Page 2 of The Ivory King

“Thank you for coming, Liner Frostvine,” I said to the woman in charge of tracing and keeping track of property boundaries within the city proper and its outlying farms. She curtsied politely, her hair a wild bush of black curls, and set off after the others. A bell rang out behind us. Serving staff from the kitchens appeared from several doorways like ants rushing from a mound. “And thankfully, that is over.”

I rushed to remove the coronet from my head, rubbing my scalp with my fingertips and shaking out my knee-length hair as I massaged away the tension.

“Will you be retiring to your chambers now or do you wish to read?” V’alor asked as elves rushed about the room, clearing tables of dishes and crystal wine glasses. Food was carted back to the depths of the castle, leftovers that would be given to the castle staff, and passed out to the indigent among our people. Sadly, there were beggars even in a wealthy vills such as Renedith. In the past, they were arrested for vagrancy, but I changed that. It had taken me four years of political maneuvering and charming those in high places, including my grandfather, to get a decree released that the poor were to begiven food and shelter in abandoned farriers on the outskirts of town. I’d been quite proud of that edict, and now hungry elven children were fed. Of course the news of our kindness to the less fortunate traveled through Melowynn like a winter storm racing down the Witherhorn.

This resulted in more people at our gates seeking entry.

“I think I shall walk the grounds before taking a light meal in my chambers,” I replied, handing the coronet to my guard as I exited the ballroom. V’alor tucked the circlet into his belt. The castle was quieting down. Fires were being lit in sleeping chambers and torches flared to life at the hands of teen boys with long-handled torches. The halls smelled of burning animal fat as that was what the rags that were used on the torches were soaked in. “How fares Tezen?”

“She will most likely have a throbbing head in the morning. That woman is the most stubborn thing I have ever met. She knows full well that an overindulgence of honey and ginger affects pixies like wine or mead, yet she insists on eating ginger cakes like a hog at a trough. I should rouse her at the first bell of prayer and make her clean the chamber pots in the barracks for acting poorly while in uniform.”

“If that is indeed her punishment, wake me early so that I may witness it,” I replied with good humor. Tezen had been with the guards since I was a small boy. She’d returned with my dear friend and companion, Kenton, a wood elf druid, and his husband, Beirich, almost eleven seasons past now. One could not ask for a more stalwart guard or friend, but her penchant for ale, sweets, and bedplay tended to lead her into trouble. Which is why, I was sure, she had not moved higher in the ranks of the royal guards despite her many years of service.

“I’ll be sure to do so,” V’alor answered.

“Come and walk beside me,” I said, stalling in our stroll through the courtyard that Kenton loved so much. He paused.“V’alor, no one will see. And if they do, they can stare. It is beyond foolish to try to hold a conversation with someone walking behind you.”

I heard him exhale. He stepped up beside me, taller and wider, a presence of comfort always. I gave him a smile. He rolled his eyes to the twin moons hovering over us in the ebony sky.

“Your grandfather would be displeased to see such familiarity between a guardsman—”

“Not just a guardsman. You mean more to me than just your strong arm and shield, V’alor.” The words that longed to spill out of me jammed up on my tongue, much like the logs that floated down the Vilhall River when the woodsmen were clearing land. They, too, tangle up and bar the flow of what pushes so strongly against them. “I think of you as a dear friend.”

He nodded. His jaw set tightly. There were many times that I suspected—or perhaps hoped was a more suitable term—he might reply with a loving look or a word of encouragement. But yet, to this day, he had not given me any indication that his feelings matched mine.

“You have a kind heart, Aelir,” he finally said. “I wish you would not be so free with your emotions for that is one part of you that my sword and shield cannot protect.”

I chuckled. “Fear not for my heart. For only one holds it.”

His nod was quick, almost pained. “Of course, Lady Raewyn Frostleaf.”

“No, not her. She is a dear friend, but she is not the one that makes my heart take flight.”

“Your grandfather is rather set on her becoming your bride.”

“My grandfather is set on many things that may not come to fruition. Raewyn is a lovely woman, clever, kind, and proneto writing enough letters that whole vales need to be felled to supply her with paper.”

His gentle laugh settled on my shoulders like a soft blanket. “She does enjoy her missives. But given that she has been sequestered with naught but a handmaid since she was six seasons, I suspect her letters to you are her only insights into the world beyond the walls of the temple of Ihdos in Celinthe.”

“Yes, she has said so in many a writing. And while I enjoy her letters and her wit, she does not stir any passion inside me.” I stole a peek at his profile as we passed one of several massive cages that used to house songbirds but now provided a safe place for vestral butterflies to change from plump yellow caterpillars to sparkling buttercup-toned butterflies. The two druids who had taught me so much about nature and acceptance gathered them from the distant forests of Knight’s Way. Which was where my friends were now, gathering caterpillars to ensure their low numbers fell no lower. I envied them greatly. I had never seen a couple married so long and still be so deeply in love.

“In fairness, Aelir, you have never set eyes on her.”

That was true. Nor she on me, but we had exchanged small oil paintings, and while she was pleasing to the eye with golden hair, long, thin pointed ears, and eyes as green as the grass under our feet, my heart did not speed up when I gazed at her likeness. Not like it did as I stared at V’alor’s handsome face.

“You speak the truth, but even in oil, there is no spark. And it matters not, for I have no plans to wed anytime soon.” I stopped to sit on a stone bench that rested among dark orange and yellow flowers our resident druids had planted side-by-side over the past ten seasons. The groundskeeper—a sour soul named Rictus, who had once tended the caged birds—had given up trying to stop the two of them, which I was glad for since I would have had to step in to coddle the old shitwit. I snorted atthe term I had just used. “You are right. I am spending far too much time with Tezen.”

V’alor stood beside me. “Her vocabulary seeps into the mind and takes up residence like a fungus on a man’s balls. I’ve had to catch myself at least a dozen times of late to not call a bumbling new guardsman a pig’s pollack.”

“What exactlyisa pig’s pollack?” I asked and patted the bench. “Sit, please. My neck is strained from wearing that circlet all day.”

He stared at the stars for a long, long moment, and then, gently, as if he were placing his firm ass on a nest of wildfire ants, he sat. His spine was rigid, his right hand resting on the pommel of his sword as if he expected a beast to spring from the fountain in front of us. The only thing on these grounds were the pyre moths that were drawn to the castle’s light. They flitted about the windows, candles, and torches, both inside and out, in clouds of glowing white wings and feathery antennae. The insects were combustible when they hit the open flames, bursting into fire with a small pop. Something, according to Beirich, to do with the dust on their wings that made them explode like pinecones tossed into a campfire.

“I know not. I think she lies abed at night making up names for genitalia,” he finally said in reply.

I nodded along, my thigh encased in soft, dark blue linen, coming now to rest against his armored leg. It was nonsense, obviously, as our flesh was not touching, but that did not stop the rush of desire from coursing from my leg to my groin. I hurried to pull my jacket closer around me, the long tails that were all the rage this season in the royal court and outward in the vills as well, serving as a fine cover for my growing arousal.

We sat in amiable silence for a spell, just enjoying the sounds of the night. The call of the purple nightingales, the pop-pop-pop of the pyre moths, and the trickle of water flowing from the small fountain nearby.

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