Boris meandered across the open space, set down the lantern and sack, and then sat cross-legged across from him. He pulled a skin from his jerkin, and popping the cap, tipped it back and took a sip. When he offered up the skin, Ceredon took it without hesitation. The liquid inside tasted of cinnamon and was harsh, burning his throat as it went down. But there was also a certain sweetness to it that caused warmth to spread in his belly.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A drink my father liked to brew. Fermented potato rinds mixed with rosemary, birch sap, and cinnamon.”
“It is quite good. Sweet, yet potent.”
“Thank you.” Boris squinted at him, shaking his head. “Prince Ceredon, I must apologize for the last time I called on you. It was presumptuous of me to think that you could trust me without my proving trustworthy. I was out of line.”
“I almost broke your neck,” Ceredon said, thinking it terribly funny. “It was the bowl of water you brought that saved you.”
“I count myself lucky, then.” Boris chuckled. “I’ll make sure I carry a drink with me at all times.”
Now they both laughed, and despite their exhaustion, their stress, it felt good to do so. Even then, he kept the sound quiet, for he could only guess at what ears listened in, and what Darakken might think of their nighttime meeting.
“Your question,” Ceredon said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I have had an excess of time to dwell on it, and I fear I still have no worthwhile answer.”
“My question?” asked Boris with a smirk.
“You asked me why Darakken has kept me alive.”
“Ah, yes. That. No answer, truly? Consider me disappointed.”
“Yet you appear to know,” Ceredon said, shaking his head. “Which convinces me you haven’t told me everything yet. What is it you know that I don’t?”
Boris hesitated.
“Come now,” Ceredon insisted. “If we are to play this game, we should play it fair.”
The human tsk’ed and wagged a finger.
“Not just yet,” he said. “You see, I brought a gift for you, one that should keep you from snapping my neck anytime soon.”
“And what might that be?”
Boris squeezed his lips together, uncoiled his legs, and rose to his knees. Untying the string binding the sack at his side, he opened it and tipped it over. From within rolled a bundle with tangled white hair that sank into the sand. Ceredon’s heart rose into his throat. The human leaned over the thing, positioned it in the sand, and smoothed aside the hair. Iolas’s face stared up at Ceredon, his bulging eyes milky and his mouth opened wide in an eternal scream. Ceredon could do nothing but gawk.
“Know that he suffered greatly,” said Boris. “Cactus needles beneath the toenails, open wounds covered with salt, that sort of thing. His cries would have awoken the dead had I not gagged him.”
Ceredon sighed. “Put it back in the bag.”
The human appeared surprised, hurt even, but he did as he was asked. Soon the head of the last of the Triad was safely tucked away.
“I apologize if I offended you,” Boris said, “but I thought you would be happy.”
“It is hard to explain,” Ceredon said, looking the man in the eye. “It is good to know he is dead, but it wasn’t by my hand. He didn’t stare into my eyes, knowing his betrayal cost him dearly.” He jabbed a finger at the sack, which was dark and sodden. “Iolas and the Triad brought so much suffering to the Dezren, and they deserved a horrible death. But forgive me-I cannot gaze upon another severed head and smile. Not when the heads of Orden and Phyrra Thyne stared back at me while Darakken kept me imprisoned in Dezerea.”
“Again, Prince Ceredon, you have my apologies.” Boris heaved the sack toward the tent flap, where it landed with a squishy thud.
“Call me ‘prince’ no longer. Ceredon will do.”
“Very well.”
“It is settled then.” Ceredon sat up, pulling his fetters tight, and stretched his legs out before him. He jutted his chin toward the wayward sack. “Now you’ve given me your gift, so answer my question. Why am I still alive? What purpose does the demon have for me?”
Boris slowly nodded. “You must understand, the two are still linked. The knowledge I have, the reason for your continued existence, was spilled to me by Iolas while he. . suffered. But first I must ask you. . what do you know of Neyvar Kilidious?”
“Neyvar Kilidious?” Ceredon asked. “Why?”
“Humor me.”
Ceredon rolled his eyes. “Kilidious Sinistel was the youngest Neyvar in the history of the Quellan. He was a mere nine years old when he was crowned toward the end of the Demon War, after the deaths of his father, Kardious, and brother Rentious. Hen eterunas vi, they call him in my tongue: ‘the boy who saved us.’ It is said that after the last of our defenses were shattered after the last of our winged horses were slaughtered, it was his prayers that brought Celestia down from the heavens to cast the demons into the void.”
“You are a direct relation to him, no?”
“Separated by many generations, but yes.”
“I see. And how many other families of the Sinistel line were alive during the time of the great war?”
Ceredon laughed at the absurdity of the question. “None, of course.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it is law among my people that no child of the Neyvar shall bear children until they themselves become Neyvar. A child born of the sovereign is a child born with inherent knowledge of how to lead the people to greatness. Any child born before their father is crowned is henceforth forbidden to receive the crown.”
“And the Neyvars all obeyed this edict? None had children before their crowning?”
“Obviously,” Ceredon snapped. “What ruler would suffer his children to be forbidden their birthright?”
Boris held his hands up. “No need for snippiness.”
Ceredon shook his head. “Then start making sense, human. What does my family history have to do with Darakken keeping me alive?”
To this, Boris grinned. “It’s blood, Ceredon. It’s history. And to something that is for all intents and purposes timeless, such as Darakken is, history is all that matters.”
That got Ceredon’s attention. “Explain.”
Boris began playing with the sand by his feet, picking up handfuls and letting it trickle between his fingers. “Iolas’s version of the end of the Demon War is very much the same as yours, with one significant difference. According to him, it was not Kilidious’s prayers that called Celestia down from the heavens, but the blood that flowed in his veins. Your history says that two thousand years ago, when the elves were first created, Celestia molded a single family from each race that she loved more than all else, two families to rule the separate races for all time: the Sinistels for the Quellan, and the Thynes for the Dezren. Is that not true?”
“It is.”
“All of which brings us back to Neyvar Kilidious.”
“In what way?”
Boris’s grin became wider. “The Dezren have always been a more. . liberated people, unlike your Quellan, who hold tight to their rigid tenets. There is Thyne blood sprinkled all throughout Dezerea and the Stonewood Forest, and has been for centuries, while, by your own admission, your family is singular. When the Demon War climaxed a thousand years ago, and Neyvar Kardious and Rentious were killed, Darakken and Velixar burst into the Great Hall of Kal’droth-”
“To find young Kilidious on his knees. The goddess then came forth, swallowing the demons in a vortex and banishing them from the realm.”
“Precisely. Only the goddess did this not as an answer to Kilidious’s prayers, but because he was the last of his family line.”
Ceredon stared at him doubtfully.
“Think on it,” said Boris. “Celestia created the Sinistel family to rule the Quellan for all time. That was her decree, as written in your ancient scrolls. Celestia might have allowed you to fight your battles, allowed thousands of your kind to die, but if she had let Kilidious perish, her own word would have been proven false. For all time would not be.”