CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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Alaric

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21st of Decepter, 935 PC

Alaric closed the door quietly and walked deeper into the dark room. No matter how lightly he stepped, the emptiness of the room refused to allow him silence. He stopped in the middle of the room and stared at the back of a broad-shouldered man named Tripelthin Styner sitting at a table a few feet away. The back of his neck was a dark strip of black visible just above the back of the chair. There was a subtle glow on either side created by the burning light in his lap. A navy blue scholar’s hat sat atop his head, its color indistinguishable in the darkness, known only from memory. A memory developed from countless discussions with his advisor.

“Come, Alaric. Sit down.”

He made his way past the seated man, a small flame burned at the end of Tripelthin’s two most useful fingers. Trip and his fire. He pulled a stiff, uncomfortable chair away from the table and took his place opposite the Naturalist. Tripelthin’s face was illuminated and visible now as the magic at his fingertips. There was a golden pin in the shape of a lotus flower on the brim of his hat. Oh, how I despise that damn thing.

“Sitting in the dark nowadays.”

Tripelthin slid his thumb up both fingers and into the flame. He separated his thumb a moment later to create a second. Then a third as he split his fingers. His face faded as his hand swept over the table slowly, illuminating the scrapes and scratches all along it. As well as a sturdy crossbow. Loaded and aimed directly at Alaric. His hand came to a rest just above three unlit candles. One by one each finger brought life to the candle beneath it as he said, “Are we not all sitting in darkness these days? Blind to what our enemies are doing, unsure what awaits us behind the dark clouds approaching?” He lifted his fingers to his lips and with a quick breath the fire was gone.

“Must you be so infatuated with the melodrama?”

“Melodrama?” Tripelthin was baffled that he could show such naivety. “Not dramatic at all, Alaric. Atrocities lurk in every corner of the empire, do they not?”

Alaric pressed his fingertips togethers just beneath his chin, still eyeing the crossbow and the deadly top of the bolt pointing at his stomach. As he stared he thought about what had brought him to the pompous advisor’s room to begin with. Diedro and his damn mirror. His words of righteousness.

Tripelthin got the message. The tip of the weapon turned slightly. “What brings you? Surely there’s more important things to do than sit and talk with an old man.”

Pretentious arse. I’m in no mood to stroke his ego. “I’d like to know where you’d draw the line.”

“What line?” asked Tripelthin.

You know damn well what line I mean. “The one in the sand.”

“Ah yes. The proverbial line in the sand.” Tripelthin scoffed arrogantly. “I’d draw no such line.”

“How could you not? We’ve brought women into this… a child,” said Alaric.

“Do you think Iris Everton has drawn a line? Has she not gone far enough to make it evident she has no limit?”

Alaric sat in silence trying to wrap his head around Tripelthin’s words.

“Iris does not see us as men and women and children. She does not see us as people at all. To her we are a disease, one that plagued the world until she discovered the cure.” He shifted in his seat. “No. I would not draw a line in the sand, the dirt, the snow, or anything else. And neither should you. Not if you want to stop her.”

“I see,” muttered Alaric.

“If you want to win this war you’ve chosen to wage on her-”

“I did not choose to wage war against her,” said Alaric. “She started this.”

Tripelthin grinned. Alaric hated his smug grin. It always meant whatever Alaric had said was childish in his eyes.

“That may be true,” said Tripelthin in an infuriatingly patronizing tone. “But either way, if you’re going to stop her you need to see your people as a means to an end, not as the humans they are.”

“A means to an end,” whispered Alaric. He stood. “Come with me.”