4. Eldrion

FOUR

Ican still smell the elf’s blood on my hands as I stride back to the castle. I choose to walk. I want to taste the air and hear the whispers.

It is late. Dark. Everything is closed up tight. There is no curfew in place, but the Sunborne, and the Shadowkind who live in servitude to them, have taken it upon themselves to go into hiding at night. As if they can feel something coming.

Sunborne are powerful. We are the most powerful.

But as far as I know, there has never been another who can see the future. Only my family. Only my mother, and me.

And only one who can command the shadows. Not even my brother could do that.

I stop in front of a tavern. Its doors and windows are shuttered closed, but there is movement pulsating within. The scent of liquor drifts out from beneath the door and the cracks in the window frame.

I haven’t been inside a tavern since I ascended to the throne at one hundred years old. I have barely set foot outside of the castle, and in recent months, my hermit-like lifestyle has been even more intense.

I turn the handle and push. The door is locked.

I look up at the place where, on the other side, the bolt will be sealing it shut and hear it slide to one side.

I keep my powers a mystery as far as I can. I rule through the threat of what they might do, the anticipation of them. I show them how cruel I am with my bare hands and let them imagine what this would mean if I was using magic.

No one knew about my mother’s visions. No one knows about mine.

That is the way I like it.

I push my shoulder into the door and as soon as I enter, allow my wings to unfurl.

They fill the space in front of me.

Over by the fireplace, the patrons look up with wide eyes.

This is a Shadowkind tavern, but it is Sunborne who are in front of me. They stand immediately, assessing my silver hair and my black wings. They know who I am.

Behind the bar, the innkeeper says, “My lord. It is a pleasure to have you in –”

I shake my head and raise my palm to stop him talking. I do not care to hear what he has to say. “Whisky,” I say, sitting down on a stool at the bar.

The Sunborne who were playing what looks like a game of runes are muttering in hushed voices as if they are unsure whether to talk to me or carry on with their game.

I snap my fingers at them and tell them to continue as they were. “I do not wish to be disturbed,” I say, stalking into the corner of the tavern and choosing a table that faces out towards the rest of the room.

Folding myself into the large leather armchair behind the table, I let my fingers rest on the scratched and peeling material. I pick at it as I drink my whisky. And I strain my ears.

They do not know I can hear them. They have no idea that I can hear their voices as if they are whispering right next to my ear, that I can control shadows, and see the future.

They do not know half of what I’m capable of.

Perhaps I don’t either.

I drink slowly.

At first, they talk only about the game, but as the hours wear on and their bellies become more full of alcohol, their tongues loosen.

“The elves are muttering something about an uprising,” one of them says, glancing in my direction. I do not give any indication that I have heard them, simply keep my gaze cast down into my glass.

“An uprising? You mean the Shadowkind?” another says. He has thick glasses, a pinched, pale face, and large teeth. His wings twitch as he speaks. “I told Marta to keep a close eye on ours.”

The one who mentioned the uprising shifts her playing piece, takes a sip of ale, and shrugs. “That is what I’ve heard,” she says. “At the market this morning, at least half the stalls were empty. They are disappearing. You must have noticed?”

“There are rumours that Eldrion lost all of his,” says a man with thick curly hair. “All of them gone from the castle. That’s why the banquets have stopped. He’s got no servants left to serve and no jester left to entertain.”

The woman lifts her ale to her lips and takes a large drink. When she puts it back down on the table, she shrugs. “I also heard that the Leafborne escaped. The slaves from the auction.”

“He must be losing his touch,” chuckles the one in glasses.

“Careful, Brock, he’s only over there.”

Brock simply chuckles again. “And I am supposed to be afraid? He’s losing it. He lost control of this city a long time ago.”

My heart is beating hard against my ribs, and it is taking every ounce of willpower I possess not to rise from this table and rip off their wings.

When they leave, staggering out into the cloying heat of the night – because in Luminael, the warmth of the day seems to swell and amplify after dark – I stride over to the bar and slam down my tankard.

The innkeeper pours me another without saying a word.

As I take it from him, he glances at my hands and spots the silvery blood on my fingertips. Just the tiniest drop, nestled into the crevice beside my fingernail. He swallows hard then, as if on purpose, and adjusts the cap he’s wearing.

I notice his ears.

Of course, he’s an elf. Most who run taverns and businesses in Luminael are; the Sunborne are too lofty for such pursuits and the Shadowkind haven’t been allowed to run businesses for centuries.

“What did they do?” The innkeeper leans forward onto the bar, steepling his fingers, and meets my eyes.

If he was afraid of me when I entered, perhaps the Sunbornes’ conversation changed things. Or perhaps he is now more angry than afraid.

“He did not give me the answer I was looking for.” I take a swig of ale, then purse my lips.

“What was the question?” the innkeeper asks.

I study him for a moment. There is something strange about this elf. I cannot tell whether he is trying to help me, extort me, or if he’s simply curious.

For the second time in the space of twenty-four hours, a strange sensation washes over me. Thoughts that aren’t my own drift into my mind. Not thoughts... feelings.

Curiosity, titillation . . . smugness.

This elf knows something. But I don’t need to torture him for answers. He wants to give me what I need.

“I am looking for the Shadowkind and the Leafborne who escaped from the castle.” I draw back my shoulders and study him carefully.

The elf seems surprised that I have spoken so openly about something that, until now, has been only whispered of in the alleys and dark passageways of the city.

“Everyone knows they escaped. There is no sense in me pretending otherwise.”

“And you want them back.” The elf pours himself a glass of whisky, then one for me too.

I shove aside the ale and accept the spirit instead.

“So you can make an example of them... like the one you threw from the barricades?” The elf folds his arms, standing up straight. “I saw it. Brutal.” He shakes his head, but not a single ounce of fear or sorrow emanates from him.

“No. Not for that.” I sniff the whisky, then down it in one. “There is one particular fae I need. I do not care what happens to the rest.”

“I could help you with that.” The elf extends his hand now, offering to shake mine. “My name’s Garratt. I’ve run this place for years. I have...” He pauses, quirking an eyebrow at me. “Connections.”

“Are you trustworthy, Garratt?” I am three times larger than this elf, and a hundred times more powerful. Yet, in this moment, brute strength means nothing. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Garratt would not care if I tortured him. He has the air of someone who is on this earth to extract what they can from it and has accepted that death will come sooner or later.

Which means the only thing I have to bargain with is power or money.

“No,” he says frankly, grimacing into his whisky glass. “Not in the least. But for a long time now, I’ve been wanting to...” He wrinkles his nose. “How shall I phrase it? Enhance my status around here.”

Here we go . . . Power. He wants power.

I wait for him to continue.

“Make me head of the elven police, and I’ll find your fae for you.”

“Elven police?” I scoff loudly. “There is no such thing. Elves are not known for their law enforcement skills.” I pause and tap my fingers on the side of my glass. “You aren’t asking to form a guard, you’re asking for permission to run the underbelly of the city.”

Garratt tilts his head from side to side. “See,” he says, gesturing to the table where the Sunborne were sitting, “I knew you hadn’t lost your touch.” He taps his temple. “Still got it.”

For a moment, anger begins to sizzle beneath my skin. But then, as I study this cocky elf, a laugh blooms instead. “I like you, Garratt.” I tip my glass at him, then gesture for him to fill it. “You have balls of steel, I’ll give you that.”

Shrugging, Garratt says, “Nothing to lose. You either agree, and my little empire grows overnight, or you kill me and, well, I won’t know any better then, will I?” He hands me my glass back.

“Very wise.” I hesitate, then nod at him. “Very well. Elven police. Why not? But hear me, you will have no jurisdiction over the Sunborne. You are to police the Shadowkind only. Watch them, make sure they are not gathering in groups, talking in the shadows, plotting...” I pause, inhaling sharply.

“Plotting to overthrow their rulers,” the elf finishes my sentence for me. “I understand.” He extends his hand to shake mine.

“Your first priority will be to find the ones who escaped from the castle.”

Garratt nods again. “Top of the list, my lord.”

“And in return?” I squeeze his hand tightly, but he does not flinch. “What do you want from me, elf?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Garratt squeezes back. He is not as strong as me, but I appreciate that he has the nerve to attempt to be. “I want you to allow the Gloomweavers back into the city. And turn a blind eye to what might happen when they are here... enjoying themselves.”

Gloomweavers... That was not a part of the bargain I was expecting. The slave traders have long been banned from entering Luminael – unless they are here for an auction.

No taverns, inns, or whorehouses.

Elves are sneaky, but Gloomweavers are sadistic. Cruel. Feral. They do not have magic, but they have brute strength and a viciousness that scares even the most highly skilled Sunborne fae.

The Sunborne will despise me for letting them back in, and the Shadowkind will be used, abused, mistreated. The Gloomweavers will bring what’s left of this city to ruin.

But without Alana, we will be ruined anyway.

And without this elf, I fear I will never find her.

“Very well.” I take back my hand, down my whisky, and stand. “You find me my prisoners. You get your Gloomweavers back.”

The elf grins widely, then wipes his hands on his tabard and rests them on his hips. “You have yourself a bargain, my lord. I’ll start at sunrise.”