“Do not make an idol of the dead,” countered Lord Redrock.
The Yeutlands representative stepped up to Lord Redrock, peering down his sharp nose at him. “Primarch Taratheil was a well-respected elf, beloved in this assembly. I will not have you speak ill of him.”
“Well,” Aryn murmured next to Ruith, “at least we have one true ally.”
“Mark me,” Redrock continued, “if we allow this trend of supporting foreigners instead of our own to continue, D’thallanar will soon be crawling with humans. They will strangle our culture, abolish our language, expose our children to many evils. This will be the death of our way of life.”
“Do you have a second, Lord Redrock?” asked the third elf, stepping forward. “Or do you plan to proselytize until we all die of boredom?”
A few nervous chuckles went through the room.
Ruith studied the third elf. He wore the blue and silver robes of the Wolfheart clan, and the ruby pendant that marked him as the Voice of the Assembly. This elf would have been hand-picked by Taratheil himself to run Assembly meetings in his absence, and yet Ruith knew nothing about him. The Wolfhearts were a middling clan of warrior elves with only a few remarkable members in their history, though they were one of the oldest clans. Ruith knew they had stood with Taratheil during the siege, and opposed Besshirou’s civil war, but nothing else about their history stood out to him.
Lord Redrock scanned the second floor. “Do I have a second to bring it to a vote?”
The room stayed silent.
“Cowards,” Redrock spat.
The Voice of the Assembly gestured to the stairs. “Without a second, the motion dies. Lord Redrock, Lord Khalel, please take your seats.”
There was a moment of commotion while the councilmen retreated up the stairs and the Voice went over to speak with another young elf hunched behind a desk.
“Niro Wolfheart,” Isheda murmured to Ruith. “Politically, he’s a staunch moderate, but his recent voting habits have leaned more toward liberal agendas, even if he’s historically backed several more conservative bills.”
“Taratheil chose him because he wouldn’t be a controversial pick,” Ruith observed.
Isheda snorted. “He chose Niro because this assembly is a three-ring circus and Niro makes an attractive ringleader.”
“Indeed,” Aryn observed, earning a curious look from Ruith. “What?” he said with a shrug. “Look at him. We all know that attractive males have a higher success rate in politics. He’s young, handsome, and relatively unknown. All things Taratheil was not. If Taratheil wished to win the younger female demographic, he would have been the perfect pick for a running mate.”
“My father was not the sort of politician who picked his partners because of their objective beauty,” Ruith snarled. “He wouldn’t have chosen Niro if he wasn’t capable.”
Isheda cleared his throat. “As the authority on Taratheil’s taste in men, I will have to disagree. Taratheil had a terrible blind spot when it came to attractive males.”
“And now I’m to believe you think yourself some sort of heartthrob, Isheda?” Ruith said with a snort.
Isheda seemed to take genuine offense. “I’ll have you know my hand was very sought after when I was younger.”
“I’m sure that had nothing to do with you being a Runecleaver.”
Isheda huffed out a breath, folded his hands behind his back and lifted his chin. “Well, there are nearly four hundred elves in this city—and several beyond—who I think would disagree with you.”
Aryn choked on his laugh.
Ruith stared at Isheda. “Fourhundred? You’re not serious.”
Isheda let a small smile show, but said nothing.
“Four hundred of what?” Faelyn frowned and glanced between them. “I’m confused.”
“Good,” Ruith grunted. “Isheda is a poor example.”
Niro lifted his hands, calling the room to order. “The Assembly recognizes and welcomes Primarch Ruith Deepfrost, son of the late Primarch Taratheil, and his guests.” He gestured for them to step forward. “The floor is yours.”
Ruith walked to the center of the floor as silence fell. He studied the faces around the room, trying to guess who might emerge from among them as the next Primarch of the elves.
“Gracious councilmen,” Ruith began. “Esteemed lords, and friends. In life, my father…” He hesitated, staring down at the notes he’d brought with him. The words blurred into nonsense, and his throat was strangely tight.