Chapter 37

In the sap of time, a new day is born, and with it. Problems follow.

An emergency conclave.

A conclave is an administration meeting with all the high-ranking political figures present: senators, officials, lawmakers and so forth. My father was once in attendance as a foreign representative on matters that demanded his intellectual expertise. The conclave is a government broth where notions and appeals stew, and disputes brew about the stability of Sorcia. Whatever decisions are unanimous, they will be passed onto the Xercra to either be vetoed or rectified.

The gathering is held in a separate building of the palace, still safe within its towering walls. Usually, such imperial assemblies are only deliberated by its illustrious members. So I was quite astounded to find out that us candidates, foreigners, were invited to observe their political affairs.

I suppose a lesson in foreign politics. Now, this I can understand, but I'm marginally curious as to why they agreed to it. But I presume the future Ruler among us will need to be involved in affairs of the realm. No matter what judgement they make, it must stay within the boundaries of the treaties with other neighbouring kingdoms. Most importantly within limitations of the High King's regulations.

We are collected as one from the Xercra's residences to journey to the conclave's place of gathering. We all stream inside, slow in our pace, taking time to marvel at the architecture. At least I am. The structure is spherical and huge, erected from immaculate white granite from the floor to the crown moulding. The domed ceiling is made from glass, allowing a flood of scintillating sunlight to illuminate everything in sight into a blinding brilliance.

My floor-length dress practically camouflages with my surroundings. The straps are thin with golden clasps that hold onto the silky river that flows behind me as I walk. Inside there are no seats or aisles, boxes, or galleries. Only a double-stepped ring, broad with only two thick ledges for steps that encircle the epicentre of the structure. Duce Merian shoos us to a corner where we group ourselves close enough to observe from a respectful distance. For now, we wait. I stand flanked by the only two Herems that I tolerate. Solaris and Vince.

Vince's torso tilts towards me. "I'm glad to see that you have sobered. Your wits... assembled," he says lowly. His tenor tickled by amusement.

I sneak a peek of him, mending my posture. "I was not inebriated to begin with...I simply have not had Blue Vinum in a long time. I misremembered its effects. Besides." A smile creeps onto my face. "Even inebriated, I'm still more clear-headed than you."

He makes a small irksome sound, disagreeing. "That is debatable."

I reply with a swift elbow to the ribs, drawing out a stifled laugh from him. Duce Merian slants forward, out of alignment. He blisters us both with a glare. I compress my lips, folding them inwards to muffle a laugh of my own.

Finally, the members of the conclave enter from where we did. All of them are dark-skinned beings with delicate tattoos, dressed in draping garments, pinned by elaborate brooches and capes to add to their grandeur. With a shiny colour scheme of white, stark blue and auburn. They all move to stand on the enormous steps, filling both of them. One of the senators stands at the centre as they begin their governmental summit. Their proceedings start and, as expected, they converse in Torin.

"Alternate plans need to be made for both food security, and the safety of the people of His Holiness. High King Urus seems too preoccupied with preserving his reign. He disregards the needs of those he has an obligation to," one of them spurs.

Several heads nod in mute accord.

"The emergence of the Ulris should be his chief concern. I even resent the vacancy of the Vanguard outpost, who were dispatched to quell some unknown aggression, again, to preserve his rule. The loss of those soldiers means no rapid aid in the event of an attack."

The strongest military influence are the armies of the High King that serve to maintain peace and order, demonstrating the power of the Crown, so that none will rise up against the true Ruler of the realm. With outposts and compounds spread throughout Urium as the policing force to crush any resistance. There are bastions even on the borders of independent domains; a lingering threat. There are the Generals, Commanders, and the Legatus. The highest rank of the north, east, west, and southern armies.

The elite military, specialised forces, is the Avangard. And the top rank is a Primus.

Primus.

The Vanguard are stationed everywhere; they live under the guise of upholding amity. But many believe that it is the Crown's way of reminding everyone who wields true power, and a warning to all who seek to oppose it.

"The Black Death," he raves on with fervour, his animosity echoing. "This plague has damaged nearly thirty percent of our farmlands in this region alone. This blight will cause a famine in the lands and all people will starve, not only our own."

The conclave clamour in fearful agreement.

Another senator adds his opinion, "For cycles, we have been under the boot of a High King. Sorcia has grown strong, strong enough to stand on its own. Perhaps we should break away from his regime, and rid ourselves of incompetent Rulers," he says and pauses, glowering at us all accusingly.

Many others that silently share his view cast grievous looks at us.

"And by doing that, you anger our High King and send all his armies to remind us why he is High King," another gravel voice says in a harsh tone. "That kind of radical talk is dangerous, especially with the current company. Whether they understand our tongue, the High King's eyes and ears do—" he glances pointedly at Duce Merian, "—and I am certain he will report all he knows to him. Watch your words."

"Radical talk prompts for imperative, radical action," he barks back and revolves. Exchanging glances with his fellow high ranks, he says, "If our High King will not put the interests of his own realm first, by prioritising our plight that threatens not only us but the whole of Urium. Then we should do it ourselves."

The senator moves, disappearing out of our field of view, then the rows of high ranks facing our sides split in half. Reappearing, he glides towards us with daunting elegance. His hands entwined in front of him, silver shimmering across his dark knuckles.

Duce Merian steps forward and raises a placating hand.

The senator stabs an austere finger in his direction, but his fire-filled eyes are set on us.

"Purebloods of the Decuria," he says in Arkian.

All the Herems erect with aware aggression.

"And that is all you will be," he says, intending it as a slight. "The anarchy that rises within the realm, it shall mark the dawn of a new age. An Age of Dominion, where every kingdom, Capital, or even tribe shall rule themselves. The time of a High Ruler should end. And it shall."

***

Nightfall shrouds the land.

I should sleep. But there is a restlessness inside of me that stirs, irritates, and unabates in its determination to demand my attention. So I succumb. I leave my bedchambers, along with my daggers. My laundress had taken my clothes to have them cleansed. For casual evening wear, I'm outfitted in a strapless, gentle blue dress with a clyde skirt. A silk transparent shawl is swathed around my shoulders, held together by my own folded arms. I embark on a journey of my own, exploring the remarkable palace grounds at my leisure. Like an apparition, I drift, wander and roam. Nightguards are posted everywhere. A deep-seated comfort.

The conclave was...distressing, to say the least. I wrong no domain for wishing independence and to be self-determined, but that ambition will come at a cost. The Crown will never yield power. A tenuous peace has governed Urium for so long, but that tenuousness is becoming completely volatile. The senator was right. If Sorcia revolts, the Crown will move swiftly to thwart their attempt.

But how can anyone find fault with them for seeking sovereignty?

At some point, I amble down a colonnade. I emerge into an interior court garden. And it's marvellous, a botanical feat. The planting is varied with exotic trees that line the tiled pathways. The garden is a collaboration of parterres, groves, pools, canals, fountains, and marble statues. The parquet circle is characterised by geometric planting beds, mythology-themed statues, and monumental fountains. North of the terrace, manicured ornamental gardens slopes gently down to a pool. The path is lined with sculptures and symmetrical topiaries, bordered by imposing hedgerows. My personal favourite is an immense iridescent pool adorned with a sculpture of a triumphant being driving a four-horse chariot, emerging from the water.

Eventually, I locate a bench, seating myself on it.

I listen to the sound of multiple cascades of water, spilling into fountains in an idyllic repetition. The unapologetic brine of strongly scented salt overcomes the air. The—I inhale a sharp breath.

"Hera."

I pivot my torso, watching a herculean figure peel from the shadows. Primus Kelan. He draws back his hood and exposes himself by stepping into a pool of moonlight. His are obsidian, fathomless depths that threaten to drown me. He is not dressed in his usual uniform but in a thin dark cloak that bears no sleeves and it is open. Divided like curtains, a leather camisole beneath with a top stand collar. His iron-forged arms are on display. Even in the feeble moonlight, I can see the roping veins.

I resist the urge to rise.

I take a moment to respond, to ensure my resolve. "Primus Kelan," I say. My tone too cheerful.

He scans the gardens. But not in a way one would gaze at such picturesque landscaping, unaffected by its beauty. His assessing gaze scours, surveying as if in search of something, to make certain of no potential peril.

"Trouble finding sleep?" he asks, voice firm yet bolstering. His eyes are still combing through every leaf and petal.

"It continues to elude me," I say, and a smile comes so easily.

Primus Kelan looks down at me. His face is a resplendent blank canvas, devoid of anything that I can detect.

Eager to keep him with me, I say, "It is odd to see you out of your uniform and armour... this cavalier look becomes you."

His eyebrows knit together. He twists his shoulders to depart from me.

But of course I will not let him. "Kelan."

He halts abruptly, like me uttering his name was a command from the High King himself.

My face caught between a cringe and a smile. "Permit me to ask but how will you spend your night?"

He swivels back around to face me. I never knew the night had eyes, nor that darkness had a form. His devastating, aching allure is overshadowed by his formidable outlook that bespeaks danger.

"It appears that you are going somewhere, Primus," I point out. "If I may ask, where to?"

He inclines his head. "There's a revelry in the city. They call it the festival of lights. It's to celebrate the initiation of the Blood Games."

I manufacture a look of confusion. "A revelry..." I force my brows together. "But...that cannot be since that sounds enjoyable... exciting, actually."

He doesn't smile, but his eyes shine with rare amusement like glimmering midnight waters. "I do engage in other activities."

"I am certain you do. Activities that include, sharpening your swords or perhaps polishing your bone collection," I add mockingly.

"Farwell Hera." Brutally Curt.

I snap to my feet. "Are you not forgetting something?"

He stares at me with wry bafflement. "And what is that?"

"My invitation," I say boldly. "I adore all kinds of local festivities. If there is one thing you must know about me is that I am a Hera by title. But certainly not one at heart."

He moves towards me—I almost leap back.

"I would have, but the last time we spoke you ran from me," he says. Something ominous leathers his tone. "I heeded the message."

He turns to leave. Thoughtlessly, I lunge to seize his wrist—a burst of electricity. I drop it like he had burned me.

"Primus...I did not run from you."

The eyes of the night engulf me with a mere look. "A truth," he says, staring into my own. "You ran from me for a reason, you are running from something. A greater truth...will you share it with me?"

A Primus so austere. It's unnatural when he's...not. But his curiosity, his concern...care. It gives me a dangerous hope.

I snap a nod. Then it increases to several more. "That is, if you will take me to the revelry...I wish to see the lights. Will you share that with me?" I bargain.

A grave look steels his face, and he beholds me for a long while before he speaks again.

I wonder what he is thinking? What are his thoughts of me?

Wordlessly, he offers his hand to me. I look at it. Unsure if this is all a blissful illusion, concocted by my mind. Retribution from the Blue Vinum.

Illusion or reality.

By the time I draw my next breath. My hand is already in his.