Page 8 of A Serenade To The Elf Queen
A cold chill runs up my spine at the rasping sound of the Aeonian’s voice. I look up to the balcony high above us. They rarely speak during these council meetings, preferring to hide behind the shadow of their veils. Sometimes I forget that it was they who created these archaic laws in the first place.
Sorrow creeps into my heart at the decree. I can only pray Blaire’s future husband will be kind to her. My friend never told me who she was assigned to.
The council moves on to the next discussion and its at times like this that I wish my uncle was not exiled from this court. He knows how to play these games better than I do.
“All this turmoil and upheaval will persist unless we remove Eirik Bloodhound from his throne,” General Raleich says, his golden armor clanking as he leans back in his seat. “I propose we strike them swiftly and reclaim our fortresses.”
“Let us try to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.” Lord Clayborne shakes his head. His sharp eyes meet mine briefly with a loathing I cannot fathom. I toy with the berries in my palm to calm my nerves.
“War is already upon us no matter how long we stall. Your seat may be the most secluded and well protected, Clayborne, but the embers of war will reach your doorstep sooner or later,” Lord Bahiti argues in a voice so similar to Rainer Wiolant that it unnerves me for a moment. My uncle may be banished from this holy hall but his presence in court is discernible through his allies.
Seneschal Kearne clears his throat. “Shall we put it to a vote then?”
It’s twenty-seven to six now, in favor of a retaliation.
Fortunately, and unfortunately, the High Elven Council’s decision for everything must be unanimous. I can’t help but notice the dwindling faction of the Aldarelfs who oppose a retaliation. Their voices are even smaller today.
I should cheer for the side that wishes to strike the way Rainer does. But deep down, beyond the fog of revenge clouding my thoughts, I know my priority is keeping my people safe. It feels like betraying Aerin’s memory, but waging a war against the Fae will not bring my sister back.
To everyone’s surprise, Lord Clayborne descends from the benches and marches to the Flame of the Gods at the centre of the hall, a scrap of parchment in his grasp.
There it is again. That look of overwhelming hatred directed at me. For some reason, the Aldarelf has decided that I was his enemy from the moment I entered the hall this morning. He lifts his head to stare into my eyes.
“I invoke the Archon. I challenge your rights to the throne,” he announces for the entire hall and realm to hear.
My nails dig into my palm, crushing the berries. I strain to keep my face blank.
“Blasphemy!”
Chaos erupts in the chamber until the speaker demands for order.
“She carries the Mark of the Blessed. You dare question the gods? Seneschal Kearne deigns to ask.
“Yes, I believe I would,” Clayborne says, his voice as unwavering as the determination in his eyes. I’ve always appreciated the Aldarelf’s honesty and all of his decisions. I don’t understand why the lord seems so unhinged today. He keeps looking at me like I had spit in his breakfast—no, he isn’t looking at me at all…
It’s my dress.
Every brooch and ornament on my body are pure malachite stones taken from a dwarven mine in Darvan. Even the threads in this gown are made from silkworms of the Orkan mountain in the west. I’m parading Aelfheim’s glory during the Age of Conquest. This entire attire Rainer made me wear is some kind of silent support in favor of his ploy.
Murmurs and whispers fill the hall.
“Who is the candidate you feel more suited to replace our beloved queen?” Lord Ctibor asks in a mocking tone. “Yourself, perhaps?”
“I name my son, Gerailt Clayborne, as the contender for the Archon.”
The chamber goes silent at that name. His reputation and prowess certainly precede him. A knight who is deemed the best swordsman of this age. Commander of the Valorian, a secret service under direct order of the Aeonians. Anyone who is found on his list, be it corrupt Aldarelfs or criminals, will never see the sun again.
Clayborne drops the name into the fire before the gods.
I hope the trepidation doesn’t show on my face.
“It is unnatural to question the gods. Regardless, the Archon has been summoned. By Duel or Damnation, it shall be fulfilled,” one of the Aeonians announces. Tension crackles the air with the cited words. Everyone holds their breath, turning their attention to me.
“I accept your challenge, Lord Clayborne.” I’m surprised my voice comes out calm.
The Aldarelf nods in acknowledgement.
“I say we respect the holy night of Merafall and delay the Archon to tomorrow noon,” Clayborne says in parting. “Choose your champion well, Queen Rhianelle.”
