do.”
Cedric stumbled over his own booted feet. “Free me,” he rasped to her.
“I can't. My dagger can make no dent on the work of Nicholas Erlane's ore-smiths. They are well-known for their skills.”
Lianna , Cedric pleaded desperately in his mind, but the Pixie woman moved without a backward glance, and Cedric was led, once again, where he did not wish to go.
Chapter Four
Sebastian
S ebastian's fingers itched to throttle his steward, Pomley. The man ducked and clucked and darted around him like a nervous squirrel, straightening his robe, drawing the train behind him. He'd met with Sebastian's valet that morning and insisted on high dress, stressing the importance of creating an impression.
Sebastian's arch-enemy, the usurper of his plans and dreams for his kingdom of Lismaria, Nicholas Erlane, would arrive today to parley, to discuss the possibilities, however slim, of peace between their countries.
Not that Sebastian would ever concede an orlach of West Ashwynd's soil to that treasonous snake. The man had gall to bring as large a delegation as he had into Sebastian’s domain, and his entire navy prowled the Channel of Lise as though Lismaria owned the waters already.” Fury nearly choked Sebastian along with the blasted clasp of his robe.
Nicholas currently awaited Sebastian in the throne room. Pomley again fiddled with the clasp at Sebastian's throat.
Sebastian shoved the steward aside and strode past him as the older man stumbled into an awkward bow. “Announce me, Pomley.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Pomley ducked ahead of him, diving through the double doors as the guards opened them.
“His Grace, the King of West Ashwynd, Sebastian Andrachen.” His voice echoed in the throne room, and Sebastian took small pleasure in hearing the emphasis on Andrachen , the claiming of his kinship with Aarkan the Firebringer, Sebastian's ancient forefather.
He stepped to the entryway. The red and gold banners of his kingdom decorated the throne room, and at the table of state that stretched the length of the room sat his Council, Commander-in-Chief Lanier, and Nicholas Erlane himself with his head commander and a contingent of Lismarian diplomats and guards he had brought with him.
All of them stood as Sebastian stopped at the head of the table. Nicholas Erlane met his gaze, steel darkening the indigo of his irises. Sebastian flattened the fury that writhed inside and greeted him curtly, “Nicholas Erlane.” He refused to call him by his honorific.
Sebastian's commanders tensed. It was a bad beginning for a parley.
“Your Grace.” Nicholas Erlane inclined his head, and his ease with the situation increased Sebastian's rage. The Lismarian usurper was shorter than Sebastian by nearly a head, his silvery hair pulled into a braid down his back to his waist. A neat goatee of the same color covered his chin. His slim fingers clasped together in front of him. If it weren't for the goatee, he would have looked feminine.
Erlane sank into his chair, an eyebrow lifted as he waited for Sebastian to sit. Sebastian waited a moment longer than was necessary before settling into his own seat and picking up a goblet of mead.
“So,” Sebastian drew out the word, “you've left your comfortable Lismarian throne, trekked across your Marron Mountains, clogged the Channel with an impressive show of your naval strength, all to sit in my chair and drink my mead and tell me how you never meant to take my rightful throne and drive me from my homeland.” He took a long drink and slammed the goblet onto the table.
Stilted quiet settled across the room.
Lanier cleared his throat: “Your Grace, we have here the treaty Nicholas Erlane has drawn up for your perusal.”
Sebastian hurled the goblet at the stone wall ten lengths to his right. It shattered with a crash.
Xander, his new head of Council after Sebastian had promoted Jerrus to Commander flinched backward at the noise. “Your Grace,” he whispered, shocked.
Erlane's
Cedric stumbled over his own booted feet. “Free me,” he rasped to her.
“I can't. My dagger can make no dent on the work of Nicholas Erlane's ore-smiths. They are well-known for their skills.”
Lianna , Cedric pleaded desperately in his mind, but the Pixie woman moved without a backward glance, and Cedric was led, once again, where he did not wish to go.
Chapter Four
Sebastian
S ebastian's fingers itched to throttle his steward, Pomley. The man ducked and clucked and darted around him like a nervous squirrel, straightening his robe, drawing the train behind him. He'd met with Sebastian's valet that morning and insisted on high dress, stressing the importance of creating an impression.
Sebastian's arch-enemy, the usurper of his plans and dreams for his kingdom of Lismaria, Nicholas Erlane, would arrive today to parley, to discuss the possibilities, however slim, of peace between their countries.
Not that Sebastian would ever concede an orlach of West Ashwynd's soil to that treasonous snake. The man had gall to bring as large a delegation as he had into Sebastian’s domain, and his entire navy prowled the Channel of Lise as though Lismaria owned the waters already.” Fury nearly choked Sebastian along with the blasted clasp of his robe.
Nicholas currently awaited Sebastian in the throne room. Pomley again fiddled with the clasp at Sebastian's throat.
Sebastian shoved the steward aside and strode past him as the older man stumbled into an awkward bow. “Announce me, Pomley.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Pomley ducked ahead of him, diving through the double doors as the guards opened them.
“His Grace, the King of West Ashwynd, Sebastian Andrachen.” His voice echoed in the throne room, and Sebastian took small pleasure in hearing the emphasis on Andrachen , the claiming of his kinship with Aarkan the Firebringer, Sebastian's ancient forefather.
He stepped to the entryway. The red and gold banners of his kingdom decorated the throne room, and at the table of state that stretched the length of the room sat his Council, Commander-in-Chief Lanier, and Nicholas Erlane himself with his head commander and a contingent of Lismarian diplomats and guards he had brought with him.
All of them stood as Sebastian stopped at the head of the table. Nicholas Erlane met his gaze, steel darkening the indigo of his irises. Sebastian flattened the fury that writhed inside and greeted him curtly, “Nicholas Erlane.” He refused to call him by his honorific.
Sebastian's commanders tensed. It was a bad beginning for a parley.
“Your Grace.” Nicholas Erlane inclined his head, and his ease with the situation increased Sebastian's rage. The Lismarian usurper was shorter than Sebastian by nearly a head, his silvery hair pulled into a braid down his back to his waist. A neat goatee of the same color covered his chin. His slim fingers clasped together in front of him. If it weren't for the goatee, he would have looked feminine.
Erlane sank into his chair, an eyebrow lifted as he waited for Sebastian to sit. Sebastian waited a moment longer than was necessary before settling into his own seat and picking up a goblet of mead.
“So,” Sebastian drew out the word, “you've left your comfortable Lismarian throne, trekked across your Marron Mountains, clogged the Channel with an impressive show of your naval strength, all to sit in my chair and drink my mead and tell me how you never meant to take my rightful throne and drive me from my homeland.” He took a long drink and slammed the goblet onto the table.
Stilted quiet settled across the room.
Lanier cleared his throat: “Your Grace, we have here the treaty Nicholas Erlane has drawn up for your perusal.”
Sebastian hurled the goblet at the stone wall ten lengths to his right. It shattered with a crash.
Xander, his new head of Council after Sebastian had promoted Jerrus to Commander flinched backward at the noise. “Your Grace,” he whispered, shocked.
Erlane's
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