Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 7

Wind blew past Ceredon’s ears as he sprinted through the forest on the northern boundary of Dezerea. His keen vision allowed him to see in the near darkness brought on by the waning moon, to recognize the maze of trees standing in his way. He easily raced around them, creating a looping trail through the woods. He held the grip of his khandar tightly, the sword virtually weightless as adrenaline took over, propelling his legs forward even faster.

Voices shouted in alarm up ahead, and he steered his path toward them. He heard steel clash against steel and the whoosh of arrows cutting through the leafy canopy. One nearly clipped his shoulder when he took a sharp turn, the shaft embedding into a nearby tree.

A dense thatch of tangled underbrush appeared before him, and he leapt over the protruding branches and barbs just as another pair of arrows flew overhead. He kept his eyes on the trees while he flipped his khandar into his opposite hand and searched the ground blindly. His fingertips found a group of jagged rocks the size of his palm, and he began hurling them into the canopy, one by one, with all his might. Someone yelped in surprise, and the barrage of arrows stopped for a blessed moment. He took his opening, pursuing the sounds of conflict once more.

The sounds grew louder, and then he saw them-six elves dancing through the forest, three pressing, three retreating. Those in retreat were Dezren, members of the rebellion that had formed in the shadows to resist the occupation of their city and the capture of Lord and Lady Thyne. Ceredon could tell they were quickly tiring. Their parries were languid, their steps stumbling. Soon they would succumb to the greater strength and skill of their assailants.

It was all very frustrating-never mind frightening-for Ceredon. His family had been guests of Lord Thyne, but they’d betrayed their hosts during the celebration of their son’s betrothal.

“Dark times are upon us,” had been his father’s only explanation. “And we must choose sides wisely.”

It was a justification Ceredon did not accept.

One of the defenders tripped, and when he slowed to regain his balance, his pursuer caught him from behind. The elf howled in pain as a wicked blade pierced his chest. The stabber was a ranger of the Quellan Ekreissar-his hair was knotted atop his head in the Ekreissarian tradition, and he was wearing the green- and brown-dyed attire of that order. The bloody khandar withdrew with a wet slop, and when the elf fell, the ranger stomped on his head, bringing an end to his pleas by crushing his skull. The ranger’s head came up as he scanned the forest in the direction where the others had escaped.

Ceredon snuck toward him, nearly soundless as his feet skated over the bed of nettles and fallen leaves that coated the forest floor. The ranger, whose ears were as highly attuned as his own, spun around upon hearing his approach, khandar held high. The elf’s eyes narrowed when he saw who approached, and he visibly relaxed.

“Master Ceredon, I thought you were ahead of us,” he said. He bowed his head in respect.

In one swift motion Ceredon snatched the ranger by the front of his leather tunic and drove upward with his own sword. The blade pierced the elf’s belly, and Ceredon shoved it in beneath his ribcage. The ranger’s eyes bulged from his sockets as Ceredon pushed up, up, up, until the hilt touched his flesh and blood spilled over his lips. Ceredon spun him around, avoiding the cutting edge of the khandar that protruded from his back, and clamped his hand over his mouth. He then guided the convulsing elf to the ground. In a matter of moments, the ranger stopped moving altogether.

Tearing his sword from the dead elf’s flesh, Ceredon ran after the remaining four combatants. The clang of swordplay echoed throughout the darkened forest.

The two pairs battled it out on either side of a wide maple tree. The one on the left seemed to be faltering faster, so Ceredon ran in that direction. The ranger hacked down with his khandar, driving the rebel to his knees and shattering his sword. Just as the ranger lifted his sword to land the finishing blow, Ceredon took a deep breath and swung. An audible swish sounded just before his khandar pierced the back of the ranger’s neck. The blade sunk in until it hit the elf’s spine. The vibration shook Ceredon’s hand from the hilt. He splayed out his fingers as he pitched forward, leaping over the prone rebel.

The ranger gurgled blood, his body going limp. The rebel scooted out of the way, and then his eyes turned to Ceredon. They shimmered, even in the sparse moonlight. Before he could say a word, Ceredon put a finger to his lips and shushed him. Grabbing the dead ranger’s khandar, Ceredon slipped around the maple to where the final two elves battled.

The last rebel was in horrible shape, bleeding all over, half of his left forearm dangling by a thread. Yet he fought on, parrying each block he could, going so far as to slam his attacker on the side of the head with his flopping, half-severed arm. The blood loss had obviously made him weak, and one solid strike sent the khandar tumbling from his hand. The final ranger, Teradon, the biggest of the three and the only one Ceredon knew by name, grunted in anger and reared back, preparing to drive his sword into the haggard elf’s belly.

“Stop!” Ceredon shouted.

Teradon, taken off guard by the sudden cry, stumbled as he thrust forward. He collided with the maimed elf, and they both careened to the ground and rolled around, arms flailing. Ceredon ran up to them and tried to grab the ranger by his tunic and pull him off, but at the last moment Teradon flipped onto his back and threw out his sword arm. He missed slicing Ceredon’s throat by mere inches.

The bloody ranger rose slowly to his feet, twirling his khandar to keep Ceredon at bay.

“Traitor,” he spat through blood-dripping lips. The rebel elf lay dead on the ground, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his mouth. Ceredon grimaced and bounced on his feet, ready for the much bigger Teradon to make the first move. He remembered his fight with the human Joseph Crestwell at the Tournament of Betrothal, which felt like ages ago. If not for the human purposefully throwing the match, Ceredon would have been bested. He’d taken Joseph lightly, allowing carelessness and impatience to override his speed and skill.

He would not make that mistake again.

Dancing to the side, he jabbed with short, quick thrusts, pushing Teradon into a constant defense. The ranger grunted, his breathing labored, as his huge khandar struggled to match Ceredon’s much faster strikes. Ceredon was a blur in the forest’s near darkness, landing tiny cut after tiny cut on his opponent’s wrists, forearms, and sides. If he kept this up, Teradon would eventually bleed out.

The ranger had a different idea. He made a massive head swipe with his sword, forcing Ceredon to duck beneath the swing, and then rushed headlong into him, accepting Ceredon’s khandar as it pierced his side. They plunged to the ground, the larger elf on top, landing blow after blow with his meaty fists. Ceredon, the wind knocked from his lungs, did all he could to avoid being struck with the full brunt of the blows. Yet even glancing strikes took their toll, and his vision began to spin. Teradon’s bloody spittle bathed his face, the raging elf muttering curses beneath his breath.

Teradon leaned back, straddling Ceredon’s chest, his hands clasped together over his head to deliver the final deathblow. It was then that his left eye exploded, splattering clear liquid all over Ceredon. The shaft that had obliterated his eye protruded from the socket like a post in a lake of red, the arrowhead dripping gore. Teradon’s expression was one of dumb shock as his fingers clutched the shaft, and then he collapsed.

Ceredon helped his descent, shoving the large elf off him. He lay there panting for a moment, relieved to be free of the oppressive weight on his chest. When he finally gathered the strength to sit up, he found the lone surviving rebel kneeling by the base of a maple tree, an arrow nocked and pointed at him.

“I won’t hurt you,” Ceredon said, struggling to his feet.

“Of course you won’t,” said the rebel. “I could pierce your heart in a second if I so wished. Now stay still.”

There was confidence in the elf’s voice, but Ceredon also heard fear there. He ignored the rebel and bent over, picking up his sword.

“Nice shot,” he said, kicking Teradon’s corpse. “You saved my life, and for that I thank you.” He turned to the rebel and glared. “Should you not be saying the same to me?”

The rebel’s mouth opened, then closed. His steady aim wavered ever so slightly.

Ceredon shook his head, sheathed his khandar, and walked toward the rebel that had been killed by Teradon. He knew without looking that the survivor watched his every movement, but he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he knelt beside the body, ripped the dagger from its mouth with a spray of red spittle, and proceeded to saw away at the dead rebel’s neck.

“What are you doing?” asked the elf, keeping his voice a harsh whisper. “Leave him alone.”

“Shut your mouth,” Ceredon retorted, casting a glance over his shoulder, the gravity of which stopped the rebel cold. “I do what I must.”

“But-”

“But nothing. Had I not stumbled upon you, you would have shared your friend’s fate.” The dagger finally did its job, and the head of the dead elf tore away from its body. When Ceredon gripped it by the hair and lifted it, a small bit of spine dangled from the severed flesh of the neck.

Ceredon showed it to the rebel.

“This could have been you,” he said. “I hope you appreciate the gift I gave you.”

“But…why?” the elf asked.

“Because I wanted to,” he answered. “Now not another word-just listen. Tell your people you have a friend within the Quellan. Tell them I will protect as many as I can so long as I am able, but never say my name, if you know it. Should that happen, your only ally will be lost. Do you understand?”

The rebel nodded.

“Good. Now leave.”

The elf, wide eyed, finally lowered his bow. He twirled around and darted between the trees, disappearing into the dark recesses of the forest. Ceredon watched until he could no longer see the rebel’s outline, then stood, rolled his shoulders, and licked blood from his lips. His face and neck were sore from the beating Teradon had laid on him, but he was otherwise in one piece. He lifted the severed head, stared at the empty eyes for a moment, and then broke into a light jog.

It wasn’t long before he ran across the scene of a massacre, stepping into a small clearing to find a battalion of ten rangers of the Ekreissar surrounding a heap of headless corpses. The heads were stacked in their own pile a few feet away. Aerland Shen, the chief ranger, stood in the center of the carnage. His tight-fitting armor, made from the black scales of swamp lizards and waxed to a sheen, glistened in the meager blue light. He held his two great swords, Salvation and Condemnation, out wide. Both blades dripped blood by the cupful.

Aerland’s head was huge and nearly square, and his wide set eyes flicked in Ceredon’s direction when he emerged from the thicket around the clearing.

“Master Ceredon,” the chief ranger said, his speech slow and deliberate, his tone deep like a grunting bullfrog. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be with us.”

Ceredon reared back and tossed the head he’d hacked from the rebel’s corpse. It bounced twice and rolled, coming to a stop at Shen’s feet.

“I heard fighting,” he said, “so I followed it. The advance party fell under attack by a group of insurgents. I arrived too late to save your rangers, but I was able to kill two of the traitorous bastards before they fled.”

“Rebels succeeded in killing my men?”

“Yes. They were taken unawares.”

“Yet you live.”

Ceredon shrugged.

“Both were wounded, and this time I was the one doing the ambushing.”

The chief ranger grunted, cocked his head, and deliberately sheathed one of his two frightening swords.

“Do not run off again, Master Ceredon. You are under my protection while we patrol. Should you fall prey to the insurgents, the Neyvar will make sure it’s my head on that pile.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Ceredon said, “I am under your protection, but not your orders, Chief Shen. Should you have a problem with that, you can take it up with my father.”

Shen pointed the other sword at him and then slid it into the scabbard on his back beside its twin.

“Watch the way you speak, young prince,” he said.

The Ekreissar went about clearing the area. A group of twelve Dezren was summoned with six flat carts, onto which they slung the corpses of their renegade brothers. Ceredon tried to appear untroubled though he raged on the inside. These elves were cousins to his kind, two races created by the hands of the same goddess. Yet now the Quellan were considered the Dezren’s betters. Any Dezren elf who refused to bow before the Neyvar was thrown into the dungeons beneath Palace Thyne. The populace lived in fear, knowing that the slightest word might be taken as an offense worthy of execution.

He had argued vehemently with his father when he first caught wind of the plot to occupy the city. The Neyvar had chastised him and then locked him in his chambers for days without food. In the end, Ceredon had yielded. If he were to save these people, he would do it from the inside, with the support of an entire nation at his back.

His first act had been to free the Dezren of Stonewood from their cages, allowing them to flee the emerald city, and it was Aullienna Meln’s face he saw on the body of each dead elven girl that was carted past the palace gates. He wondered how she was, whether she were safe. He dreamed almost every night of the precocious young princess who had become like a sister to him.

For you, Aullienna, he thought. I do this for you.

As well as for yourself, his conscience corrected. He could not justify the cruelty he’d witnessed. His father was wrong if he thought he could belittle the populace into submission. The rebellion was proof of that.

The Dezren threw the last body on the carts and then collected the severed heads. With a crack of whips, they rolled down the path back toward the city. The Ekreissar followed, forming two equal lines, with Chief Shen in the lead. Ceredon lagged behind, looking at the darkened treetops one last time. He swore he saw the twinkling of eyes among the branches. He lifted his hand and made a fist, his thumb and pinky finger outstretched to either side in the Dezren gesture of unity. If there were indeed any rebels hiding up there, he hoped they saw him. And understood.

Palace Thyne was an immense structure of pure emerald, its spire rising two hundred feet into the air. Ceredon tramped up the steps leading inside, gladly leaving the gloomy afternoon behind. His head pounded from lack of sleep, and his jaw still ached from his clash with Teradon. The spiced tea and wickroot he’d taken to alleviate the pain had not yet performed its magic.

He passed by the Chamber of Assembly, a massive space that functioned as a throne room in a land without a king. Pausing, he glanced inside to see Lord Orden and Lady Phyrra Thyne kneeling before the giant statue of Celestia that dominated the rear pulpit. Their backs were to him, their heads bowed in prayer. He felt conflicted just looking at them. The Thynes had betrayed their own people by allowing his father to tramp over the populace and imprison whomever he wished.

Stop it, Ceredon thought. You cannot be too harsh on them. It was true. It wasn’t their fault they had been taken off-guard by a gesture of friendship veiling a darker purpose.

Lord Orden cleared his throat, and when his head swiveled around, Ceredon hurried out of view. He continued down the hall, made of solid gemstone, until he reached the entrance to the main stairwell. Deckland, a member of his father’s personal guard, bowed and stepped aside so he could enter.

It was a long climb up the fifteen flights of steps to the palace solarium. The sun-filled space was a tall and slender room, its walls smooth and shimmering green, filled with furniture crafted by centuries of talented Dezren hands. His father had once told him that all that remained of the history and glory of Kal’droth, the former home of the Quellan and Dezren before Celestia split the land in preparation for the coming of man, resided in this very place.

Neyvar Ruven Sinistel sat in a high-backed ivory chair positioned before the southwest-facing window, allowing the Neyvar a view of both the immense clearing in which the palace and supporting buildings were situated and the forest city beyond. His father’s long white hair was loose over his shoulders, so long it reached his waist. His flesh was as smooth and flawless as Ceredon’s own.

“Son, I’m glad you have come,” said the Neyvar, his eyes still gazing out the window.

Ceredon approached the chair and knelt beside it. “Why did you call, Father?” he asked.

The Neyvar tilted his head to the side, gazing on him with forceful gray-green eyes.

“I was told you broke etiquette early this morning. You left those meant to protect you.”

“I did,” Ceredon answered. He spoke cautiously, measuring every word. “I knew the scouts had been sent ahead, and then I spotted a group of insurgents leaping through the treetops. I tried to save the scouts, but I arrived too late.”

“I told you not to leave Aerland’s side,” his father said harshly. “You are my only heir, and you placed yourself in unspeakable danger.”

“I am a man grown, Father,” he replied, touching the smooth flesh on the back of the Neyvar’s hand. “I have lived for ninety-six years. I am more than capable of surviving without a platoon of men looking over my shoulder.” He paused, then said, “And I’m more than capable of besting an enemy.”

Neyvar Ruven nodded. “Yes, I heard you put an end to two rebels.”

“I did.”

“How did it make you feel?”

Ceredon shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “These creatures are beneath us. Those who betray our doctrines and strike at us with swords and arrows will receive the fate they deserve.”

His father withdrew his hand and patted him on the arm. He nestled back into his chair, a strange expression on his face, almost as if he were disappointed. “A hard doctrine. I suppose I should be proud.”

“So,” Ceredon said, trying to bridge the subject casually, “have you received any word from the rangers you sent out in search of the Melns?”

“No,” said his father. “I recalled those rangers months ago and sent them back to Quellassar. Lady Audrianna and her family are irrelevant now that outside parties have ‘forgiven’ our transgressions. If they live, they are without home or sanctuary. Let them suffer in the wilds. They pose no threat to us.”

The Neyvar shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes. Ceredon glanced around with uncertainty, then stood up and grabbed a second chair-this one simply wooden, though gracefully etched with vines and roses and lacquered to a shine-and placed it beside his father’s. He then sat down, staring out at the sparkling emerald city.

“This is ugly business,” Neyvar Ruven said after a short silence. “But some find it necessary.”

His father’s tone was delicate, and every word that came from his mouth sounded heavy with regret. It was a moment of weakness that took Ceredon off guard. He had not spent much time with his father over his near century of life. His mother, Jeadra, had raised him, teaching him his lessons and showing him how to love, and his servant Breetan had accompanied him on hunting excursions, demonstrating how to string a bow and swing a khandar. Neyvar Ruven had always been a lingering presence, one that offered harsh criticisms and pointed words, but not much else. There were times when he wished his mother had remained in Dezerea instead of returning to Quellasar to maintain the city, for Ceredon had come to look on his father as one who existed solely to inform him of his unworthiness.

There was none of that attitude now, and the suddenness of the change frightened him.

“What are you saying, Father?” he asked. It was near impossible to keep his voice from shaking.

The Neyvar turned to him once more, those gray-green eyes holding none of their usual force. He reached over and squeezed his son’s arm, though his grip seemed weak, as if all energy had been drained from him in the last few seconds.

“Look upon this place,” he said. “Gaze upon the beauty it has to offer. Dezerea is the crown jewel of our people, Ceredon. It says much that Celestia chose to descend from the heavens to help build it. You must appreciate it for that.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” he said. He felt his eyebrow twitch involuntarily, a nervous tic he hadn’t felt since the first time he’d spoken with Aullienna Meln.

His father shifted in his seat, leaned toward the window. He sounded almost whimsical when he spoke.

“You were not yet born when we turned down Celestia’s offer to foster the humans, and you were only two when the land was divided to make way for the brother gods and their new children. How much do you remember of leaving the ruins of Kal’droth?”

“Some,” Ceredon replied. “I remember Mother gathering our things, and I remember sailing south on the river and the hike that followed, but mostly I simply remember Quellassar being…home.”

“Yes,” his father said with a nod. “As well you should. After the destruction of our homeland, we were given the Quellan Forest to call our own. Previously there had been naught but a small fishing village there, but we went to work directly, creating a city among the trees.”

“Yes.”

“We are a capable people, driven and hardened by time and trial. But the Dezren…they have always been the more sensitive of Celestia’s children. Lord Orden refused to relocate to the Stonewood Forest, where Cleotis and his small faction of the Dezren had taken up residence long before. He blamed me for our race’s refusal to assist in the upbringing of the new humans-and he was right on that account. Because of his innocence, he wished to remain as close to his former homeland as he could. He pleaded with the goddess, and his pleas must have been hearty, for she appeared before his people in this very clearing and, with a touch of her glorious hand to the ground, she allowed their spellcasters to raise the structures you see before you from the very earth.

“Fittingly, the Dezren created a paradise within Paradise. And our people…our people were not amused. It seemed as though our creator were choosing them over us.…We Quellans were being punished again, just as we had been a thousand years earlier, when the last of our winged horses were destroyed during the Demon War. We were being punished for our strength. Why should the weak be rewarded with the goddess’s assistance, our people said, when we had worked our fingers to the bone to create our city?”

There was no derision in the Neyvar’s tone as he told this tale, which struck Ceredon as odd.

“Do you not agree with this?” he asked.

“No,” Neyvar Ruven replied. “I do not.”

Ceredon shook his head but remained silent, allowing his father to continue.

“To be honest,” he said finally, “I felt for our poor cousins. Our way of life is vastly different from theirs. While we Quellan have always taken pride in our strength, hard work, and physical prowess, the Dezren followed a different path. We are hunters and warriors, whereas they are poets, musicians, and mystics. While we built architectural marvels and learned to manipulate the land with our hands, they honed their connection to the magic that is woven throughout this land. We once balanced each other out; we taught them to build with their hands, and they instructed the few spellcasters among our own people. When our singers sing, it is the songs of the Dezren that flow from their mouths.” He sighed. “The coming of the brother gods changed that. They…disrupted things somehow. The connection our Dezren brethren had to the weave was weakened. Where once they could conjure great orbs of fire, command the lightning in the sky, and cause barren fields to suddenly take to seed, now it is all they can do to light a torch with their fingers or nurture a few plants to adulthood. I assume Celestia helped them erect this city out of pity.”

Ceredon looked at his father in wonder. “But why did this occur? What happened to their magic?”

“The gods took it. Think of it, son. We now have two deities walking on this land. The power it required to create their physical forms must have been massive. They are weakened in their current states, which has made them sieves for magical energy. They draw it into themselves, slowly rebuilding their strength so they might one day regain their lost might. There is not an unlimited supply of anything in the universe, including magic. Balance, my son, everything must have balance. The arrival of the two gods destroyed the balance in the land of Dezrel.”

“I see,” Ceredon said, nodding.

“However, I am in the minority of those who feel this way. Most of our people look down on the Dezren. They feel we have been disowned by our goddess and creator. They gape at this sparkling city and wonder why we were left to fend for ourselves by the sea. Then the anger runs deeper, and they wonder why we were forced to abandon our homes at all for that lesser race of humans. They question the fairness of it.”

“And you do not?”

The Neyvar smiled a sad smile. “I have. I have questioned everything. It is in my nature to do so. However, I came to peace with our status in this land long ago. I know Celestia loves us, even if she does not show it. I choose to think the goddess is challenging us because of our strength, not punishing us for it. But many think differently. We are the apex, they say, so we should take what we want rather than bending to the whims of a goddess that does not love us anymore. Then, a full four seasons ago, the opportunity to do just that came calling.

“That was when Karak’s Highest, Clovis Crestwell, visited Quellassar with a proposal for the Triad, a proposal that was finalized by his son and the Triad soon after the betrothal. His plan was to crush the western god and the Paradise he had created. If we assisted him and his people, Karak would grant us whatever land we desired, upon his victory. We came here under the pretense of friendship, becoming conquerors instead.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and Ceredon had to lean close to his father’s lips just to hear him. “If not for the brother gods’ damage of the weave, the Dezren would have crushed us with their magic the moment we attempted to usurp them. But instead they have become the weaker race that many have always assumed they were.” His eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Sometimes I wonder if this was Celestia’s design all along. A final test we have failed.”

Ceredon sat back, shaking his head. “I am truly lost, Father,” he said. “Why tell me all this now? Why enslave this city and its people when you don’t believe it is right…or righteous?”

When the Neyvar looked at him then, his eyes had regained their hardness.

“I am the leader of my people. It is my duty to carry out the wishes of the best and brightest among us, even if I do not agree. And I tell you now because you are to one day replace me. I am nearly five hundred years old, son. I will not live forever. You must know how to lead, how to sacrifice your personal beliefs for the good of the Quellan Empire. If you do not, our cousins will destroy you.”

“I thought you said the Dezren were helpless?”

“Not the Dezren. My cousins, your second cousins. The Triad, Ceredon.”

Ceredon gaped at his father. The Triad consisted of Conall, Aeson, and Iolas Sinistel. They had held the Neyvar’s ear for two hundred years, offering him counsel during times of strife. But the way he spoke of them in that moment…there was fear hidden beneath the Neyvar’s outward confidence.

“Are you saying the Triad forced you to do this?”

“I said nothing of the sort. Though there are times, far too many now, when their power overshadows mine.”

“So if you had your choice, you would not have overtaken this city?”

Neyvar Ruven did not reply. He simply grunted and turned his back to his son.

“Our time here is done,” he said, gazing once more at the bright city beyond the solarium’s windowpane. “Leave me.”

“Very well, Father,” he replied.

“One last thing,” said the Neyvar as Ceredon was about to get up and leave.

“What is it?”

“There will be other raids, ones that have nothing to do with the rebellion. Conall is steadfast in his desire to show his strength for…what comes later. Do not interfere with those like you have others. They will involve humans, not elves. And the affairs of elves should always retain primacy in our hearts.”

Ceredon bowed, replaced his chair, and left the solarium. He thought he heard his father, the great and powerful Neyvar of the Quellan Empire, moaning quietly as he walked away. A rush of embarrassment flooded him, followed by disappointment. This was what his father truly was? Not some immovable beacon of strength, but a tired, broken old elf? Who was he to bemoan his fate? Aullienna had remained hopeful and defiant despite her imprisonment and the murder of her people. Then it struck him.

“Do not interfere with those like you have others.…”

So his father knew. Of Ceredon’s role in the Dezren’s escaping the dungeons, his slaying of the Ekreissar ranger…he knew it all. Ice formed across Ceredon’s spine as he stood unmoving in the stairwell, trying to understand what it meant. He viewed the lengthy speech in a new light, and one part in particular stood out above all else.

“There are times, far too many now, when their power overshadows mine.”

Conall, Aeson, Iolas. The Triad, his father’s cousins. They were the ones who pulled the great leader’s strings; they were the ones who’d ordered the torture and murder of so many innocent Dezren. His father didn’t want Ceredon to offer him absolution or pity. No, he wanted to refocus Ceredon’s rage, to give him a target worthy of such a risk. The Triad would pay, and pay with pain. All Ceredon needed was the opportunity…and a wickedly sharp knife.