Matabar

Book II. Chapter 51 - The Conclave

Chapter 51

Upon crossing the threshold, Ardan was struck by a fleeting memory from his childhood—the time he’d tumbled into a narrow crevice. It was a return to a dark space that had pressed in from all sides, where shadows had swarmed behind him like hungry wolves, and every step had promised him nothing but the viscous, sluggish whispering that had stalked his heels better than any experienced predator ever could. And there had also been the absolute, crushing knowledge that if one were to listen to that dance of insinuating voices, the road back would never be found…

The building, like a spider’s cocoon, was wrapped in the hexes and wards of the art of the Aean’Hane.

No sooner had Ardan crossed the threshold than his powers as a Speaker were severed, left behind on the square hidden from prying eyes. Even if he had wanted to, within these walls, he could not bring his Witch’s Gaze to bear, nor call upon the shards of Names known to him. Only his Star Magic remained with him, while everything else was now waiting for him beyond the doorstep.

“What’s with you?” Arkar asked, seemingly unaware of the way he himself shivered as he entered.

“It’s unpleasant here,” Ardi answered evasively.

“You feel it too, then?” The half-orc rubbed his neck. “And I thought it was just me imagining things.”

In truth, Arkar was imagining nothing. Over centuries of unstoppable progress driven by the drumbeat of countless military conflicts, Star Magic had learned how to remain imperceptible to the “sixth” sense of both humans and Firstborn alike. But the art of the Aean’Hane… that was a different matter entirely.

That was why in children’s tales, the hero could always sense something amiss when entering a witch’s hut or the castle of a “kind” wizard who, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a wicked monster instead.

The truth of the matter was that…

“I’m sure your faithful dog can show you the way back, Corporal,” boomed Boad in a rolling bass. “I hope we do not meet again.”

The massive ogre, whose arm was so huge at the shoulder that it could rival the neck of a mustang in thickness, stepped back out onto the street. Ardi followed his departure with a thoughtful gaze but said nothing.

“Let’s go,” Arkar urged him.

And so they did. They walked through corridors that were surprisingly spacious, illuminated by… daylight. Where had it come from in this buried place? Ardi assumed that not only magic was involved in this, but also the countless mirrors that hung upon the stone walls. Framed in simple copper, they unpretentiously tossed sunbeams back and forth, the light spilling out like golden dust.

That same dust would settle upon thick animal pelts spread across the floor, rest on numerous tapestries, and occasionally gleam on elegant pauldrons. Ardi lingered for a moment at one suit of armor. It was thinner than the lenses of some spectacles, yet stronger than a steel sheet of several millimeters. Runic script akin to grapevines ran along its breastplate, and the snow-white feathers of a swan topped its helmet. They were slightly fluffy at the base, but tapered off toward the top to resemble a saber.

The same sort of saber that had a crystal hilt and shone mysteriously in a scabbard made from the leather of a Thunder Bird.

Arkar grimaced slightly at the sight of this object from ancient times.

“Amazing,” Ardi whispered.

“What is amazing, Matabar?”

“That you are not trying to break this armor apart.”

Arkar muttered a curse.

“Everything you see here is nothing more than junk nobody needs anymore, Ard.”

For a moment, the breastplate reflected the half-orc’s face, which was twisted with disdain and animosity. But there was nothing surprising in this. The armor had once belonged to some noble elf from the southeastern forests.

Their Swan Riders had become famous for welcoming the Shanti’Ra, who had been migrating south after breaking away from their northern brethren, with blood and elven steel. And it was their punitive raids, which had ended up claiming the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of orc settlers, that had forced the King of Ectassus to intervene.

Ardan hurried after Arkar. He kept looking around frantically, his gaze constantly stumbling upon various relics. The capital’s largest museums would have torn each other’s throats out to get the artifacts displayed here.

Ardan saw the axe and hammer of King Zadrzard the Divider, who’d once crossed the entire under-mountain region of the Alcade all on his own, fleeing from his younger brother who had usurped the throne. The exiled king had settled in the Ral Mountains, where… after swearing an oath of loyalty to the local dwarf king, he then betrayed him, took both of his daughters as his wives by force, then slaughtered them and staged it all to make it seem as if the dwarves of the Alcade had done it.

In the end, after a war lasting nearly three centuries, the dwarven kingdoms had split into four separate nations that were subsequently conquered by Ectassus.

“If I was an Elder, I would dump all of this in a pile somewhere in a basement and lock it up,” grumbled Arkar, “and not put it on public display.”

Ardi was hardly listening because he was too busy staring at everything around him. In one spot, carved from the bone of a distant ancestor of the modern Wanderer, he spotted the bow of Narkrarar Low Grass. It was a bit longer than Ardi himself, with a draw weight of nearly half a ton. This bow had later become something of a test of fitness for the position of chieftain, which the southern orc rulers had respected until the Shanti’Ra had seized the steppes.

Why was Low Grass famous? Because he had been able to draw this bow back with one hand… Yes, orcs had very peculiar myths.

And here, amidst crackling fireplaces, shining mirrors and dusty tapestries, these odd shards of Firstborn history had gathered into a single mosaic.

A place of honor in a deep niche was occupied by… a stone. It had been split down the middle and bore traces of old blood. It had once been complex, polygonal, with a profound geometric shape, and now it was broken and ancient. Sadly, it had found its final resting place here, and not on display somewhere.

“Is that the one?” Ardi asked.

“The very same,” Arkar nodded.

This was the stone from the central tower of the King of Ectassus’ royal castle, upon which the King of the Firstborn and the King of humans had clashed in their final duel. The Firstborn King had perished first, and the human King, barely managing to proclaim himself Emperor, had forever rewritten the history of the western continent.

Only after leaving the wide corridor, which somewhat resembled a hall of fame, could Ardi breathe a little more freely. The sensation he’d experienced had turned out to be similar to what had weighed him down in the dirigible, but somewhat different.

Here in the seat of power for the Conclave of the Firstborn, the Ley was not absent as such. Rather, Ardi had gotten so accustomed to feeling the “dead” Ley in the capital that emanated from countless generators, kilometers of wiring, instruments, and mechanisms, that after finding himself in this quiet area, he had simply been unable to adjust to this new feeling.

Or maybe it was the influence of the Aean’Hane hex and the multi-ton blocks that comprised the granite walls.

“Is it always this empty here?” Ardan inquired while going down the stairs.

It was not surprising that Arkar was leading him somewhere underground. Because the influence of the Ley was stronger the lower one went below sea level, the Firstborn would often build their main sanctuaries and other important places underground. It was similar to what prehistoric humans had done.

That was why the western and, in much smaller numbers, the eastern continent, still had plenty of mysterious dungeons that have been around for thousands of years. Because of this, Anomaly Hunters dreamed of stumbling upon something like that in the Dead Lands, where the distortions of the Ley-field led to unpredictable consequences, mixing ancient magic and anomalous manifestations of the Ley itself.

“The Conclave is not the town hall, Ard,” Arkar answered somewhat dryly. “People don’t come here without an invitation or a good reason.”

Their entire time here, Ardi not only hadn’t seen anyone, but he hadn’t even smelled them. He’d only picked up the scent of stone, artifacts and a complex network of fireplaces, the smoke of which ran through pipes hidden in the walls and heated the building.

According to Ardan’s estimate, after they descended approximately fifteen meters, they passed through yet another hall. This one was truly ancient. It was as if the young man had been abruptly transported from the sixth century since the Fall of Ectassus to somewhere in pre-Imperial times. To a time where, instead of automobile tires, horseshoes had clattered on the streets; instead of uniforms and rifles, guards had been clad in metal and armed with halberds; and in terms of countries, there hadn’t been about twenty of them, but hundreds of petty principalities, baronies and dukedoms, which had occasionally been united by the power of a crown.

And there had been countless crowns…

“Right, a few words before we go in,” Arkar stopped near some massive doors carved from stone.

In this place, where columns illuminated by torches rose toward a ceiling lost in the darkness, amidst the hollow echo, they looked simultaneously monumental and… foolish. Five centuries ago, they would have surely inspired awe in a commoner seeing them for the first time.

They also seemed foolish, however, because Ardi had experienced a much greater shock a year ago when he’d first arrived in the Metropolis, a city with more inhabitants than Ectassus and Gales had once had combined. And on the whole, the sight of stone doors that had the carved visages of the elders of the major Firstborn races—elves, orcs and dwarves— upon their surface… did not particularly move Ardan.

“Don’t speak until you are spoken to, don’t even think about trying to climb into someone’s noggin… head, that is,” Arkar bent his fingers, counting. “Address everyone as naene, which means-”

“I know the Fae language, Arkar,” Ardi reminded him. “It means ‘respected one.’”

“Right!” Arkar waved his hand. “And don’t interrupt anyone.”

Ardan tilted his head to the side and looked at his guide. Arkar was clearly nervous. At first, Ardi didn’t understand why, but it dawned on him quite quickly. Arkar was nervous for the same reason that two and a half years ago, Ardi had felt uncomfortable in the Evergale town hall, where he had received his documents of adulthood.

To Arkar, the Conclave meant as much as human institutions meant to Ardan. This should have maybe taught him something, but he did not have time to properly ponder the fleeting thought. The double doors, each of which was no less than seventy centimeters thick, about eight meters high, and about one and a half wide, slid silently and smoothly to the side.

Ardan didn’t even raise an eyebrow. The spectacle of two granite blocks, each weighing no less than twenty-two tons, hovering a millimeter above the floor… would have evoked admiration in a Star Mage from five centuries ago, but Ardi… Ardi merely sighed and shook his head. If one were to translate all of this first into the force of gravity—or, as laymen called it, weight—and then into money, then the mere opening of these doors cost no less than seventy-six exes. Professor Convel would have expelled such a sloppy engineer before they had even finished with their first calculation.

Inside, behind the granite blocks, lay an amphitheater that descended another couple of meters. It also had a sandy arena with a podium.

“Go on, Ard,” Arkar encouraged him. “I’ll wait out here. There’s no need for me to show myself there unnecessarily.”

Given that Arkar had been implicated in the death of one of the prominent members of the Conclave, his reticence made sense.

Ardan walked forward, down the wide steps, casually examining the Firstborn gathered on the benches. There were six elves in varying traditional clothing that shared only certain general similarities. Apparently, they represented the descendants of the rulers of the six elven dukedoms and, strangely enough, Ardi didn’t spot Duke Abrailaal among them, despite the fact that he was the oldest of the living elves and, in general, sentient beings with a pulse. Perhaps the man was located somewhere in the darkness.

A black veil, smeared like crude oil over the upper seats of the amphitheater, clearly hid far more eyes than were currently looking at Ardi openly. But the young man, once again, didn’t really care.

Besides the six elven dukes—in name only, Abrailaal was the only one with an official title—there were three orcs here, painted with patterns of different colors. There was red for the southern steppes, black for the northern steppes, and green for the eastern foothills.

Four dwarves from the four dwarven kingdoms were also present. They clearly did not wear their traditional stone clothes bound together by heavy ropes woven from dried tree roots all that often. If they did, there wouldn’t be traces of modern rings on their fingers, and their hairstyles wouldn’t be done in such a way as to not stick out from under a fashionable hat.

Besides the dwarves, orcs and elves, there was also an old ogre with a bored look and graying skin, a one-eyed giant with a scar across his entire face, who, bent nearly double, was whispering about something with a goblin.

Standing at the lectern, Ardan tapped his staff lightly on the floor and pronounced:

“

Ene atari,” which had no exact translation, but meant something like “I am here.”An elf stepped forward from the group of Elders. He was wearing a white toga held in place by a golden brooch on his shoulder. Shaped like a cedar leaf, it told of the elf’s origin better than any words could. He was a native of the northeastern forests, one of the least numerous elven dukedoms, but famous since time immemorial for their healers.

Judging by how insistently cedar bark was already peeking through his skin in places, and how his hair was hardening and drying, resembling autumn leaves more than actual hair, he had seen at least four turns of the century and personally witnessed the uprising of the Dark Lord. This still made him considerably younger than Duke Abrailaal, but older than the absolute majority of the Empire’s inhabitants.

“Atari ente,” answered the elf, leaning on his own staff.

Again, translating this phrase directly from the language of the Fae to Galessian was almost impossible, but, in general, it meant something like “you have appeared” or “I see that you have come.”

With this, the procedural part was completed, and the elf struck his staff against the floor, after which he switched to the language of the northern elves.

“Naeni,” he began, using a modern plural form that did not exist in the original language. “Before us stands Ard, son of Hector. Pretender to the feathers of the Chieftain of the Abar tribe and that of the Chieftain of the Alcade Tribes. I ask you to give a sign if you know this name.”

Each of the Elders had… not exactly objects of power, but something that could distinguish them from the ranks of their kin. The orcs had their characteristic tattoos and the dwarves had tambourines with metal bells. The elves possessed living staves. Buds swelled along them, flowers bloomed, and the green leaves of their tribal trees glistened on miniature twigs. The goblin fingered rosary beads made from rat heads and the ogre… tapped a human tibia painted with henna on his shoulder. And the giant… the giant had nothing. And this was actually their distinctive trait, which had a historical background, but Ardan had no time to dwell on that now.

Two elves struck their staves against the floor and the orc from the southern steppes slammed his fist against his chest and exhaled quickly and loudly, while the rest did not move.

“Those of you who do not know this, listen well: Ard, son of Hector, is the descendant of Aror, the Aean’rahne who sullied his name with his betrayal of the Dark Lord,” the elf began the tale.

Ardi was barely listening to him. He had mostly come here because of his and Bazhen’s idea to open an apothecary shop. With just his Magical Boxing earnings and the royalties from the sales of his seal at the Spell Market, Ardi wouldn’t be able to earn enough to support both his family life and his Star Magic research.

The only things the young man noted was that the Firstborn called the Dark Lord “Dark,” even though that nickname had been given to him by the humans. This amused him. He also realized that they had no idea that Hector had named him in honor of his great-great-grandfather—Aror’s father. Although… perhaps that had just been a coincidence.

Ardi knew absolutely nothing about Aror’s parents, except that they had been from the Abar tribe and long-time students of Ergar, like the rest of their tribe. In other words, Aror had been the first in the Abar tribe who had had anything to do with the art of the Aean’Hane. And Ardan, essentially, was the second. What did this mean, exactly? Nothing at all, for now.

“We are here,” the elf, after nearly five minutes of long and quite abstract narration, finally came to the gist of the matter, “in accordance with the paths of the Sleeping Spirits, the covenants of the Senior Mothers, and the ways of our ancestors, to give Ard, son of Hector, the opportunity to renounce his human blood, forgo his service to the human crown, and take his worthy place among his true kin, a place among the Elders. A chance to announce to the whole world that the Matabar are still alive. That their Chieftain walks the paths of his ancestors. And that the forest floods and snowy trails of the Alcade are not orphaned. If there is anyone who wishes to speak against this, let them give a sign.”

None of the Elders moved. They all sat there, silent and motionless, looking at Ardan with generally… empty gazes. Ardan did not know the structure of the Conclave that well—or rather, he knew almost nothing at all—and did not understand the principles of their work, but from what he’d gleaned thanks to Arkar’s offhanded remarks and considering the events at the beginning of the year, they surely had their own power structure. Including a peculiar sort of judges, secretaries, officials, and the like.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Ardan, who’d bypassed all these intervening rungs, now found himself presented immediately to the supreme authority—the Council of Elders, while all the other interested parties were likely located behind them, under the veil of a glamour.

Yes, Ardi did not understand these kinds of subtleties, and, moreover, he understood nothing of politics, but he could feel, like the heroes in those silly fairy tales, that something here was wrong. Too much honor was at play and everything was too… “loud.” Even for the descendant of Aror and the last—at least officially—representative of the Matabar, it was still too much honor…

If Ardi had learned anything from working with Milar, it was that in the world of those who truly hold power, he was no more than an amusing little critter with dubious lineage. One who could now bite them unpleasantly, but was still not enough to worry about. Even to the Puppeteers, he hardly represented an existential threat. He was more of a persistent and annoying inconvenience. Possibly even an impersonal one.

And here, at a whole assembly of Elders?

It was as Shali had used to say: to deprive a hunter of the advantage of their home territory, one must provoke them. And Skusty had clarified that, “Anger is always blindness. Do you fear blind hunters? I really don’t.”

“Why do you continue to be silent, naene Ard?” The elf asked.

Ardan merely spread his hands and, in the most innocent tone possible, announced:

“Forgive me, I do not speak your language.”

Ardi was essentially not even lying—he could still not express himself well in the dialect of the northern elves.

As soon as pure Galessian was heard in the amphitheater, the Elders started whispering disapprovingly, and the glamour behind their backs trembled—apparently, the “spectators” sitting there were not restraining their emotions too well.

“Naene Ard, according to my information, you know many languages of the Kar’Tak, including the language of the Fae,” the Elder elf frowned with eyebrows resembling moss.

“I heard that you just said my name, but the rest is not very clear,” and once again, he did not lie, because he’d grasped some of the words without knowing their exact translation.

Of course, the Council of Elders surely had a way, and likely a very reliable one—even without resorting to the potion of Last Truth—to know if the one standing at the podium was honest with them. But at the same time, even if they could sense that Ardan was not lying, they also knew that he was speaking an untruth.

What was the point of this?

About the same as forcing a follower of the Tavsers to speak, for example, in the language of the steppe orcs.

“You will speak with us in the language of our ancestors.”

“Wait, I think you said ‘ancestors,’” Ardan deliberately pronounced that last word with a strong, broken accent. Clearing his throat, the youth continued in the language of the Matabar. “Yes, I can speak in this language.”

The Elders whispered again, and the veil behind them swelled with soap bubbles. He wondered how many people the gloomy canvas hid beneath its covers?

“Are you trying to insult the Council of Elders?” The elf hissed like a snake in pure Galessian.

“No,” Ardan answered honestly.

Maybe he understood little of politics, but after a year of fighting the Puppeteers, he had learned to sense when he was dealing with a puppet. What sense was there in insulting those who danced to someone else’s tune? Sure, it was likely not all of them. Maybe here, among the “chieftains” of the Firstborn tribes, only one or two, or maybe three of them were subordinate to someone else, but that was sufficient.

So no, Ardi did not intend to insult anyone. Only provoke them.

“It is a disgrace that the Chieftain of the Matabar does not know the languages of the Kar’Tak,” the elf’s azure sclera flashed with anger.

“You just said that I am a pretender,” Ardan reminded him, and this time, the Elders did not restrain themselves.

They stomped their feet, and the gloom behind their backs rustled like disturbed foliage.

“To preempt your question—I understand some words,” and again, not a single lie came from Ard’s lips.

“Then you will understand the following, Ard,” it seemed like the Elder had caught on to what he was doing and was trying to answer in kind. But Ardan truly did not care about being called naene, nor any other honorable title. “Ard, son of Hector, renounce your human ancestors, their ways, the vicious idol they call their god, cast off the shackles of the usurper’s crown, and take your worthy place among your tribe. Otherwise,” the elf drew his eyebrows together again and gripped his living staff tighter, “consequences await you that you cannot handle.”

Ardan felt the badge of an investigator of the Second Chancery pulling at his pocket. This situation painfully resembled the one where he’d found himself face to face with Lea Mortimer in the abandoned warehouse. Back then, it might have seemed like the professor had needed Ardan but, in reality, her masters had been trying to extract information about Edward from him.

What was the similarity?

In that, on his own, Ardan meant nothing to the Conclave. On the contrary—the Firstborn would hardly have rejoiced to see the grandson of the one who’d betrayed their “great leader” end up among their Elders. And whom would he even govern? Those surviving, but long-abandoned Matabar shrines that still remained in the Alcade?

No.

By himself, Ardan was nothing to the Conclave.

So why were they doing this?

To Lea Morimer, he had been valuable only because of his shared history with Edward, and the Conclave also had similar motives. Too often had the elf pointed him toward his service to the Crown. Which meant that this was all about the Emperor. Or rather, about Paul IV’s attempts to build broader and stronger bridges between the Firstborn and humans, finally completing the unification of the two races under one flag.

Paul IV was using Ard for this, making him a poster child of new, equal opportunities for all citizens. What were they trying to achieve in the Conclave, which preached the superiority of the Kar’Tak?

It wasn’t hard to guess.

“You disrespect us with your silence, Ard!” The elf struck the floor with his staff.

“I am not ignoring you, mister,” Ardan, without even thinking, addressed the elf in the Galessian manner, which caused another wave of unrest. “I am simply waiting to hear what sort of consequences you’re talking about.”

“The kind from which that badge you hide in your pockets will not save you.”

And there was the confirmation. Also… If he hadn’t talked to the Shanti’Ra shaman and the dwarf messenger before this, Ardi would probably have fallen into the trap. He would have lost his self-control and gotten angry.

He would have likely delivered a heated tirade about how, when the Alcade had turned red with Matabar blood, neither orcs, nor elves, nor dwarves, nor anyone else had come to their aid. The Kar’Tak had silently watched as their kin were slaughtered.

Or maybe he would have said something about being not only the son of Hector, but also the son of Shaia. Not only the great-grandson of Aror, the right hand of the Dark Lord, but also the great-grandson of Alexander Taakov, which sort of made him a hereditary officer of the Black House.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was that Ardan was supposed to erupt here. To answer a threat with a threat. Maybe even start waving his Cloak identification around, declaring that everyone there was a subject of the Empire and had no right to demand anything from him. Or forbid him from visiting the Firstborn Quarter. And then a small misunderstanding would occur. It would surely go unnoticed.

Say, maybe that very same goblin who just recently had been looking all around the amphitheater, and now refused to take his yellow eyes off Ardi’s staff, would secretly attempt something. His rat-head rosary, which shamans often used in their rituals, would glimmer dangerously—something Ardan had not only read about in Atta’nha’s scrolls, but had even seen with his own eyes in the steppes.

Ardan would be forced to defend himself with the only means available to him—Star Magic. Could the Firstborn really not have shielded the heart of the Conclave from human magic as well? Why hadn’t they? So that Ardi would be left with, ostensibly, room to maneuver. And, of course, as soon as he used Star Magic, he would immediately be sent to the paths of the Sleeping Spirits.

After which the entire district would be flooded with Cloaks and something terrible, bloody, and at first glance, devoid of sense and logic, would begin. At a second glance, it would undermine the policy of His Imperial Majesty. And at a third… It would be playing into the hands of the Puppeteers. In reality, this would lead to only one thing.

To something very simple. To something very banal. To something Ardi had been taught not to think about since his childhood.

It all led to revenge.

Ardan looked up at the dark veil concealing the upper rows. Had this all happened a year ago, maybe, if the Sleeping Spirits had been feeling merciful, Ardan would not have reacted poorly. He would have noticed the trap. And, using the skills taught to him by his forest friends, would have slipped out of it.

But…

“How beautiful they are, Mr. Wizard.”

“The children of the Firstborn were best suited for our experiments.”

Ardan felt somehow sick, as if he had been dunked in mud. The Tavsers… The Conclave… they were all ready to tear each other’s throats out over the question of who was right, who was wrong, who was worthier, who was not, while at the same time, equally, without any discrimination or sentiment, their children were being butchered in underground laboratories.

“You have no right,” exhaled Ardan.

The goblin flashed a victorious smile for a moment and squeezed his rosary, tensing akin to how a cat tenses before jumping at the throat of its prey.

“What did you just say, youngster?” Discarding the remnants of his illusory cordiality, the elf hissed the words out.

“This is the Empire, not Ectassus,” Ardan shrugged. “Whatever I say to you, none of it carries absolutely any legal weight. Same as whatever you say to me. And if you doubt that, then over there,” Ardi pointed with the head of his staff to the ceiling, “is a stone that confirms it.”

Some of the Elders jumped to their feet, others screamed aloud, and the veil of gloom behind them, unable to withstand the tension, burst and melted away like fraying mist. Ardan was surprised for a second at how many Firstborn turned out to be hidden behind it. The entire amphitheater, which had seemed practically empty just recently, now boiled with dozens of shouting Firstborn of the most varied races. But among them, only one single figure interested Ardan.

A hunched old man who looked like a living tree. He had skin indistinguishable from tree bark, hair from which twigs with actual leaves extended, and bright green eyes devoid of pupils, where the iris merged with the sclera.

It was Duke Abrailaal in the flesh. An elf greeting his seventh century. The elf whose pregnant daughter Aror had killed in a magical duel.

“You will bear responsibility for your insolent words, half-blood!” The elf at the podium pointed his staff at Ardan. “You-”

“What kind?” interrupted Ardan. “What kind of responsibility, mister?”

He was speaking to the Elder, but at the same time, he did not take his eyes off Abrailaal. Just as the Duke did not take his eyes off him.

“You-”

“I!” Ardan interrupted him for the second time, which caused the people in the stands to jump to their feet and start shouting over each other, waving their hands, staves and whatever else they were holding at him. “You offered me a chance to renounce my human half. But I will do something else. From now on, whatever anyone says, I am not the Chieftain of the Matabar. Not the Chieftain of the Abar. Not the Chieftain of the Alcade Tribes. I am simply Ard. Son of Hector. Son of Shaia. Please, remember this.”

Ardan wasn’t trying to become an enemy of the Conclave. Just as, of course, he did not want Abrailaal as an enemy. But he also remembered Ergar’s lessons perfectly. His mentor had told him that while packs have a lot of advantages during the hunt, there are no fewer disadvantages as well. And one of them was that the pack leader often has to worry about his position.

Yonatan Kornosskiy and Arkar were vivid examples of that.

The leader would always see a threat to his position in certain young ones. Especially if that same young one had the opportunity to fight for the leadership position.

Duke Abrailaal, whom Ardan was currently addressing, would hardly abandon his plans for revenge (or whatever was on his ancient mind), but… perhaps the seed of doubt would no longer torment him. Maybe he’d stop worrying that “the grandson of Aror, may his name be forgotten” would suddenly turn out to be not just a grandson, but a chieftain as well.

The stands were still rowdy, but as soon as the Duke’s white staff rose quietly and came down on the floor, the crowd instantly fell silent.

A Conclave? A Council of Elders? What folly.

Ardan was beginning to understand why Milar, Cassara and Mart had advised him to stay as far away from politics as possible.

“Say it three times, and three times we will hear, Ard, that you renounce your right to a spot in the Conclave and the Council of Elders,” the elf who had been speaking with him calmed down somewhat abruptly.

A farce… It was all a farce strongly resembling how the Puppeteers operated. If Ardan snapped, then things would be wonderful, and Abrailaal, thanks to the conflict of the Firstborn Quarter with the Cloaks, would gain more power. Why? Because to whom would the frightened Firstborn turn then? Hardly to the human authorities.

And if he doesn’t? That’s also good, because the human half of Ardan would leave him vulnerable even if he did become an Elder. He’d simultaneously deprive himself of the protection of the Black House and find himself faced with the pack leader in his own territory. With beasts, this always ended lamentably. The strong devoured the weak. And Ardi was not so stupid as to consider himself stronger than Duke Abrailaal, let alone him and the several Aean’Hane whom he could sense among the crowd.

The third option, which was currently being played out on this peculiar stage, might not have pleased the elven Duke as much, but it also played into his hands. In Abrailaal’s eyes, it made Ardan weaker than he had been this morning.

And maybe it really did.

Maybe Bazhen was right—it doesn’t matter if you are interested in politics or not, the main thing is that it is interested in you. But at the moment, Ardan did not want to fixate on this. He was much more worried about the fate of his hypothetical apothecary shop.

“Three times I will say this, and three times you will hear me. I renounce any titles associated with my Matabar blood,” Ardan repeated calmly, and as soon as he did so, Abrailaal rose from his seat.

He spoke in the language of the northern elves and his voice was indistinguishable from the sound of the spring wind blowing across a merry brook—pure and ringing.

“Spread the news, my friends. Let all the Kar’Tak know that this is no child of prophecy. There are no signs. There are no omens. There is no legend and there is no false hope.” Abrailaal turned his back to Ardan, demonstrating his complete lack of interest. “The time has come for us to decide our own destiny, and not wait for a Savior. Let the north and south, west and east hear my words. A Great Ruler would never renounce his past and his heritage. Which means that this is a simple youth. Three times is it spoken, and three times is it heard.”

Then, in complete silence, Abrailaal, who was leaning on his staff, began to go up the stairs, heading toward one of the exits from the room. Ardan blinked, realizing… that he had misunderstood everything.

Well then. This once again confirmed Milar’s words—he shouldn’t have meddled in politics. There were specially trained people who handled that, and Ardan had no relation to them whatsoever. Just as all his complex thoughts had had absolutely no relation to reality.

“Ard Egobar, son of Hector of the Abar tribe and son of Shaia, daughter of humans,” the elf, who just recently had been nearly spitting poison in Ardi’s direction, now looked so bored that it was like he was dealing with a stray cat. “We are glad to welcome you to the Firstborn Quarter, where you can always find shelter and peace. Atari ente.”

Barely tapping his staff against the ground, he turned and headed toward the other Elders. Some of them looked at Ard with relief and cordial smiles on their faces, while others gave him looks of deep contempt and… disappointment.

“Ene atari,” Ardan muttered somewhat sluggishly and, on wooden legs, climbed the stairs toward the open stone doors.

Arkar was standing there, looking as relieved as some of the Elders seemed to be. He grabbed Ardi by the shoulders and led him through the hall, while behind them, the stone double doors were already closing.

***

Ardan was looking out the window at the high-rises of the New City floating past him. Sparkling with Ley-lights, stone peaks tormented the sky with iron lightning rods. They seemed like artificial pillars of light erected by the unrestrained dreams of man.

“Did you know?” he asked, breaking the silence for the first time in half an hour of driving.

Arkar, looking happier than a child who’d been given a long-awaited gift, was driving them toward some new restaurant. He’d even said that dinner was on him.

“Know what?”

“That it was all about a stupid prophecy and some signs.”

Arkar flicked his gaze toward Ard, and then turned back to the busy, eight-lane avenue.

“Me and you might think that it’s not worth a damn… has no meaning, I mean,” Arkar answered as he stopped at a traffic light. “But to many, very many Kar’Tak, it means a lot. It’s huge, Ard. Higher than the Treasury Tower you banged up… broke, I mean.”

“I didn’t break it, I scratched it,” Ardan grimaced. Mentions of the destruction he’d inadvertently caused were starting to irritate him a little.

“Maybe,” Arkar shrugged. “Many of the folks studying the prophecy are looking for symbols. Omens. Signs of all kinds that the Dark Lord will return. And return soon, at that, even if their ‘soon’ has been dragging on for three centuries already.”

“What signs!” Ardan could not restrain himself and slapped his palm against his knee.

Arkar only grunted in response.

“Glad to see you can still feel emotions, Ard,” the orc either laughed or grunted. “I remember how, a year ago, you were indistinguishable from a mechanism… Because the third part of the prophecy is fu… ahem—lost, I mean, a whole regalia has formed around it, it feels like.”

“Religion,” Ardan corrected him wearily.

Arkar, as was often the case lately, paid no attention to this.

“Rumors are circulating that snow was falling as Aror died.”

Ardan nearly choked on his own shock.

“Where did those even come from?! There was no one there except for my family and the Cloaks!”

“Paraffin. It’s always sticky, Ard.”

“And what does that mean in Galessian?”

“Paraffin means rumors or slander,” Arkar explained quickly.

Ardan frowned.

“Those are two different words.”

“Possibly,” fangs flashed in a long grin. “The point is, you can’t hide an awl in a sack.”

“Arkar!”

“See, Ard, I know fancy words, too.”

“I correct you only when you make mistakes while using ordinary words,” Ardan leaned back against the seat.

“Those are only ordinary for your school-trained, scholarly noggin… head, I mean,” Arkar grumbled and drove on down the avenue. “Me, when I gab in thieves’ cant… speak, that is, I correct myself immediately so it’s clearer to you.”

“Fine,” Ardan raised his hands in surrender. “I understand. I’ll try not to correct you anymore.”

“He’ll try… “ grimaced the half-orc. “Paraffin… demons! Rumors, then! Various ones circulated, Ard. There are many followers of the prophecy and even more people studying it. There are different myths, including one that claims that noble blood will flow in the Lord’s veins. Almost royal blood. Or that of chieft… chieften… Demons! Chieftain’s blood! And here is Aror’s great-grandson. A Speaker already. Also, he drilled a hole in a baron, look. He even spilled the blood of a Great Prince, an actual direct descendant of the Agrov line! And he’s a Chieftain too. Chieftain of all the Alcade!”

“I didn’t spill his blood,” Ardi objected, though it was a lot less passionate than before.

“The people don’t care, Ard,” Arkar shrugged. “They want to hear what they want to hear. And whether it’s truth or fiction… people need to believe in something. And so they did. And maybe some will continue to believe.”

“That I am the second Dark Lord?”

Arkar nodded.

“But that’s nonsense!”

“And again, kid, that is clear to us,” Arkar pointed a finger first at Ard, then at himself, “that you being a Lord, and a Dark one at that, is as likely as me… I don’t know. Becoming some sort of corn… farmer, that is.”

Ardan wanted to ask why a farmer was called a corn in thieves’ cant, but then he immediately realized that the logic was quite obvious.

“But to the rest,” continued the half-orc, “nothing is clear at all. And then comes the news. And they want to believe, Ard. Oh, how they want to believe.”

Arkar suddenly turned to Ard and, with a crazy look, asked:

“Wait, what did you think was happening?”

Ardan sighed, closed his eyes, and told him in general terms what assumptions he had made. Of course, he remained silent about the Puppeteers and all the other things that were classified. But even the things that Ardi voiced were enough for Arkar to laugh so hard that they nearly flew into a truck.

“Abrailaal? You thought he wanted to instigate a bloody massacre in the Firstborn Quarter? Well, you are a dope… forgive me, a fool, I mean. Abrailaal is one of the main supporters of the policies of the bulb... His Imperial Majesty, I mean. It’s only thanks to that walking larch that the Conclave takes no action against the Tavsers. They want to avoid blowing on the coals. I hope there’s no need for me to translate that.”

“But…”

Ardan cut himself off. He’d wanted to mention how Davenport and Atura had warned him about Abrailaal. And they really had warned him, but only in the sense that the Duke should be avoided due to Abrailaal’s personal animosity toward Aror.

“And what would’ve happened if everything had turned out differently?” Ardi asked in the end.

Arkar only waved his hand.

“Beats me.”

Ardan didn’t need to listen to the half-orc’s heartbeat to understand that he was speaking the truth. Arkar really didn’t know.

“And you spent a lot of time on this?” Ardi suddenly guessed. “On convincing everyone that I am not playing some odd game or something similar, but that I simply… forgot?”

“Uh-huh. Only I said that you didn’t forget, but were all wrapped up in the affairs of the lamp… crown, I mean,” Arkar turned from New Time Avenue onto one of the adjoining streets. “My weight there isn’t that big, Ard, but I bring enough exes to the Conclave’s table for my words to be listened to.”

“And Boad-”

“Forgive me, but you’ll have to find a way to get along with him yourself. He can’t stand the notion of Cloaks.” Arkar parked against the curb and killed the engine. They were lucky to find a free spot quite quickly, which for the New City was a great rarity. “Let’s go. The grub, food, I mean, is excellent here. They have a big selection of game. And I am talking about the meat of wild animals, not that nonsense you sometimes bring me.”

“Arkar.”

“What?”

“If you also consider the prophecy to be nonsense, then why are you so glad that I have no relation to it?”

Arkar only smiled and said:

“I did say that everyone needs to believe in something, half-shorty.”

Ardan froze for a moment while getting out of the car. He wasn’t the only one who fit these myths.

Ardi turned to the west. In that direction, across almost half a continent, the lights of Delpas were now burning. And there, in a house on Masons’ Street, lived his younger brother. And if he ended up registering himself as a Firstborn half-blood at sixteen, he would become just as much of an heir to the Alcade tribes as Ard himself and…

Prophecies, Ardan mocked himself in his own thoughts. Anti-scientific gibberish that…

“You saw it too, Ard! Paarlax’s equations retain their symmetry in both directions!”

He shook his head. He really did need to avoid the hotbed of superstition that were those centuries-old Elders. He was likely to go crazy at this rate! It was no wonder that, in the past, people had believed that if they jumped three times over a bonfire, it would protect them from demons and evil spirits.

It was possible to start believing in anything due to the error of reverse logic, be it prophecies, or that the planet is flat. And they’d believed in that, too. And for quite a long time as well. A couple of thousand years, at least.

“Thoughts for tomorrow.”

“What, Matabar?”

“I said: let’s go eat dinner, orc,” Ardan answered louder. “Tess will be at her rehearsals until morning anyway. The grand opening is soon.”

“Ah, right!” The orc slapped his forehead. “And your first match is also gonna happen soon, right?”

“Right,” Ardan confirmed glumly. “Due to the postponement of the opening of the Baliero Concert Hall, they are now on the same day.”

“Will you make it?”

“If I don’t end up in the hospital, then yes.”

“Ah, well, then it’s simple, Ard. You just don’t end up there, and that’s it. Then you’ll definitely make it.”

“Oh, well thank you for the valuable advice, orc.”

“You’re most welcome, Matabar. By the way, I haven’t gotten a chance to tell you that while you were gone, the generator acted up again and they sent us such a funny lad from the bureau…”