Chapter Two
“How do I sound?” Ceron posed in front of the elegant, carved mirror in his ‘country lord’ attire. His human liaison in the Northlands had chosen the very best inn in Kermilin for his stay. Raw wood walls and floors polished only by the tread of years of feet surrounded him. Rustic decorations—framed needlework, mosaics, and a dull metal sword hung on the walls. Heavy furniture made of dark, fragrant wood took up most of the small room.
But the feather-stuffed mattress was soft, and the bedding clean. It was the most he could hope for. He wasn’t so far disconnected from the common people that he couldn’t relax in such a setting. Though far larger than the Northlands, the land of Aichinn was poor, and his definition of ‘finery’ was only a few levels higher.
He plucked at his shirt, a long homespun tunic of royal purple, decorated with silvery thread at the hem and cuff. His wardrobe was his only indulgence in Aichinn. Much different than the tailored fashions he preferred, the homespun shirt and snug cotton breeches hung on his tall, lean frame. “Will I pass as a country lord visiting the Faire?” His tongue flopped around in his mouth as he tried to imitate the accents of the Northlands. Perhaps he shouldn't try to fake an accent. It would be better to try and stifle his own.
His manservant, a young goblin with a face like a withered apple, cocked one furry eyebrow. “You got something in your mouth, King?” He held up a pair of tall leather boots. “You wear these, too.”
“No, Vezo, I don’t have anything in my mouth. What does that mean?”
“You sound like you gotta full mouth. Blar-bluh-blah-blar!” The goblin fell backwards, laughing hysterically. “Tongue's gone wrong!”
“Stupid little creature.” Ceron swiped at the insolent goblin. Vezo dodged away, still cackling. “Where’s Cormorant?” The man once lived in the Northlands, so his assistance in procuring currency, lodgings, and the appropriate clothing had been invaluable. Ceron planned to reward him handsomely once they returned to Aichinn.
Vezo, on the other hand, would be lucky if he wasn’t cast into a bottomless ravine. Impertinent and inept, the sneaky goblin left Ceron on edge.
“Cormorant go find food. Vezo wants to eat, too.”
“Fine, then, go. But if you breathe one word of where we are truly from, I will string you up by your toes from the gallows and let the crows pick the flesh off your bones.”
Vezo scowled. “You telling a story, King. You love Vezo.”
Ceron lashed out and snatched the thigh-high creature up by the ankle. “You still think I’m lying, Vezo?” He shook the goblin so hard all the pilfered gold coins fell from ragged pockets and clattered to the floor. Vezo yowled and flailed about wildly. Ceron released him and he crashed to the floor. The goblin rolled away, shedding bits of his scavenging. Beads and tiny baubles vanished into nooks and crannies in the pitted, scarred floor.
Ceron swept his fingers through the air and every glittery bit of junk flew to the center of the room and formed a small ball that glimmered in the candlelight. Vezo growled, low in his throat. This goblin was an oddity among those from the goblin city. The residents of the chaotic village were unwaveringly loyal, and this particular one, while more intelligent and ruthless than his brethren, had more than a whiff of the wild magic tainting his aura. Ceron guided the ball higher, higher, until it hung near the ceiling. He dashed it to the floor with a simple flick of his hand.
“You’ll do my bidding, you insignificant little wretch. When we return home, perhaps I won’t have you beheaded.”
Vezo scuttled for the safety of the darkest corner of the room. He sat in the shadows and whimpered.
I should destroy them all. Goblins overran his kingdom and plagued him constantly with their petty disputes. As a race, they had a skewed sense of ownership that led to contention with any humans living within miles. Within the goblin city, enchantments surrounded the city, placed by the vanished Renaia race.
Though renai, the magic of the desert, ran in his veins, his distant ancestors, the Renaia, were long absent from the Darklands. His own mother was Renaia, one of the last full-blooded in the entire kingdom, but she’d long since vanished, undone by his father’s cruelties and vicious nature. His father had been dead for three years. It was time for Ceron to claim his future.
His diluted strain of Renaia blood gave him that power, his beauty, and an unscrupulous reigning hand. Soon, he would fulfill his destiny and give the Darklands life. He spun a glamour around himself to obscure his tell-tale features. Very few would be able to see through it.
“Go fetch my supper,” he ordered Vezo. “And if I find a single grain of dirt on any of it, I’ll banish you to Thorn Valley.”
Vezo whined in dismay and scuttled out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Ceron sighed and began to take off the carefully tailored clothing. The Faire commenced in the morning. Vezo would scout the Keyholder booths for him and find an apprentice that matched his needs. Young, untrained, naïve.
Someone who would fall for lies of romance and seduction.
Or adventure. He could spin that web just as easily.
Vezo returned with a tray laden with stew, bread, and a flagon of water. He placed it on the rough table and stood, rocking back and forth on his big, flat feet. Ceron flicked his hand dismissively. “Leave me. I’ll summon you in the morning.”
The goblin vanished into the dim hallway. Sounds from the main room of the inn filtered through the floor, the sounds of merrymaking and happiness. Ceron growled beneath his breath, finding no joy in the gathering. Passing through the dining room earlier, the ecstatic smiles and raucous laughter grated against his nerves like jagged stone.
He ate in solitude. The hearty, flavorful stew surprised him, and the sweetness of the bread took his mind off his obsession for a moment as he chewed and swallowed. How long had it been since the Darklands had wheat? Or vegetables as healthy as the ones floating in the stew? His charmed gardens and orchards produced enough to feed his household, but most of his people spent most of their lives with hunger gnawing at their bellies. He speared a hunk of meat and savored the decadent morsel. And meat…He chewed, every mastication bringing on more and more guilt.
No wonder the people of the Northlands were plump and rosy-cheeked.
Bitterness rose in his throat, killing his appetite. He pushed the bowl towards the center of the table and sipped water until the last traces of the thick, rich stew were gone from his mouth. When I achieve my goal, Darklanders will feast like this every day. No more stunted wheat or sickly animals. When the magic returns to our lands, no one will waste away.
He moved the chair to the window and watched the festivities unspool down the main street. Music danced on the night air, illusive, hypnotic. Fireworks glittered and popped high overhead. People laughed and chattered, the sounds indistinct but insulating against the darkness of the night.
For moment, he longed to join the crowd downstairs. To speak to others, and to laugh with them. To see what made them smile and to hear the stories of their lives.
What would it be like to reach out…?