathered.

He was flanked by two more men holding long, onyx staffs, the tips forged from xethriel, the strongest ore in Entheas. The men themselves were tall and lean, every muscle toned and pulled taut against their dark skin. Their coarse hair was twisted into long, ebony locks that were pulled back in an intricate weave, the sides shaved to their scalps. They had serious, deep-set brown eyes, full lips, and were identical in their looks. The only way to discern between the two was a pale scar that lay across the left one’s scalp.

The king assessed them once more before speaking again. “So, tell me, why has my son brought you here?”

Soren looked to Callan, whose stony expression hinted at a smile before untying her tongue to speak.

“Sir,” she started, “we have come to request aid for Patrivah. We have news from the House of Drekar.”

“My dear girl, we have already heard of the goings-on in Edras Mora. Tragic, really.”

A look of confusion passed between Soren and her friends before she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t catch your meaning.”

“Not to worry yourself, young one. My scouts have already informed me that the king is dead.”

* * *

“What?” Soren couldn’t help the sudden outburst. “What do you mean, the king is dead?”

The leader of Braexmirth chuckled. “I thought I had learned the common tongue well, but I guess not. Is there another term for the end of life I should know?” The beginning of his Rs rolled slightly and ended as if something caught in his throat.

“Father,” Callan spoke, “I believe the word you’re looking for is murdered.”

“Ah, yes, that’s the one.”

“That can’t be possible,” Enara said, shaking her head. “We were just there not but two nights ago and had heard news of no such thing.”

Baz put a hand on her lower back, just as confused as she was. “What exactly did your scout report?” he asked hastily then added, “If you don’t mind me asking?”

The king ignored his question, noticing the sword at his back. “Bring me your blade.”

Baz stiffened, worried he might have offended the man, but he brought forth his sword and bent on one knee to present it.

“I know this blade,” the king said, taking in the blue sheen of its length. “This sword has been passed down through generations of the McKenna family. Now, tell me, boy, how it is that you have come to possess such a weapon?”

“It was passed to me, from my grandfather. He fought with Draestel during the war, and Lord Krikseth gifted it to him for taking out Bao Ren’s commander.” Baz waited as the king contemplated his response, stroking a hand through his long beard. A nervous sweat settled on his brow, and it felt like an eternity before he spoke again.

“Yes, I seem to remember hearing something of this, though I am surprised to find that you yourself are of Xian Dao heritage.” The king beckoned him to stand, handing the sword back.

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