At one hundred paces, they stopped to bow and advanced another fifty feet, where they removed their shoes.
Passing under the wooden arch and into the belly of the Hall was like entering another world. The busy, modern bustle of the rest of the city was forgotten, and in its place rose ancient wooden beams with paper lanterns. Murals in traditional Elvish styles—some dating back hundreds of years—decorated the walls, capturing important moments in history. There was a depiction of Primarch Bloodrose as he gathered the clans for the first vote. Down the hall was the mural of the Great Objection in which six clan heads hung themselves to protest war with the Yeutlands. And next to it…
Ruith paused, eyes traveling up the painting of the Hall of Wisdom under siege, every window darkened but one. At the highest level, a single lantern flickered in the breeze, a signal that the monarchy yet stood. At least, that was the story everyone knew.
Emmanthe and Isheda had spun a very different story for Ruith, one that he would pass on.
Ruith paused in front of the mural, folding his hands behind his back. “Do you know what this is, Faelyn?”
Faelyn careened his neck, looking up at the tall image. “The fall of the monarchy?”
“And the rise of Clan Deepfrost,” Ruith said with a nod. “There are many versions of that story. The popular version you will likely hear is that for eighteen days, Taratheil laid siege to the Hall of Wisdom. By day, he fought to gain entry or to bring about the downfall of the last queen of the elves. Every night that he failed, Queen Siriyama—your grandmother—hung a lantern in the window to announce to her subjects that she still lived. Then, on the eighteenth day, the Runecleavers betrayed their queen and allowed Taratheil and his forces to enter the tower. Taratheil fought his way up all eighteen stories to where the queen had barricaded herself, swearing that he would slay her. But when he broke down the door and set his eyes upon her, he was so taken by her beauty that he married her that night. But that is not the truth. The truth is much more… complicated.”
Faelyn’s attention fixed on the mob of black at the base of the tower meant to represent Taratheil’s army. “What’s the truth?”
“The truth,” Ruith said, watching Faelyn’s face carefully, “is that Taratheil and Siriyama had already married in a secret ceremony and that the queen was already pregnant. They were separated by force shortly after their marriage, and Siri was held here against her will. The lantern she hung every night was not in defiance of Taratheil. It was to let him know she was still alive and waiting for him. And the Runecleaver who opened the gates did not do so as a traitor. He, too, was in love with your grandmother. And your grandfather.”
Faelyn turned his head, but he didn’t look at Ruith. Instead, he focused on Isheda, who shifted uncomfortably under the boy’s gaze before looking away.
Ruith gripped Faelyn’s shoulder and turned him, bending down to speak to him face to face. “One day, the empire your grandfather built will crumble. Every stone in every castle will turn to dust and our bones will be ash in the wind. We will all die, but the stories told about us will survive long after we are gone. Truth is a powerful weapon, but only when it is wielded correctly. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I…” Faelyn’s eyes darted to Isheda and back before he frowned. “Not really.”
“Taratheil’s story will survive him,” Isheda supplied. “But his story was carefully crafted to do so. He was a slave who became a war hero and married a princess. When he was offered a crown, he declined it and instead helped build the world you know. That is his story. But the man himself…” Isheda met Ruith’s eyes. “He was not without his flaws.”
“Taratheil understood a hard truth,” Ruith said, squeezing his son’s shoulders. “True power isn’t something that can be won, or bought with coin or blood. You cannot bully your way into it, or befriend your way there. True power is a story that is ever unfolding. We must take care to craft ours well.”
“And how can we do that?” Faelyn asked.
“Perception,” Aryn answered in Ruith’s place. “Sometimes, the threat of action achieves more than the action itself. Taratheil held power here not because he ruled. He lost six of his seven bids to be Primarch, but he never let this city forget he was their liberator.”
Ruith nodded and stood. “Never forget that you are being watched, Faelyn, even when you think you’re alone. As his grandson, everything you do will be under scrutiny. Everyone you speak to, every word you speak second-guessed. I know that’s difficult, and it isn’t fair, but remember this. We may not get to choose our lineage or our duty to that line, but destiny is what you make it. Your future is the story you choose to tell yourself. Believe it. Make it happen. No one else is going to do it for you.”
Footsteps approached, and they turned as one to greet a messenger elf coming down the corridor. The elf bowed low. “The Sagacious Assembly is ready to receive you and your guests, my Primarch.”
Ruith fought not to scowl at the title. Soon enough, it and all the weight that accompanied it would belong to someone else. He and Aryn had come to ensure that his successor was one who would hold both Brucia's and D’thallanar’s interests in mind.
They followed the messenger at a distance through the winding halls, letting the honored servants open the sliding doors for them. Voices carried through, even before the doors opened.
“—Must be mad if you think the Craiggybottoms would support such a measure!” shouted a man in Elvish.
“With all due respect, Councilman Craiggybottom, I do not need your support.”
“This bill will crush the already shaky economic integrity of the Yeutlands,” protested another, softer male voice.
The second voice from earlier laughed bitterly. “Why should the other twelve clans bear extra tax to support a nation of thieves and murderers?”
Their escort pushed open the sliding doors and stepped aside to hold them while Ruith, Isheda, Aryn, and Faelyn entered. The room beyond was massive, with two floors. A small crowd of elves stood around the bottom floor, most of them with papers in their hands. The council and their aides populated the second floor, some of them on velvet couches. Others leaned against the railing, rapt by the debate taking place. Still more whispered among each other, or traded grips as they came to some agreement.
Three elves stood in the center of the open floor, one of them Elmon Redrock.
“Crime in the Yeutlands is up by nearly thirty percent in the last year alone,” continued Lord Redrock, driving a finger emphatically into his palm. “Unemployment continues to remain high. The lowlands clans have borne the cost for rebuilding the Yeutlands through half a dozen Primarchs, and still the issues remain. Billions wasted investing in free education, in building schools and trade unions, in training and equipment!”
“None of which the Yeutlands would need if not for decades of systematic oppression under the monarchy.” The soft spoken elf stepped forward. Unlike the others, who wore loose-fitting tunics with stiff collars, he wore a long, flowing robe over simpler clothes, bright colors, and a necklace of simple brown string holding a single large tooth.
Ruith did not recognize him, but he was clearly the Yeutland’s representative.
“Need I remind this council of the slaughter of my people at the hands of Emperor Besshirou? That it was the late Primarch himself who fought for this measure in these very chambers?” the Yeutland’s assembly member said, addressing the crowd.