Belythna and Floriana took their usual seats in the Council Chamber. They sat at a huge, oaken table, at the end nearest the doors. The two young women, who had become fully-fledged Sentorân just three years earlier – upon their twentieth spring – sat at the opposite end to the oldest, and more experienced, sorcerers of the order.
As the chamber filled up, Belythna leant back in her chair, her gaze travelling around the austere chamber. Apart from the magnificent table and high-backed chairs, little else adorned the space. This had been a throne room once, long ago when kings ruled Palâdnith. Belythna imagined how magnificent this chamber would have been back then; there would have been a dais up one end and tapestries and weaponry hanging from the walls. Many centuries had passed since the Age of Kings; these days the pitted stone walls, made of a dark, volcanic rock, were bare of decoration.
It was a sombre chamber – unadorned except for the large parchment hanging on the far wall. Protected under a thin layer of glass, a rare material in Palâdnith, the parchment was brittle and yellowed with age. The signatures of the six men who had signed it in their own blood were still as vivid as if they had been written yesterday – and not centuries earlier.
The Pact of the Realms – that parchment marked a turning-point in Sentorân history. It had been the moment when the order’s role as protector of the land became formalised. Elisir, the sorcerer who had led the Sentorân order at that time, had worked for peace and unity for many years; and it was Elisir of Deep-Spire who had brought the Age of Darkness to a close.
For many years preceding the signing of the pact, the Sentorân had travelled the land, from one end to the other, gaining support for their idea of dividing Palâdnith into five realms. Each realm would be governed by a realmlord – and each lord would rule with the guidance of the Sentorân. The five men, who would later become realmlords, eventually travelled to Deep-Spire. There, they took part in a conclave with Elisir, where the boundaries of the new realms were drawn up and agreements made.
The five realms of Palâdnith would never have existed without the Sentorân – and the men who chose to become the first realmlords were only too happy to sign the pact. The Age of Darkness had been long and difficult; they were all wise enough to realise that the only way forward was unity.
If only later realmlords had held the same view, Belythna reflected. Men never appeared to learn from their mistakes. Those first five realmlords had been good men, leaders with vision. Yet, it had taken just over a century before the lessons of the past faded from living memory.
It had been the Pact of the Realms that Riadamor had been referring to when she lost her temper with Realmlord Chatis.
The penalty for breaking the pact was death. All the current realmlords knew it – and it was only this that held them in check.
Black-robed figures filled the chamber, their cloaks rippling behind them. To Belythna, their black clothing always made these meetings seem like a council of crows. Such a grim colour, she thought. The morning’s events had left her feeling tired and jaded for her twenty-three winters.
Jedin arrived, and wordlessly took a seat next to Floriana. Belythna glanced his way and immediately regretted it. There was not a shred of warmth on his face. He glared back at her, his dark eyes accusing. Belythna hastily looked away and resolved to ignore him for the rest of the council.
Riadamor entered then. She made her way over to the table and slid into the spare seat next to Belythna.
“Morning,” Belythna greeted her. Riadamor nodded curtly in reply; her terse manner not inviting conversation.
Lady Serina made her entrance a few moments later. She strode into the chamber, her long, silver-threaded, dark hair pulled back, as usual, in a severe braid. It was an unforgiving style for a woman with such an uncompromising face.
The leader of the order strode up the table, towards the chair awaiting her at the top, in-between Ridoc and Marvin, her advisers.
“Kern has brought word from the south,” Lady Serina began the council without preamble, before acknowledging the hatchet-faced man seated nearby. “The skirmish on the Omagen-Sude border grows bloodier by the day – and fighting has now broken out on the Farindell-Sude border as well.”
Disapproval rippled around the table.
“You didn’t need to travel back to Deep-Spire to deliver this news,” a young, female voice cut through the murmuring voices. “You could have sent a raven. Why are you not still on the Omagen-Sude border?”
All gazes swivelled to Riadamor.
Meanwhile, Kern’s face turned thunderous.
“Riadamor,” Lady Serina’s gaze narrowed. “You were not given leave to speak.”
“The Realmlord of Sude sent you away, didn’t he?” Riadamor added, ignoring the Sentorân leader.
“Lord Tagett no longer welcomes my counsel,” Kern admitted sourly. “There is no use lingering where I am not wanted.”
“You shouldn’t have let him dictate to you,” Riadamor replied. “Why did you not uphold the pact? A realmlord who does not accept our council must be made an example of. How else will the others learn?”
“Riadamor!” Serina’s reprimand echoed through the council chamber. “Hold your tongue!”
Riadamor gave Lady Serina a cool look but, sensing her superior’s rising temper, did as she was bid.
Belythna glanced at Riadamor. What was she playing at? Surely, she did not want Lady Serina to know what had she had done to Lord Chatis in Catedrâl? She was dancing perilously close to the edge, but did not seem to care.
Lady Serina turned to Kern. The sorcerer looked as if he had aged a decade in the last few moments. He was hunched down inside his robes, glaring down the table at Riadamor.
“Kern – is it true?” Serina asked him. “Did Tagett send you away?”
The older sorcerer’s thin frame sagged. “He did. He blames us for their unrest. He accuses you of sending me to counsel him in an attempt to enslave him. He thinks you seek to make him do your bidding, that you wish to become queen and bring the realmlords down, one by one.”
Kern’s words brought a series of gasps forth from some of the Sentorân, while others muttered curses under their breaths at the Realmlord of Sude’s audacity.
Only Serina did not show a response. She sat, still and regal, her gaze riveted upon Kern.
“Did Lord Tagett say anything else?” she asked eventually, once the chamber quieted.
Kern shook his head, looking sorry and sad. “Nothing else, Milady. Surely, this is more than enough.”
“Riadamor spoke true,” Ridoc, seated to Serina’s left, was finding it hard to contain his agitation. “We cannot let Tagett get away with this.”
Lady Serina merely shook her head; for the first time in years she appeared at a loss for words.
“Send a group of us to deal with him,” Riadamor spoke up once more. “Offer him a new adviser. If he refuses, slay him, as the pact dictates.”
“Such an act could turn the other realmlords against us,” Kern protested, unable to remain silent a moment longer. “It could bring us to war.”
“If you do nothing, then that pact on the wall is worth nothing,” Riadamor retorted. “If none of you have the courage to uphold it, we will be Palâdnith’s laughing stock.”
Silence followed Riadamor’s words.
Belythna shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Riadamor – please,” she whispered. “That’s enough.”
“Why?” Riadamor gave her a haughty look. “I’m merely stating the truth. It’s time someone did.”
“You speak out of turn,” Lady Serina told her flatly, “and in doing so are demonstrating your ignorance. You would have centuries of peace destroyed because one man has behaved badly. I will deal with Lord Tagett, in my own way. I will not be dictated to by the likes of you.”
Riadamor rose smoothly to her feet. Her face was hard with anger.
Belythna caught hold of Riadamor’s arm and tried to pull her back down into her seat, but Riadamor merely s
hook her off.
“Do what’s needed,” she addressed Lady Serina. “Bring that realmlord to justice!”
“The world is not as black and white as you paint it,” Serina leaned back in her chair and shook her head mockingly.
“No – it is actually very simple,” Riadamor replied. “A realmlord who does not allow us to counsel them must be removed from power.”
“Stupid girl,” Lady’s Serina’s lip curled. “You know nothing of how the world works. Your father is a petty tyrant, who thinks he can bully the world into doing his bidding. I can see the apple did not fall far from the tree!”
Those words changed everything.
Lady Serina’s insult was a catalyst. Suddenly the argument escalated to a place there was no turning back from.
Riadamor’s face twisted. She gave a yell and shoved her hands forward into the air, unleashing her talent.
Serina flew backwards, as if caught by a gust of wind, toppling her chair to the flagstone floor with a clatter. The leader of the Sentorân order collided, spread-eagled with the stone wall, and, for one terrible moment, the chamber, and all those inside it, froze.
A heart-beat later, the chamber erupted. Sorcerers leapt to their feet, Belythna among them, gathering their talents to strike Riadamor down.
Yet, Serina was faster.
She had not risen to her position through a sharp mind alone; her talent of the Heart, was one of the most powerful the order had ever known.
With a grace that belied her advancing years, Serina peeled herself off the wall and fixed her gaze upon her adversary. Riadamor stood at the opposite end of the room, her hands still outstretched, her face savage. Serina whispered something, her voice so low that no one in the chamber caught the words. Then, she brought her arms up and crossed them over her chest.
Riadamor screamed.
She staggered backwards, her back jack-knifing as if an invisible force attempted to snap her spine.
“Enough, Riadamor,” Serina’s voice rolled across the chamber like thunder. “I am out of patience.”
Riadamor screamed again, writhing and twisting in an effort to straighten herself up. There was agony in that scream, but also defiance.
Belythna stared, shocked, at where Riadamor fought Serina’s talent with everything she had. Her only response, when she managed to choke out the words, was to scream an obscenity at her leader.
Belythna reached out, in an effort to use her talent to soothe Riadamor. In response, Riadamor spat out a curse and flung her arm into Belythna’s face. The bony edge of her wrist caught Belythna’s right cheek and sent her reeling back against Floriana.
Lady Serina, her face creased in concentration, advanced down the right-hand side of the long table. Any Sentorân in her way, hurriedly stepped back to allow her passage. Her arms were still over her chest – the battle stance of those with her talent – although her fists were now clenched, revealing the effort it took to keep Riadamor under control.
She stopped a yard away from Riadamor and watched the young woman who fought her with every fibre of her being.
“You leave me with no choice.” Serina’s voice was cold, hard.
With that, the leader of the Sentorân brought her clenched fists together in the centre of her chest.
Riadamor’s body went into spasms, her limbs thrashing uselessly. Then, she gave one last cry of pain before her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled, like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut, to the flagstone floor.
All eyes were on Lady Serina while she approached Riadamor’s motionless form. A hush filled the council chamber. Its occupants were still reeling at what they had just witnessed.
Serina stopped before Riadamor, staring down at her unconscious face.
“You were always the one to watch,” she murmured.