Book 3: Chapter 28 - In the Shadow of the Peacock Throne (RAW))

One can not engage in debate without first understanding your opponent's exact position.

- A Quassian Aphorism.

The woman who looked back at her through the glass was not the same girl who had left for the Grieving Lands months ago. It felt like centuries to her. They said that time did not touch the First Children, but they, of course, were lying. It was in her eyes, she noted, a shadow within that held the signs of the passage of the years. A haunted hollow that no sunny day or joyful song could fill. Nor could wine for that matter, no matter how fine a vintage.

She played around with a curled blonde ringlet, as her handmaidens fussed over her. It was a habit from her childhood that she could never quite grow out of. She worried now over what was to come, as a summon in the wake of failure could mean only one thing. Punishment.

Lady Arimea of the ancient house of Lostariot was worried. Very worried.

Arimea entertained the idea of fleeing to the woods, to live among the trees as her more rustic cousins did. She could hear the song of Mana, how different could that be from hearing the voice of Wood? No too different, if her reading of the old texts were correct. The problem was that the Immortals of the court would hound her till the end of time, and her fate when found would be a gruesome one indeed that would echo down the centuries. No, running away from this. Like it was with many things in life, running away was simply not the answer.

She stood up to allow her ladies to see to the final adjustments. When she saw that they were finished, she shooed them off. The next part was something she wanted to do for herself.

The young elven woman, young at least by the standards of her race, took up a finely made sword in Sea Serpent leather scabbard. She drew it, taking a moment to appreciate the wavey forms that ran along the curved blade. A single-edged blade that ended in a deadly, razor-sharp tip.

The other races always placed most of their decoration on the other parts of the sword. A decorated hilt, an ornate scabbard, or a jeweled pommel were, of course, the most common contrivances. However, elven craftsmen put everything into the sheer beauty of the blade itself. Although perfectly still in her hand, the blade looked as if was the perfect metaphor for flow, the temper lines the waves of a cutting sea.

Arimea never had an affinity for the sword, and the weapon was merely part of her social armor. Its solid weight at her hip nothing more than a reassurance. What use had she of learning how to fight with sharp sticks? However, perhaps she would do this weapon the honor of learning its use someday, she thought to herself as hoisted the baldric over her shoulder. In honor of the craftsman if nothing else.

She had seen masters fight with the sword before. Their exchanges more akin to a dance than true battle. Those who had earned the Mantis Mark were rare, and to witness two in contest rarer still. But she had witnessed Lorsan fend off a challenger once. Even to her, the her who had once looked down at such martial displays, it had been a thing of grace and beauty.

After coming back from the Grieving Lands wreathed in shame and failure she realized that it was nothing more than the playfighting of children. The old Alchemist had taught her such. Humility was a bitter brew when one was forced to drink it by one’s enemies.

Still, it had been her that slain the champion of the day spawn. It had been her triumph. She had called to the spirits and they had answered her. The spirit of winter had smashed through his frail heart and ended the day spawn’s life. Almost as if answering a blasphemy, moments later a raging inferno had answered that blasted her off her feet.

She touched the burn marks along her bare left arm, her marble skin blemished now with scars that no amount of Elven sorcery could heal. Damn the humans and their pointless defiance. Could they not see that the First Children worked to stop another Cataclysm?

But these were thoughts and musing best left to another time. She could delay the direct summons no longer.

She left her room, making her way through the summer palace. the train of her formal dress trailing crimson behind her. Sunlight filtered through high-arched windows, acting almost like beacons that guided her steps. No one would meet her gaze, neither Lady nor Lord, nor master or servant. All eyes were downcast in her presence. They all had, of course, had heard of her.

Finally, she reached the oaken doors that led to the Court of the Ancestor Trees. Trees, she had been told when she was young by one of her tutors, were the only things that elves had any real affinity to for only they could hope to last as long as the First Children? But why not then Dragons, why do the elves feel no affinity for the scaled tyrants of the skies? Her inquiry had earned her a casual slap for her blasphemy. There was a difference between affinity and respect. Still, she felt the answer had been a poor one, and the delivery somewhat lacking in respect for her station. Years later she had set matters right. That one tutor had been found consorting with Skyborn, the glorified winged lizards. Messages had been passed on through human traveling companies through the Forbidden Lands, or so his servants had attested to as they broke on the unrelenting wheel.

As to breaking, it seemed the guards lining the door to the Court were in need of better training. They looked at her as if she nothing more than a speck of dirt, not giving her even a modicum of respect that she deserved. A high lady of her station should be greeted with bowing and scraping at the very least. It went against the order and forms that held elven society together. It was most unseemly.

Just as she thought of launching a scathing attack, the guards armored in spelled runic bronze opened the oaken the doors. A great hush fell upon the court, and whatever gossip that had been going on was snuffed out like a candle.

A man was waiting for her, even more scarred and hunched, he hobbled towards her one a cane, to give her support. Lorsan, the once-swordmaster of the court and former tutor of the king’s children himself. He who had once been a living legend had been reduced to this.

“Lady Arimea,” he offered in greeting, giving her a small deferential nod of his head.

“Lorsan,” she returned curtly for her attention arrested by the sight before her. It was as spectacular now as it was when she first had the honor to be presented here.

The Court sprawled vaster than the grandest of human cathedrals, wrought from the ageless, living Witchwood that bled Mana as if it were its very lifeblood. Arimea could hear its song as it gathered the melody of sunlight, turning it into life and energy. A process that to this day confounded the wisest of Elven sages. Above, great leafy boughs arched as a canopy, adorned with a mosaic of vivid fabrics that cast dappled shadows upon the assembly below. The very roots of the Witchwood twisted into seats for the court's esteemed members, while between them, a lush carpet of emerald grass sprawled.

On a raised dais overlooking all before it was the eternal seat of power of the elves. The Peacock Throne.

It looked to be carved from the Witchwood, but no metal blades had been allowed to touch the sacred wood. Instead, it had been coaxed into being, shaped by the ancient songs of elven craftsmen who once wielded the arcane words of creation. In the guise of a peacock's splendid fan, its myriad eyes seemed ever vigilant, eternally on the watch for the faintest whisper of treachery.

A herald announced her presence, listing off the meaningless titles that she had acquired over the years, ripping her away from her observations. The elf’s monotone voice somehow seemed to make all of her achievements seem so small and mundane.

With Lorsan at her side, she made her way to pay her obeisance before the Peacock throne. With each step, the air grew heavier with an ominous, almost palpable pressure. It felt like a funereal procession, or like the final steps to the headsman’s gallows. Finally, almost as relief, she reached the foot of the throne and together with Lorsan planted her head on the floor.

“Lady Arimea, Lorsan, you may rise,” boomed the voice from the throne. The Ever-King.

Slowly, she looked up to gaze upon her king. Was it her imagination, but was his voice tinged with something other than expected anger? There was a note of… amusement and his ancient ageless face had hints of a boyish smile. It was disturbing.

“You have failed us,” came the judgment from the ancient elf. There was sound as the whole court drew an intake of breath. She would have laughed had the matter not been so serious.

“Yes, my king,” she answered honestly. Excuses and other social machinations would not work before him. The eyes of the throne knew all.

“Yet, in a completely different matter, you have succeeded. To slay the Hwanda Heveni, the sum of all men, is no small achievement. Humans and their ridiculous titles. The wiles of fate and destiny are as capricious as they are cruel, are they not Lorsan? To think that the greatest sword master of our generation crossed blades with the Dragon Slayer, and prevailed no less. Surely, you would think that you would look a bit happier.”

“As you say, my king,” the elven swordmaster responded simply, his eyes firmly fixed on the living carpet of green.

“So, it would seem that I must both reward and punish you both? Or that is what they would have done in times of old, no?” the ancient king stated, the mirth now in his voice plainer for her ears.

Still, the feeling of dread did not leave her. This was a crossroads, an intersection of a planned fate. She could feel it in the song of Mana.

“My king? What fate do you have planned for us?”

“Still, not even a hint of an apology? You will not beg forgiveness from us? You are proud Arimea, like your mother, and her mother’s mother. Too proud by far. Shame you can not share some of that pride with Lorsan,” the ancient one rejoined without answering her question.

“We have begun the rite of the Summoning. We will call forth our own Hero from the Distant World. We will have an Elven Champion for our own gods. Like in the times of yore,” announced the King with great aplomb.

Like a wave rippling across a tranquil lake, a great gasp took the assembly. A great gasp that soon turned into panicked natterings. As the gathered nobles reached a crescendo of worry, the king raised a single hand and the court fell once again into silence.

“Our seers will call forth one that they have seen in their visions. The one called Jack of T’xas. He will come from the kingdom of the Lonely Star and his soul will be one of the mightiest of warriors and generals of his world,” the old one announced to them all.

“And I have chosen the pair of you to be his guide. You will show him our ways. You will teach our ways. You will instruct him to fight using only our ways. You will be the bond that glues him to the First Children. Especially, you, Arimea. Flawed now that as your beauty might be, especially you,” the ancient King stated with an almost lecherous smile.

“But I am promised to another… I will be no whore!” Arimea protested. She looked around for her promised one. She caught his eyes for a moment, but a second later he looked down guiltily. Of course, with her reputation in tatters, she was damaged goods now.

The king looked down at her as if she was just a cross child. “You will serve your people,” he declared simply, silencing her.

“But your Majesty, instructing someone in our ways takes centuries. Surely, there are others more worthy?” asked a bemused Lorsan.

A laugh resounded from up on the throne. “Lorsan, I have been told that a Champion when summoned to our world will learn very fast. It is simply about preparing the correct… conditions for growth.” The King’s words were like a river, washing away all chance for a response.

“By your will,” they both acquiesced, as they pressed their heads to soft green. Stoic as she had thought she had become, Arimea could not help a single hidden tear track its way down her face to be lost in countless blades.

“And when he is ready, we will sail once more across the seas and claim what belongs to us,” stated the King, as cheers took the court like a rapturous fire.