Days Of Light And Shadow (6 page)

Leafshade wasn’t the place he wanted to spend his days. But as assignments went it wasn’t so terrible, nor even trivial. Leafshade was an important trading city for his people, as well as the capital of Elaris and home of the elves’ precious High Lord. Here more than anywhere else, he knew, he would be able to make a name for himself, to truly earn the title of Lord in his own right. To make his family proud.

He had not been able to do that during his year among the trolls. Mostly what he had been able to do there was learn to ride in his sleep as the trolls ceaselessly followed their prey across their rocky realm. He had also learned to eat raw meat, bring down a deer at two hundred paces with his crossbow, pitch a tent in the freezing snow, and light a fire with only a couple of twigs. That had been a long hard year, and by the end of it, he had understood why the assignment was always given to either newcomers to the profession, or those who had upset the king.

His days in Leafshade were also better than his time in the mission to Catalbria, where he’d spent close to two years trying to live in a land designed for little people. True the gnomes weren’t actually that short, most of the people standing at least as high as his shoulder, but they designed their doorways for people no taller, which meant he had to bend double entering most buildings. That did not do wonders for a man’s back. The elves at least were nearly of human height, and they liked their archways, something that his spine found a blessing.

And his time here had to be better than any he might one day have to spend in the dwarven cities, burrowed deep into their immense mountains. He dreaded being assigned to the mission in Ironhold. There he understood the sun never shone and the diet consisted of edible fungi and farmed vermin. Worse than that though was the smell. Dwarves didn’t consider bathing a necessity, and locked away in the cavernous underground cities where little fresh air flowed, the aroma was described as invigorating by even the most diplomatic. Iros had never visited those cities, and he never wanted to.

He dearly hoped that when his time was up here, and assuming his parents weren’t finally ready for him to return home and start taking up the mantle of lordship, the king would not send him to act as envoy to the dwarves. Anything but that. The gnomes, the sprites, even the trolls again.

Still he had at least three years before he had to worry about that. Three years in a far more comfortable city. Three years with people he could spend some time with.

The low born of course. Not the nobles.

All he had to do was swallow his pride and get through his next three years in this land. And maybe then he could finally go home and celebrate by running through the streets barefoot. Drinking himself into a stupor in some of the inns with his friends. Or hunting frogs. That had always been fun. And even more fun when he’d made it back to the castle and his mother and heard her lament the state of his clothes. She’d always lamented his boyish ways, and he’d always secretly loved it when she did. It was even worth being thrust into the bath.

It had been so long since he had been home. Since he had seen the endless green grass of the grazing lands. Since he had spent some time with his family, instead of simply sending endless letters.

That in the end was the truth. If Leafshade truly lacked in anything it was really in that it wasn’t his home, and he missed his home.

He missed the dirty streets of Greenlands, streets filled with traders and children and various others all jostling one another as they went about their day. He missed the cat calls of the women of the night as they advertised their availability, and the cries of the traders as they too advertised their wares. He missed the rough, worn stone work of the buildings, houses and shops that might not be so pretty but which would stand for a thousand years. He missed being able to just cut loose and run barefoot and free in the markets with not a care in the world. He missed being able to drink himself under the table in any of a dozen inns and knowing that when he did he wouldn’t be alone. He missed the women too. Real women with curves, not these refined sticks in elegant robes.

But those were dreams from the past. A dozen years in the past. For the present there were no dreams, only duties. And formality of course.

“Envoy.” Just as he was dismissing Pita to go about his duties Iros heard his name called and looked up. Elder Yossirion was heading his way at a more than respectable pace, waving enthusiastically to him as his quarterstaff tapped out a somewhat hurried tattoo on the stone path, and the sight made him smile.

The elder’s robe was somewhat disarrayed, threadbare in places, his long golden hair floated freely in the gentle breeze, unrestrained as it should normally be, and his walk was as ever a little too fast for the measured pace that was expected among his people. The elder was possibly the most unelven elf he had ever met. But then he was an elder and Iros suspected it was a matter of pride with him that he didn’t conform.

Just being an elder was a mark of nonconformity. Priests still kept the names of their houses, but taking that next step to the status of elder meant putting aside that connection. If the elder could be said to have any house, it was the Grove.

He still didn’t fully understand the relationship between the high lord and the Grove. He wasn’t completely sure that the elves did either. But what he did know was that where the high lord was a spoilt little child from the great houses, playing at being a ruler, the priesthood actually seemed to run much of the place. Finell could make his grand pronouncements, set in motion his laws and his policies, but if the priesthood didn’t like them, they would soon be forgotten. He suspected that that was in part why the people had tolerated Finell’s rule these past two and a half years. They ignored it.

“Elder.” Iros greeted him politely, actually quite pleased to see the elf. If there was one person in this city that he could enjoy spending time with, it was Yossirion. The man was interesting company, and he could play a truly outstanding game of quo’ril, the most vexing strategic board game he had ever encountered. Add to that that he had magic, a subject that Iros was eternally fascinated by, and it was no wonder that he’d spent many a pleasant afternoon speaking with the elder. Too often though, what the elder really wanted to talk about was the poor health of the mission’s gardens. He was in the end, an elf.

“Enough of that Iros.” The elder brushed away his politeness with a wave of his hand and a frustrated snort. “You’re a man, act like one.”

“Of course elder.” Naturally if there was one thing he couldn’t do it was exactly what the elder demanded. But then he’d surely always known that would be the case. Everyone else had to do the same. Still Yossirion managed another snort of disdain.

“So be it child.” The elder let out an exasperated sigh. “With every day that passes you become more and more like one of these high born fools. But if that’s your wish I will not hold it against you.” Though of course he would remind him of it every time they met. He enjoyed pointing out his failings.

“And at least there’s one honest soul among us.” Unexpectedly the elder went down on one knee and held out his arms for Saris and she quickly ran to him, accepting his attentions with all the grace she could muster. Naturally that involved a lot of yipping, some small growls, plenty of nuzzling, the occasional toss of her head and the excited beating of her surprisingly long tail against the ground. She didn’t do that for just anyone, and Iros was constantly surprised by how much she liked the elder. He wouldn’t dare to bring her to the Court. Even if she didn’t bite, she could growl, and when she didn’t like many of them, there could be some very offended high born elves. But then he liked to think that she was a good judge of character.

“Walk with me.” Finished with the jackal hound, the elder stood up, reached out and grabbed his arm, turning him around, and then began leading him back the way he had come, and just when Iros had almost reached his destination. But still he wouldn’t object. He wouldn’t even point out how odd it was for an elf to be physically almost dragging him along the path like an errant child, or that people were staring. It wasn’t his place and Yossirion wouldn’t have cared anyway.

“Do you know what that rotten little child has done now?” By rotten little child the elder naturally meant High Lord Finell. He was never sparing in his criticism of the high lord. Never quiet about it either. But then he didn’t have to be diplomatic. Even though his words surely got back to him, Finell could not touch him. No ruler would ever dare touch one of the priesthood. The people would not have it. Finell he thought, must hate that. Another reason to like the elder.

“Elder?”

“He’s gone and hired more guards for that accursed prison he and that black blood Y’aris have built. More guards! We never even had a prison before, and now we have one and it needs more guards. Just how many prisoners does he think it’s going to hold?” He rushed on with his tirade before Iros could answer him.

“And then there’s those damned inquisitors as well. Creeping around the city like hunting spiders. By the beauty of the Mother, why does anyone need inquisitors? And why are they always masked?”

It wasn’t the first time Elder Yossirion had been upset with the prison, and quite likely he had cause. The elven lands had always been peaceful and law abiding. The few crimes they did have were mostly settled by tribunals hastily convened, and the punishments made to fit the crime. Reparations and hard labour for however long, in the service of the victim was the norm. It was a similar system to the one they used in Greenlands. There the town prison was mostly used for holding drunks until they sobered up. Iros had spent a few nights in it himself as a young man.

Yet the guards for the prison were the least of the things that Iros worried about. Even the grey cloaked inquisitors that sometimes walked the streets in their robes and masks, frightening people, weren’t too much of a worry. He’d seen people like that before, though usually executioners didn’t wear their hoods out in public. What troubled him, though he did not dare discuss it openly, was that every day he seemed to see more and more black cloaked elves in chain armour wandering the streets. The Royal Watch they were called, but he knew them for what they truly were, an army.

The City Watch in their grey cloaks and green trim kept order in the streets and chased down thieves and the like. And for the most part they were decent elves doing a good job. He’d had many a pleasant conversation with them. The rangers protected travellers from the dangers of the wilds, and their leather and chain armour was hardly ever seen in the city. Probably because they weren’t all elves, and not even all of a single race. But again, whenever he met with them, he found them to be good people.

But the Royal Watch didn’t speak. Not to him. And as far as he could tell, they performed no other function than that of an army. They protected no one save the high lord. They just wandered the streets in their ones and twos, frequented the inns where they drank the ale and mead stocks dry, drilled in the open areas, and occasionally harassed people going about their normal business. Mostly the low born and mixed bloods, and of course outsiders. They made their lives a misery.

If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Leafshade was a city preparing for war. But with who? He’d sent many pigeons back to the king with his concerns, and heard nothing in reply, though he was surely heard.

“I understand your frustration elder.” And he did. But there was nothing he could do about it. About any of it.

“This never would have happened under Gerwyn. He understood what it is to be an elf. If he could look down upon his son now he would cry.” Iros carefully said nothing, since whatever he did say could only be seen as a mistake. Either he would insult the memory of the former high lord or the current one. So Iros simply waited for the elder to continue.

“You must do something. You must say something in the Court this afternoon. You must stop this madness.” Iros could see that the elder had worked himself up into a state, clearly believing that this prison of Finell’s was a serious failing. A blight on the land. And maybe it was. But there was little that he could do. It was an internal matter. He was only given leave to speak on matters that concerned the relations between Finell’s people and King Herrick’s.

“I’m sorry elder, but you know that that’s out of my bailiwick.” Of course nothing was out of his bailiwick as far as the elder was concerned. He believed that all people of good heart should stand and be heard, and he was probably right. So it hurt Iros to see the look of disappointment appear on the elder’s face. It reminded him of his mother’s face whenever he’d done something disreputable again. And he had been a difficult child.