An Accidental Display of Power

To Wells’s astonishment, he was standing on a vast, open-air veranda—or what he assumed was a veranda, for lack of a better word. The cold, sweet air smelled of a thousand different leaves. Beyond the porch stretched a veritable forest of countless trees, their diverse canopies creating a shifting, mottled pattern of light on the ground. The marble floor beneath his feet bore the same elaborate tree design as the great doors, but with two distinctions: the pattern was rendered in full color, though the hues had faded with time, and at the very top of the tree sat the image of a small woman on a throne.

Arranged in a circle around the central design sat a small group on elegant chairs. Wells cataloged them: a man in full plate armor; a centaur who bore a strong resemblance to Galano; an elderly man in ornate robes; a woman dressed as a priestess; two identical female twins so tiny they couldn't have been more than a foot tall; a tall, regal man with a dark goatee; and a haughty-looking woman with elaborate dark blonde hair and an expensive dress. Cirus Crewe took an empty seat beside the arrogant woman, while Galano moved quietly to stand beside the other centaur. Cirus gestured to a vacant chair between himself and the armored man. Feeling utterly out of place, Wells did as he was told.

A bald, hunchbacked man who had been seated near the king rose to his feet. He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. "His Majesty King Haelen the Third, King of Anolin, Lord of Tor Alian, Son of Haelen, Son of Elfanil, of the House of Balenir, hereby calls this council to order, this fourth day after Midsummer." He unrolled a scroll and began to reel off a list of names that Wells could barely follow. "In attendance are—"

"Also in attendance," Cirus declared, his voice cutting through the formal proceedings, "is Wells Barlow, Son of Arden. He is my apprentice and the great-nephew of the wizard Jonas."

A low murmur rippled through the assembly. A hot flush crept up Wells’s neck, certain he was the subject of their whispers. He fixed his gaze on his boots, trying to will the muttering to cease.

"Very well," the hunchbacked man said. He produced a quill and an ink bottle from his pocket—an accessory Wells found baffling—and scribbled hastily on the scroll. After stowing his instruments, the man cleared his throat once more. "His Majesty King Haelen will now preside."

The murmuring stopped instantly. The hunchback bowed to the king and returned to his seat, quill poised. He's a scribe, Wells realized, a flicker of understanding piercing his anxiety.

The king himself was less majestic than Wells had imagined. He was somewhat short, with lank, almost oily brown hair. His nose was slightly upturned, and his eyes were a sharp, dark green. A gem-encrusted circlet rested on his head, but his most striking feature was an eerie pallor, though he otherwise seemed healthy. He stood and began to speak, his voice carrying the drab weight of a memorized speech.

"Countrymen, friends from afar, and noble creatures not of human race. We face a grave problem. As you all know, the Holy Kingdom of Neron, a bastion of the Morgath faith, has been overrun by the Auran Empire. Furthermore, you are all aware of Emperor Lyron's ambition to reclaim every territory of his former empire, establishing a near-universal dominion under his rule." He paused. "Friends, we cannot allow Lyron to become Remira’s emperor. He is by all accounts a tyrant, unlike the respected emperors and empresses of the long line preceding him. With us today is the Lady Isilde, Emperor Lyron’s own oracle and an operative for our cause. She can attest personally to his cruelty."

As King Haelen sat, the haughty-looking woman stood. Wells now saw she was extraordinarily tall, a full head over Cirus. She pushed back her long sleeves, revealing nails painted the same maroon as her dress, and clasped her hands.

"I am Isilde, descendant of Elara, the First Oracle," she began. "I have served in the Imperial Court since the time of Lyron's mother, Empress Elraia. Since my own mother’s passing, I have been oracle to the Imperial Family, a position of great respect. But Lyron has surrendered to his lust for power and abandoned the traditions of his house. He plans to invade Corala next, believing Neron to be the weakest of the former Imperial Provinces. He dismisses the counsel of his advisors. When told his actions violate the codes of the Council of Realms, he claims to be above them, insisting the Shaper Himself placed him on the Imperial Seat.

"His disdain for the ancient order of oracles," she continued, "is what finally forced me to defect. I left High Saeron under the pretext of a pilgrimage to the Greatwood and came here to persuade His Majesty to convene this Council. I have risked not only my life but my family's standing, so I must implore you all: make your decision, and act on it with haste."

To Wells's surprise, one of the small twins rose, unfurling a pair of gossamer wings. She was a fairy. Her face was delicately pointed, and above her pale golden hair, two thin antennae twitched. She wore a gown that appeared to be made of flower petals and shimmered with a soft, golden light.

"Lady Isilde," she said, her voice like the tinkling of tiny bells, "while your plight is moving, could you clarify what you mean by the Emperor's disdain for the order of oracles?"

"Certainly, Lady Elina," Isilde replied, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. "It is tradition for the Emperor's oracle to be his closest counselor, for we can see what is to come. He ignored my warnings that his plans would lead to a vast and terrible war."

"And you defected from the Empire over this?" Elina inquired. "You must forgive me, Lady Isilde, but that seems a shallow reason to turn traitor."

Isilde’s expression soured. "I have more than one reason for leaving his court, fairy," she snarled, the word dripping with contempt. The council members flinched as though she had cursed. "Do you think I am so fragile as to risk my life over a single slight? No. I left because His Imperial Majesty has committed numerous crimes against me, and against morality itself."

"Forgive me, Lady Oracle," Elina said, her voice laced with a false civility that was palpable. "I clearly misjudged your position." She flew back to her seat. Her twin's left antenna twitched in irritation.

"Friends," King Haelen chided. "There is enough strife in Remira. We do not need it amongst allies."

"My apologies, Your Majesty," Elina chirped, glancing at the king. When it became clear Isilde would not apologize for her outburst, she continued, "If we may, my sister and I would like to share our perspective."

As the king nodded, the twin fairies swooped into the center of the circle. "Fairies were the first sentient beings in western Remira," Elina began, "a millennium before the centaurs arrived from the Burning Plains or the Sirunai migrated from Nol Hargoth. Our history is longer than—"

It was then that Wells drifted off. The formal, high-minded language was lost on him, and he frankly didn't care what Lady Elina was saying. He caught phrases like "tied to the feelings of this world" and "wanton destruction hurts us more than it could ever hurt you," but even if he had been listening, he doubted he could tell which side she was on. He turned his attention to the pattern on the floor.

He was inexplicably fascinated by it. He traced a winding line in the bark from the tree's trunk to the edge of its canopy, noticing ever more patterns emerge from the design. It was a shame the colors had faded so. He wished he could have seen it when it was new; it would have been far more interesting than Lady Elina’s lecture on the fragile sensibilities of fairies.

Then it started again. A pleasant warmth bloomed deep in his gut, a familiar sensation flooding his body. It rushed up into his arms, and his ring began to pulse with a piercing blue light. As swiftly as it had come, the feeling vanished. Wells jerked back to awareness with the horrifying realization that every eye in the council was fixed on him. He looked down and gasped. The pattern on the tiles was glowing, its colors suddenly so vivid they looked freshly painted.

"Sorry," he muttered, his cheeks burning with shame.

Galano broke the stunned silence. "He shows the same raw aptitude for magic that Jonas possessed!" he boomed.

King Haelen stood, staring at the floor. "By Astalor's hoof," he breathed. "We have sought a sorcerer to restore those colors for years, but none knew how without killing himself." He looked at Cirus. "What is your assessment of how this was done?"

Cirus chewed his lower lip, considering. "Pure myran, I should think. No other school of magic can reverse time in such a localized fashion. It is a feat few sorcerers—mostly centaurs—have ever managed." Noticing Wells's blank expression, Cirus chuckled. "Simply put," he said, "it means you're talented."

King Haelen returned to his throne. "Well, if there are no further interruptions... who would like to speak next?"