Page 7 of To Kill a King
The closest of her father’s men gaped at her with familiar green eyes. “What are you doing, Aliya? Let us bring you home.” He gestured to the stranger in the royal colors. “Or would you rather the king’s soldiers find you, instead? Don’t make things worse for yourself.”
She threw herself against him, trying to break his grip. “You don’t understand. He really will kill me!”
Hart, the captain, rolled his eyes. “Quit being so dramatic. Why would His Majesty do that?”
She flinched and swallowed hard. Her throat burned with unshed tears. Why wouldn’t anyone listen? “We grew up together! You know I’m not a liar, and I don’t exaggerate!”
Hart paused and glanced away for a heartbeat. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “It’s not that I don’t believe you think that. But he’s the king. Disobeying his orders will get me executed.” He sighed and stepped back, shaking his head.
Her hopes rose.
Another guard pulled a strip of cloth from his belt and bound her wrists. “The ropes are infused with iron. Can’t have you trying more magic on us.”
Hart winced. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
“No, stop!” She struggled as the guards dragged her back to town.
Chapter 2
Elessan
Elessan Svialto ducked into the room he’d rented from the human downstairs. He brandished his sword and squinted. The chamber was dim with the window shutters fastened—it was twilight, after all. But he saw better in the dark than most; it was the only benefit to being one of the few remaining mountain elves.
He threw back his hood, exposing his pointed ears.
The space was empty. No assassins crouched in the shadows; no surprises awaited him. It looked like his contact in Lions Grove had been competent. This time.
The last few months had been more challenging than normal when it came to sorting accurate intel from the superstitions and rumors that plagued the human peasants. Almost like someone was intentionally spreading misinformation to trip him up.
Not that he was egotistical enough to think it had anything to do with him personally. Likely, it was just another cog in the Cerel propaganda machine, designed to feed public support for the war while simultaneously making his job more difficult.
He shoved his blade into the sheath at his hip and let his backpack slip from his shoulder. It dropped to the floor beside the door with a thunk. His cloak followed. The elven bow and quiver of arrows he took care to gently set on top of the crumpled fabric. Kneeling, he undid the intricate knot that tied his pack closed and pulled out two wedge-shaped rocks and a polished cabochon blue moonstone. He banged the wedges together until the flint and steel caught on the wick of the lone candle sitting on the writing desk. A bit of light peeked through the shuttered window, but that would soon fade.
He removed a parchment tube from his bag and unrolled it. The flint and steel made excellent paperweights in addition to the glossy gem to keep the edges from curling in. He set a mirror of silvered glass twice the size of his fist over the fourth corner.
He wasn’t due to scry with Princess Tsara, his contact with the sun elves, for several days, but the unexpected hubbub in town might warrant an exception. From the colors of the banners hanging throughout the streets, someone high in the nobility was getting married. And the elven royals liked to be kept apprised of important happenings in the human realm in case they could be used to their advantage.
Biting his lower lip, he peered at the scrying mirror.
He ran his fingers over the markings on the parchment, a map of the enemy realm with all the information he’d been able to gather over the last several months. Supply lines, weapons and provisions, even garrison stations. He tapped his finger over Lions Grove as he frowned at the orange flame symbol next to the name. There was a mage somewhere in the human’s capital. At least, according to the faintest of rumors, and not just any magic user, but one among the nobility.
Which was unlikely, given the monarch’s tendency to murder any and all mages he could get his hands on. If there was such a magic user, they’d have to be very cunning to avoid detection, living in close proximity to King Malkov.
And Elessan was going to meet them if it was the last thing he did. If they were in the crown’s inner circle, they’d be a great asset to the elves if they could be persuaded to help overthrow the murderous despot.
He wrapped his hand around his sword hilt. He’d either convince the unknown magic user to join their cause, or they would need to die. The sun elf king would demand nothing less, and Elessan tried to not question his orders. Most of the time, anyway.
The scrying mirror pulled his attention again. Today was his mother’s name-day. If Princess Tsara wasn’t busy, perhaps she’d allow them to speak, given the occasion. He brushed his fingers over the quartz frame, activating it.
The crystal glowed a rich purple as the silvered glass cleared, revealing a writing table and a plush chair upholstered in velvet.
“Tsara?” He waited several heartbeats in case the princess was in her study, just out of view. “Tsara, are you there?”
Silence.
With a sigh, he rubbed his palm over the mirror again, deactivating it. She was a busy person, with many demands on her schedule. It was unreasonable to expect her to be sitting at her desk, patiently awaiting his unexpected scry.
But it would have been nice to talk to another elf. Especially his mother. It had been so long since they’d spoken.