Young Writers Society

Chapter Nineteen~

The Curse and the Key

After that first shock, the meeting proceeded in a completely normal fashion—or what Evian assumed was normal for meetings of this sort, anyway. The vampire princess’ mother introduced herself as Pedra, Chieftess of those who hailed from the House on the Hill. The House on the Hill, Pedra explained, was the headquarters of all Adreitians—be they vampire, Ixister, or human—who were interested in 'the continuity and preservation of the current line of rulers'.

Evian would have termed them as 'monarch loyalists', but he supposed that 'continuity' and 'preservation' were more noble-sounding words for the same affair.

'There is more than that, of course,' Pedra said, and everyone else in the room nodded in agreement. 'The Blacksmith uprising is a constant worry to us, but we do not have the resources or the people to take Blacksmith Gairon's forces head-on.' Pedra did not sit, but continued to pace around the room. Everyone's heads turned as one, following her progress to the window, and back to her seat. 'King Trent is unwell, and I am sure you are aware of the ... situation of the country, Mr Threshold. Let's just say that it has been more ... stable than what it is now.'

Evian snorted. '"Situation" is a—it's one way to put it,' he said. 'Utter chaos is more apt, I think.'

Pedra nodded gravely. A flurry of emotions crossed her face as she sat down heavily, at the head of the table, and continued to speak: 'The court has been buzzing with recent news—an Inspektor, very high in rank, very powerful ... was found dead earlier this week in Syti. The Inspektors have not proved loyal to the kingdom of late; it is they who have proved most influential in encouraging the Blacksmiths' move towards Durthnot, and it is they who have continued to oppress Adreitus, even in its current state, when the economy and social well-being of its citizens is on the verge of going to the dogs.’ Pedra paused and rubbed at her face with a pale hand, looking weary. Evian was struck by how old she suddenly looked in the dim light of the gas lamps. She continued: ‘The Inspektor who was killed went by the name of Bonn. He—’

‘That scoundrel!’ Evian hissed. He straightened up in his seat with indignation. 'Public beatings everywhere when he was in office—he was mayor of Syti for six months before he was moved to O'Gluhm. I remember him. Figured the king was beginning to worry about his popularity, when he was removed....' He raked in a deep breath. 'Who killed him? I'd like to congratulate whoever it was—bless them for getting rid of that bleeding, venomous ba—'

‘Mr Threshold—’ Pedra began, in her soft, soothing tones, but Aidan interrupted in a louder voice: 'Shut up, Threshold.'

There was silence, during which several of the council members began to murmur to one another. Several of them looked at Evian with disdain, while others looked affronted at the way he had interrupted the Chieftess. 'Unkempt,' the Ixister sitting on Evian's right muttered. Evian inhaled deeply and looked at his feet. His ears were beginning to feel warm.

'Carry on, Chieftess,' Aidan said. To Evian, he muttered, 'Just listen to her. Also, try not to get on her bad side. Bonn's her uncle.'

Evian's eyes widened. He looked back at Pedra, a steely glint in his eye. ‘I would apologise, Chieftess, but…’ I do not apologise for insulting murderers, was what he wanted to say, but he bit down on his lip, lapsing instead into an awkward silence. Some of the council members had begun to talk amongst themselves, while others kept their piercing gazes trained on Evian's face. It was as if they were mapping him out, reading the lines around his eyes and the slight, irritated tilt of his mouth. Why did they need him here? Was it because of Lira? Evian was determined not to mention her, in any case. He hadn't sworn any loyalties to the kingdom.

Pedra cleared her throat. ‘There's no need to apologise, Mr Threshold. I am not proud of who my uncle is. In fact, as far as I am concerned, we were nothing more than strangers for a large part of our lives.’ She smiled warmly at Evian; he managed to muster a pained-looking grin in return.

‘Inspektor Bonn was killed on Inspektor Luin's persuasion,’ Pedra said. ‘As Aidan has informed me, prior to our meeting’—Pedra gestured toward the vampire in question—‘you are running from Luin himself. Aidan mentioned he performed a mind-filtering spell on you?' Evian grimaced at her in confirmation. She smiled. 'I take it you were not pleased, but it was crucial that the spell be done.’

‘Oh, he has no idea,’ Aidan muttered under his breath. Evian cast him an angry look, before turning his gaze toward Pedra once more. He had been afraid of Aidan before, back in Syti, but now he was certain that the vampire would not hurt him.

This did nothing to make him more amicable to the lot of them.

Pedra continued, ‘We have reason to believe that Bonn was killed owing to certain information he may have possessed about the Blacksmiths—a trail of some sort, a password, we do not know which—and that he refused to give it up to Luin.’

‘Why?’ Evian asked curiously. Pedra shrugged—it was the most casual action he had seen out of her thus far.

‘The current political situation, Mr Threshold,’ she said, ‘is confusing. It is several shades of grey. There are factions and parties that even we did not know existed—and while the Inspektors have formed their dictatorship, the Blacksmiths continue in their advance to win back the throne, and the king, as ever, is on the brink of death.' She held up three fingers. 'In total, three sides. Some Inspektors remain loyal to the king; some have allied themselves with the Blacksmiths, while others are keen on staying where they are, and retaining the power the king's decline has allowed them to possess. It is the same for many vampires, although the King of L'amar and his—my‘—she hesitated—‘my daughter ... are providing the Blacksmiths with constant support. And that, as we are all aware, is unacceptable.’

‘But why?’ Evian repeated. ‘Why do you all hate the Blacksmiths so much? I mean ... the king can't do anything, and the Inspektors are all knee-deep in corruption, so it would only make sense—‘

‘Have you heard about the three-way battle, son?’ one of the Ixisters cut in—quietly, seriously—breaking the silence that had settled over the rest of the council ever since Pedra had begun to speak. He sat directly across the table from Evian, and wore large spectacles that made his eyes seem even more glaring than they already were. Evian squared his shoulders almost instinctively, straightening his spine and placing the flat of his hands on the table. This man, the Ixister, carried a sense of intimidation about him. He suddenly felt stupid under his gaze, and it made him angry that he did.

'The three-way battle …yeah,' he said. 'I know when it happened—1556, three hundred years ago—but I don't know why. A general tussle for power, I assume?’ He looked at the Ixister for confirmation; the older man nodded at him, so Evian continued:

‘The Blacksmiths lost the war, and were exiled following their defeat...’ He began ticking off the details. ‘They'd ruled the kingdom for a hundred years ’fore this, before the Vampire-Human alliance took over, and during the Blacksmiths’ rule Adreitus was “a land of peace, before war marked the birthstone of suffering”. And I think...’ Here, Evian hesitated, because he was unsure how the council would react to the knowledge of where his sympathies lay. ‘I think the Blacksmiths wouldn't be half-bad as rulers. Honestly.' He rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, feeling inconspicuously at the chain that hung from his neck. The small strip of paper had settled over his heart; he felt like it bounced against his chest with every beat of his heart.

The bespectacled Ixister's beard flickered from brown to a bright shade of blue as he held a hand out to Evian. Evian looked at it, confused, then at the Ixister's face. The latter continued to look at him silently, expectation brimming in his gaze.

Just as he reached out to shake it, a ball of fire leaped from the Ixister's sleeve; the flames curled around his wrist, before settling into his palm. The Ixister stroked the fire with his thumb. 'A story,' he said, loudly, and the council quietened.