Moth

CHAPTER ELEVEN: A COUNCIL OF KINGS

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A COUNCIL OF KINGS

Ceranor the First, King of Arden, stared outside his tower and his frown deepened. He could not remember the last time the frown had left his face; men liked to joke that should he ever smile, mirrors would shatter and babes would die of fright. Yet Ceranor had never found much reason to smile. He had been a soldier, a savior, a usurper, and now a king; his was a life of worry.

"But my shoulders are still broad," he said, staring out the window at the city of Kingswall. "And my mind is still as sharp as my blade. I will survive this fire too."

Despite twenty years of sitting upon his throne, he was still a soldier at heart. A good soldier always fought. A good soldier never fled.

Below in the city, the fires spread, smoke rose, and rage simmered. Tens of thousands marched along the streets, chanting for war. The commoners--filthy, dressed in tatters, their bellies tight--pounded the air, burned effigies, and stomped upon the flames. Sailith monks led the processions, preaching of the Elorian evil, of the terrors that lurked in the night. With every word, the people howled louder, demanding blood, demanding death to Eloria.

"Yet so easily, this rage can turn," Ceranor said softly. "This hourglass turn they blame drought, disease, and despair on Eloria. This turn this fire is contained. Next turn it can spread . . . and come to this palace."

A high voice, distorted with a yawn, rose behind him.

"Cery! Let's take a little nap."

Ceranor turned from the window. Upon his bed, his wife sat crossed-legged. Dressed in an oversized azure tunic, she yawned magnificently, a yawn that raised her arms, splayed out her toes, and twisted her face like clay. When her yawn ended, she grinned at him.

"I'm sleepy," she said.

Ceranor's frown, already deep, deepened further. He grumbled. He had married the girl, thirty years his junior, to appease her father--an angry lord with coffers deeper than his own. The girl was a vacuous, silly thing, barely twenty and about as intelligent as a puppy.

"The commoners rage with hunger and fear, Linee," he told her. "The Sailith temples grow in power; already some say they're mightier than this palace. And across our borders, our old enemies muster, still dreaming of their revenge." He sighed. "And you want to take a nap."

She pouted. "I like naps."

Ceranor stared at the pretty, flighty young creature, a girl of golden elflocks, freckled skin, and vacant eyes. He shook his head, walked to his table, and lifted a mug of water. He always drank water, never wine. Wine dulled the senses; it was a fool's drink.

"Another drought or plague, and the commoners will storm this palace," he said. "If the Sailith grow too strong, they will convert this place into another temple. If our neighbors sense our weakness, they will storm across our land and sack our city. They will invade this chamber too, Linee. Only my wits are holding back the tide. Only this council can save my throne."

"Our throne," Linee corrected him. She rose from the bed, flounced toward him, and clung to him. She grinned up at him, her chin pressed against his chest. "It's my throne too. I'm the queen now. I'm the prettiest queen Arden's ever known! Nobody would dream of overthrowing me, because I'm beautiful and friendly. The people love me."

Silently, Ceranor cursed the girl's father. Sometimes he wondered if the man had truly craved an alliance with the crown, or if he'd simply wished to offload a halfwit. Ceranor knew that many men envied him for his wife, a beautiful young bride for an aging soldier. At fifty years of age, Ceranor's hair was graying and his brow was creasing, but his wife was young and fair.