Chapter 28 Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sylvan woke before the sun had risen over the horizon, and while the sounds of the castle were muffled beneath the blanket of sleep. He stepped out into the hallway of his apartments and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes, relishing her scent. He imagined standing on the shores of Tridea, overlooking the soft push and pull of the ocean as it crept over the sand, smoothing the stones to near-perfect glass. She hadn’t disobeyed him. She was still here. With a nod of satisfaction, he threw his cloak over his shoulders and walked to the doorway.
He nodded to the two guards stationed outside and continued onward. His boots were the only sound in the corridors as he made his way to the front. Even outside in the courtyard, the roosters had yet to start crowing, and the pigs remained nestled in their beds of hay. Sylvan strode toward the barn. The doors groaned as he slid one side to the right and stepped inside.
“You reckon what time it is?” Dimitri called from the hayloft he called home.
“Late enough that you should be halfway through your morning chores,” Sylvan taunted as he moved toward Morias’ stall. The horse flicked his head and snorted. Everyone was apparently annoyed at the early hour.
The old stable worker slowly climbed down the ladder and started to light lanterns among the stalls to provide some light. A few horses nickered, cried out, and stomped their feet, demanding feed.
“Oh, hush, all of you,” Dimitri chastised. “It’s too early for that nonsense. He’s just got a wish to beat the sun, is all. Doesn’t mean your stomach needs to join the race.”
Sylvan tied the halter rope around Morias’ head and led him out while he cast a lingering look at the grey stallion in the next stall over.
“How’s the new stallion settling in?” Sylvan asked.
“Stubborn thing,” Dimitri said, walking toward Luoen’s stall. “Wants to fight but isn’t sure what he should be fighting about. How about the filly?” Dimitri propped an arm on top of the stall door and gave Sylvan a look any man would recognize as deep-seated curiosity of a female he would take on if only he were younger.
“About the same as her horse,” Sylvan said.
“You know what they say about horses,” Dimitri said. Morias squealed and kicked as Sylvan threw his saddle over his back. “Same temperament as their masters.”
Sylvan popped Morias on the rump, but the stallion merely flicked his head back, teeth bared. “Oh, come off it,” Sylvan grumbled. “We have work to do.”
“Does this early hour have anything to do with the flock of birds coming in, clambering to roost in your coop?” Dimitri asked, running his hand across Morias’ forelock.
Sylvan cocked a brow and smirked. “You heard about that?”
“The whole damn castle’s heard about that. Got women coming in and out of here all day, hoping to catch the eye of the infamous Mate Killer,” Dimitri said with a scoff.
“You know I’ve never liked the name.”
“Doesn’t mean it ain’t true.”
“So if I called you a crusty old buzzard with a nose for getting into things not his business, you wouldn’t mind?” Sylvan asked as he brought Morias’ bridle from the rack.
“If it were true, I wouldn’t.”
“Uh, huh, move,” Sylvan said.
“‘Course, Your Highness.”
“What about the filly? Is she part of your brood?”
Sylvan didn’t answer for a moment. “She’s only a maid.”
“And I’m young, spry, and virile,” Dimitri said, his face unimpressed.
“You know she’s lying, too?”
“You ever seen a maid with a beast of that quality who answers to her beck and call?” Dimitri asked, pointing a bony finger at Luoen. “If she’s some kind of secret princess or high-falooten lady, would you mate her?”
Sylvan put his leg in his stirrup, grabbed hold of his pommel, and heaved himself onto Morias’ back. The destrier immediately started to pace in place, awaiting the slightest signal to burst through the barn doors.
“No,” Sylvan answered.
“Then I ain’t the only fool awake before he should be in this barn,” Dimitri said, stepping out of the way of Morias’ pounding feet.
Sylvan rolled his eyes and applied the slightest pressure of his heels to Morias’ side. The warhorse took off. By the time he reached the barn door, all four feet were off the ground in a full gallop. He tore around the house, riding through dense fog and morning dew that would coat Morias’ legs up to his knees. Sylvan gripped his reins, the subtle cue for Morias to proceed with caution as the entrance to the forest surrounding Aerhart Castle came into view. The horse slowed by only a degree as he entered.
Normally, wolves would shift in these woods. They’d cover the soft earth on wolf paws, relishing in the way the earth would cup their pads and their claws would sink into the dirt. Sylvan, however, didn’t shift more than necessary… or really at all. His wolf was dangerous, unpredictable. Most wolves would hunt in these woods, finding a deer, a rabbit, a boar on a rare occasion. His wolf would hunt for larger game: mountain lions, horses, other wolves. If it didn’t have anything to whet its appetite, it would look closer to the city, inside the castle itself. Instead, Sylvan chose to ride his horse and leave it to him to carry them through the darkened pathways.
Morias slowed as he neared the spot Sylvan always asked him to. Even after five years, these woods were like coming home to both of them. He dismounted, hobbled Morias’ feet, and removed his bridle so that he might graze while he waited for his meeting. He sat down on a log beside the creek that meandered through the woods. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of quiet.
This was the one place he didn’t need to keep a vigil on the wolf within his mind. The babbling of the creek, the early morning songs of the birds, the skittering of critters at his feet, and the methodical swipe and crunch of grass from Morias’ grazing were enough to make everything inside him mind… still.
He’d discovered the place as a child. He’d accidentally broken one of his father’s swords. He knew what it meant: a lashing in town square. He thought if he took to the forest, he’d outrun his father. It was here, at an age far too young for a wolf, that he’d felt its presence within himself for the first time. Perhaps it was his fear, the anger at the injustice of the way he was treated as a child, the anxiety of facing the crowd, that forced the darker, more protective side to the surface. He didn’t shift. No, that wouldn’t come for years. But on that day, he’d felt him, the dark, looming presence that would define him for his entire life.
A twig snapped, and Sylvan opened his eyes. He didn’t become startled. He recognized the scent of Theodore, his scout, almost immediately.
“Come and sit, Theodore,” Sylvan suggested.
“Very kind of you, Your Highness.”
Theodore sat down beside him, his nakedness proving to Sylvan that the scout had kept his word and brought him news he’d been seeking before venturing home.
“What news do you bring of Tridea?”
“The enemy’s trials have begun which captures much of the interest of the population. They await public executions with trepidation. Rebels are being rounded up and shipped out to various nations to be put to work until they can commute their sentences and rejoin the population.”
“When will the first batch arrive at Aerhart?” Sylvan asked.
“By the end of next week.”
“Good, what else?”
“There is much unrest, Your Highness.”
“How bad is it? Boregard or Solelei?
“Worse than Selolei, Your Highness.”
Sylvan looked over to the man with dirt coating most of his person. Theodore was adept at unearthing intel. He did so by masking his scent, his nation of origin, and the usual high status he’d grown accustomed to in Eredhal. He posed as a common street beggar: someone invisible, inconsequential, whom people wouldn’t think twice about gossiping around.
“How much worse?”
“There is much dissension. Many of the citizens do not wish to bow to the crown of Eredhal.”
“That is normal.”
“True, Your Highness, but this level of hatred is something I haven’t seen before.”
“Do you think it is our treatment of the fae?”
“It is certainly a key aspect, Sir.”
“What other aspects are there?”
“There is worry about their resources. Some say that because of your treatment of the fae, the magic may run dry. They worry for their climate, their prosperity, their culture. Many have taken to stockpiling goods, money, and valuables in underground shelters.”
“I’ll admit the last part is a bit extreme.”
“The majority of its people and the source of the dissension is much more peculiar, Your Highness.”
“Tell me.”
Theodore turned on the log as though this news were more important than anything he’d ever delivered. “They say the kingdom of Eredhal has stolen something from their lands. A great power, a source of the fae’s magic.”
“A trinket? A soldier looting a corpse, perhaps?” Sylvan guessed.
Theodore shook his head. “No, sir, not a trinket but rather a living relic. Something with the power to not only drive out the Eredhal army but to restore balance to the lands of the continent, the entire continent. Something that can not only reinvigorate the magic that flows through the waters of Tridea, but bring back to life the entire fae kingdoms as they once knew it.”
“What else have you learned of this great power?” Sylvan asked.
Theodore shook his head. “There is nothing else, Your Highness. Only that the entire nation is willing to revolt, start up an entirely new war to have it returned.”