Rising Vengeance (The Anarian Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Erygan Dalrey of Torridesta had a subtle mind, not unlike Taren’s own. He could often sense when something would turn out to be more important than it seemed to be, and based on his feelings would make, or break, agreements for what seemed like no apparent reason. Marrdin Redernin of Rista, who had sat on the council for the first time only one hundred and fifty years ago, though he was the oldest of the current Morschcoda, generally tried to make deals where he personally would gain something, whether that was influence on the council or protection from its major powers did not really matter to him. Daliana Marcarry of Dothoro, because of her country’s almost strictly economic existence, seemed only to agree with Morschcoda from the southern empires with any consistency. She could defend her country from any of the other Morschcoda, if not with ease. Meclarya’s Daken Calmi would take almost anything, unless it was abundantly clear that he or Meclarya would suffer because of it. The reason for that was simple enough. Meclarya was a small, narrow country, pushed up against the east coast of Anaria, largely ignored by the southern empires and removed from major trade routes, which stuck more to larger, richer countries in the middle or the west of Anaria, though that was slowly changing as more Merchant Clans set their sights on markets beyond Anaria’s shores. With its large coastline, Meclarya was developing into a center of the shipping trade, much to Taren’s displeasure, as his rivals in Drogoda were starting to speak loudly about their own country’s small coast. Xari Gundara would only sign treaties with certain Morschcoda, and Taren was not one of those few. On principle, the peoples of Armanda and Drogoda rarely cooperated, rarely of mutual respect and never out of trust. Caladea’s Morschcoda, Ranny Marsharin, always tried to manipulate agreements between other Morschcoda to improve her position on the council. She was usually unsuccessful, though she was getting more attuned to the ways of thinking that most Morschcoda shared. Norrin Shrevneer rarely agreed to anything. Eschcota was rich enough on its own without having to bargain with neighbouring countries, and its central position in Anaria meant that most trade passed through it at one point or another anyway. Dalasin Mectar of Noldoron, one of the new additions to the council, was likely in the same position as Norrin. His predecessor, the well liked Miliani Vora, had been in that position, but Miliani had also been a Morschcoda for almost three hundred years. Dalasin was new, and more importantly, Mectar was only appointed to be Noldoron’s Morschcodal House with Morschcoda Miliani’s death. His behaviour today would determine much about how long he kept his seat. Kallin Revdark was the other new Morschcoda, and he was starting with a powerful position. Storinea as a whole was a country of scholars, and the opinions of one of the Demosira, a high title applied only to certain Storinean scholars and one that could take as much as five hundred years to attain, carried weight throughout all the Ten Nations. Given the difficulty in attaining the lofty title, it was somewhat surprising that one as young as Kallin had been granted it. He was only two hundred and fifteen years old, after all. He was likely to keep his seat for what was left of his life. At the same time, the Storinean council seat had been vacant for fifty years. Garneth had abdicated, but the country’s law clearly stated no Morschcoda, whether they were the true heir or not, could sit unless they were Demosira. Taren privately suspected that the people of Storinea were not displeased at taking a break from the politics and shameless backstabbing of the Morschcoda Council.

  * * * * *

  The Council Chamber, like almost everything else in Pentailia Morschcoda, was a large circle. The crest of the Morschcoda Council, a Morschledu Ring emblazoned over a map of Anaria, was carved into the floor and surrounded by ten thrones, one for each Morschcoda, and a larger ring of chairs, slightly separated into groups, that sat farther back, against the wall. Taren had been right about not being the first to the chamber. Both Dalasin and Kallin were there already, whispering to each other as they tried to figure out where they should sit, and no doubt attempting to form a stable alliance before the first meeting of The Councils so that they would each have a stronger position, however slight. It was a tactic that was well used, even by the strongest of the council, and one that was certainly in play throughout the palace already. He did not doubt that Ranny or Xari or both, alone or together, were already plotting some supposedly crippling blow to either him or Erygan. It did not really matter. Ranny’s attempts to manipulate the Morschcoda were amateurish at best, even after one hundred years and more, though she was getting better, he admitted to himself with reluctance. Xari was a more distinct threat. Armanda’s Flame Weavers were justly feared in Anaria, and Xari, like many of her predecessors, would not hesitate to unleash them. Taren was hoping, most likely in vain, that this year The Councils would not degenerate into regretted threats and declarations of war. It had not for almost twenty years now, a record in Taren’s memory, but with Erygan marshalling the Black Guard against Rista’s borders, and his arrest of three Dragon Riders, war was a likely part of the near future.

  As the other Morschcoda began to gather and take their seats, Taren studied them as they came in. He was not surprised to see Erygan and Norrin whispering to each other. Torridesta was practically controlled by the Merchant Clans, and after Norrin approved the building of four new breweries in Braldish alone, the Merchant Princes would be desperate for new trading rights in Eschcota. Nor was he surprised when Ranny and Xari walked in side-by-side, although it struck him as odd when they took seats opposite each other, rather than their usual places. Daliana speaking to Daken was a problem though. Daliana was not against Daken, she was one the few friendly with him, so she could be taking about anything, but Taren suspected that Daken likely now knew of his three Riders and their arrest. Taren now had to assume that that information was useless. Marrdin entered last, as was usual, and took a seat other than the one he was accustomed to use, grumpily sitting in the only available seat, beside Taren. A single chair remained unoccupied at the end of the room furthest from the doors, on a raised dais between the delegations of Caladea and Dothoro. Five silver bells rang to announce the fifth hour of the day, and one gold bell rang to announce the beginning of The Councils.

  Taren studied his fellow Morschcoda intently while they all waited to see who would speak first. Custom dictated that only Morschcoda who had an interest in the current topic could speak while in the chamber, as having more than one conversation lead to confusion and, all too frequently, war.

  Erygan sat across from Taren, tall in his carved throne. Heavy black hair was pulled behind his ears framing a thin, pale face with large black eyes under delicate eyebrows and a high forehead. A pipe was clenched between teeth even whiter than his skin, surrounded by a black goatee, precisely trimmed at the top, and rounded at the bottom, as though his constant chin stroking had worn off part of it. The effect of his dark clothing, soft leather and black fur, was one of wealth and power, both of which were important in Torridesta, controlled as it was by the Merchant Clans. A look of contentment crossed his face as he saw Taren’s annual study of the Morschcoda begin with him.

  Taren looked to his right, at Marrdin. Marrdin, like Erygan, was tall and thin, but there, the similarities ended. Dark skinned, Marrdin’s complexion came from long days in the harsh northern sun, which shone from all angles as it reflected off of the icy plains of the country he called home. He was more powerfully built than Erygan also, with long, thick legs, and powerful arms, making him both incredibly fast when running and a strong opponent with a sword. Long hair, bleached white by the sun, hung over a high forehead, curling just before it fell into his eyes, and hung well down his back. His face was drawn with age, being over eight hundred and fifty, the oldest sitting Morschcoda.

  Taren’s eyes went next to Daken, between Norrin and Ranny. Daken was a short man, and looked similar to the dragons he rode: large eyes and a long wide nose that hooked in over his thin-lipped mouth. His teeth, which he bared often thinking it was both intimidating and unique, not far wrong, were both longer and sharper than most. The two things that set him ap
art in the chamber, aside from his near constant sneer, were his complete lack of any hair, except his eyebrows, and his complete disregard for his appearance. In fact, he more often dressed like the Dragon Rider he had been than the Morschcoda that he was. He had pointedly ignored the many suggestions that he get rid of his beaten and scarred messenger’s satchel, even after several offers of his choice of a new satchel from Merchant Princes attempting to gain rights to Meclarya’s harbours. He claimed it was practical. Other Morschcoda shook their heads, but Taren, thinking of the supply of Eschcotan whiskey in his bedroom, as well as his caches of other equally potent drinks secreted throughout Pentalia Morschcoda, understood the desire, or maybe need, of something to help one deal with the various and often clashing personalities of the Morschcoda.

  Taren’s eyes turned from Daken to Norrin. Norrin was built much the same as Daken, thick and heavy, but almost two feet taller. The giant Eschcotan towered over every other Morschcoda in the room, including Marrdin, though the Ristan was nearer than most to being his equal in height. One could see in his face that he was a stubborn man. He wore a perpetual frown underneath a thick black beard. He was black, something unique to Eschcota, though many Anarian races were tanned or darker skinned, and his skin seemed to shine as if it was coated in oil. Opposite his sword, which hung in his right hip, he had a long hammer and four sharp chisels tucked into his belt. The number of chisels represented his skill as a mason, not great in Norrin’s case, with ten chisels being the fewest that a master would have. They served another purpose on Norrin’s belt though. He was deadly accurate with them, never missing his target when he threw one. As for the hammer, he often preferred its blunt approach in combat to the finesse required by a sword. A long clay pipe rested in his hand, its stem sitting almost delicately on his bottom lip.

  Xari, three seats to Taren’s right, caught his eyes next. As she was always dressed in bright colours, it had become her hair that got her noticed. It hung in thick curls along her neck and the sides of her face and well down her back, changing colour from a deep, almost blood red at the ends to a pale yellow near the top of her head. He was not the only one to believe that the colour was contrived, though it was actually fairly common throughout Armanda. Instead of the pants and shirt of most Morschcoda, or even the gowns and dresses that Ranny wore, Xari rarely clothed herself in anything but long flowing robes which worked well in Armanda to allow heat to escape the body, except for the armour she sometimes wore to The Councils, trying to make the statement that the other Morschcoda, namely Taren, did not intimidate her. A belt of woven yellow, red, and orange silk wound around her waist, holding the strikingly plain brown leather sheath of the sword Galdren, the Flaming Steel, the only sword in the room besides Taren’s that had a name.

  Opposite from Xari, Ranny, in a long gown of pale yellow sewn through with diamonds and yellow crystals, was both difficult to look at directly and hard to avoid staring at. Her bright dress pained the eyes of light sensitive Morschcoda, such as Erygan and himself, but it also tended to draw one’s eye towards her, and it complemented her beauty well. Thin, with a narrow face, her long blonde hair fell on thin but strong shoulders. Though tall in her own right, she was still far shorter than Norrin or Marrdin. She was considered a great beauty throughout Anaria. Her face was angled sharply, with high cheekbones and almost feline eyes. Her ears were pointed more sharply than any other of the Morschcoda, and her hair parted around the tips to display them proudly. If Taren believed that Elves still existed, as Daliana claimed, he would have almost accepted Ranny herself as proof. Though she was adept with a sword, she was no master, and she preferred to use her tongue, believing it to be more civilized. Her manipulations were mostly ignored by the male Morschcoda and ineffective on the women, but in her own country they had saved her the Morschcodal Throne several times.

  Daliana, sitting between Taren and Ranny, drew his eyes away from Ranny, for which Taren offered up a silent thanks. He did not want Ranny to spend the next however many weeks trying to manipulate him, thinking he had been smitten with her. Daliana was small and thin, reminding Taren of a willow tree. She looked like a typical Dothrin woman except for two things: her sea-grey eyes and her red hair, though it had faded to almost brown over the years. She was no warrior, but Taren knew that she could hold her own with a spear or a bow, or Dothoro’s traditional weapon, an Anshawl. She wore little jewelry, except for her Ring and a small golden crown that wound through her hair like branches in her native forest. Wearing shoes instead of the more favoured boots, she could move with grace and stealth easily, whether through the tangled forest pathways or the crowded halls of Pentalia Morschcoda.

  Taren tore his gaze away from Daliana slowly to examine the two new Morschcoda closely for the first time.

  Dalasin, sitting at Erygan’s left, looked different from a typical Morschcoda. He was stoop-shouldered, which seemed to compliment him in a way. He looked at ease with himself, something few Morschcoda ever accomplished, though he seemed, like Norrin, to frown constantly. His face, also sharply angled, though not as severely as Ranny’s, was already framed by iron grey hair despite his youth. His clothes also were atypical of a Morschcoda, though he was undoubtedly one of the richest people in the room. The only sign of his affluence was an intricate silver broach pinned to his left shoulder that he had likely forged himself.

  Kallin, between Xari and Marrdin, a dangerous place to be, but a necessary one, was as different as it was possible to be from the others who sat with him. Even those who did not quite fit the stereotypes about the Morschcoda, like Dalasin and Daken, were far nearer to the mark than he was. Short and round, with wire framed glasses so that he could read the small cramped script of the texts and scrolls he worked with so frequently, he looked more like the scholar that he was than the rest of his peers looked like Morschcoda. A dark beard that came to a sharp point about three inches from his chin decorated his somewhat pale face, while long black hair hung straight from the top of his head and down his back, tucked behind his ears. He wore robes with wide sleeves and deep pockets, much the same as he had the first time Taren had met him, forty years before. Even then, he had been consumed with his studies.

  For the first time, Taren included himself in his study of the current Morschcoda Council, trying to see what he looked like through another’s eyes. He saw a warrior, not a politician. He almost always wore armour to The Councils, polished so that it shone in the dimly lit room, and his famous sword, Mishdonkar, was always belted at his left hip. He saw a man with long, thick hair, so black that it was almost blue, and no beard. He saw that the Morschcoda of Drogoda was a man who also only had one eyebrow, the left, whereas his right eyebrow had been replaced by a thick scar where a sword wielded by one of his brothers had carved a bloody path long before. All told, he saw a soldier, not a leader. The people of Drogoda disagreed, however, and he was their servant and ruler. He returned to himself, not entirely satisfied with what he saw, tempered as it was because of what he knew of the man who sat in his chair.

  Finally, Taren’s studying of the Morschcoda was finished, but still no one looked ready to begin. Almost another ten minutes passed before Marrdin cleared his throat.

  * * * * *

  Taren watched the two new Morschcoda as Marrdin spoke first, so he was only half listening when the old man looked right at him and said “I would appreciate your thoughts, Morschcoda Taren.” Startled, he tried to hide the fact that he had heard nothing of what had just been said, except for the word ‘Torridesta’ somewhere near the beginning. So he looked at Marrdin and spoke slowly.

  “I fail to see the problem, Morschcoda Marrdin” answered Taren, his eyes flicking to Erygan. The pale Morschcoda of Torridesta was almost lounging in his seat, smoking a carved pipe of black wood. Hidden behind the pipe and his neatly trimmed beard was a smile that could hardly be read.

  “You don’t see a problem? There are three thousand Torridestan Black Guards camped my border. How can you not see the problem
?” asked Marrdin.

  ‘Ah,’ thought Taren. ‘So it has begun already.’ Aloud, he asked “Has the Black Guard crossed the Ristan border? Or made any effort to do so?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “Then I fail to see a problem.” Taren saw Norrin fight to hold in a yawn. Dealing with any Morschcoda was tiring. Dealing with all of them together was beyond exhausting. Still, he had held out hope that at least some of them would make it through the first day. “Morschcoda Erygan is well within his rights to do with the Black Guard as he will in his own land. If they have not crossed your borders, then, while you are maybe right to be concerned about the possibility of a war between Torridesta and Rista, his marshalling of the Black Guard is not an act of war, and this council can do nothing about it.”

  “Perhaps,” Kallin spoke for the first time, his voice deeper than Taren thought it would be from the small round man with the short, pointed beard and ink-stained hands, “Morschcoda Marrdin feels that although this is not an act of war, it is a threat of one, and should be addressed, whether or not the council actually can order the Black Guard back to Toredo.”

  Turning to Erygan, Marrdin said “Perhaps Morschcoda Kallin is right. Perhaps I do consider three thousand fully armed elite soldiers practically on my border to be a threat. And if that threat is not removed quickly, Morschcoda Erygan, I will dispatch the Crystal Sword, if only to ensure that your men break no law by crossing the border.”

  Erygan, his voice low and dark, almost a growl, shrugged and waved his hand as he answered. “Do what you will, Morschcoda Marrdin. I have done nothing wrong by ordering my men towards your border. I am, as Morschcoda Taren said, perfectly within my rights to order them where I will, so long as they remain in my lands.”