Chapter Text
chapter four. courtiers
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Time was a river rushing through the cracks of life, turning the wheel of the seasons around and around. Always ending, always beginning, without ever stopping.
The morning was heavy with the scent of newly bloomed anemones and roses, the warm, late-summer breeze thick with salt and particles of white sand. Elain sat beneath a shower of golden light in her study in the Red Palace, humming her younger children's favorite ballad — they had not stopped singing it since that blasted bard pulled the string of his lute on their beach outing — as she penned an answer to her daughter Orlaith, the High Lady of the Spring Court. She wanted advice on a new crop rotation system and to inquire about any news of Nahida.
Yes, Elain had a few ideas for improvements for Orie’s plans, things that she herself had studied on the Continent and implemented in the Day Court successfully. No, last she'd heard, Nahida was about to cross the Great Desert of Aratar. Since there was no letter from the General of the West about her failure to show up at the Xian border, she was probably just too busy to send word.
Elain and Lucien would have to sit Nahida down once she returned home and lecture her — again — on the fact that she had a family in Prythian, people who loved and worried about her continued well-being, so would it kill her to send word more frequently?
"We can't blame her too much for it," said Phoebe with a jolly laugh, the last time it had happened. "Her father was the same when he was young."
"I most certainly wasn't," Lucien protested, indignant. "My travels seldom took me beyond Prythian's borders and never beyond the Bones or the Great Desert of Aratar. Never did I decide on a whim to journey beyond the Everwinter, climb the Mountains of the Moon, and reach the Sky Court of Hyperborea to see how the world looked from closest to the stars with just a note to warn you."
Elain nodded in agreement as she took the coffee. She added, "He also never claimed he'd made friends with a member of the Golden Court and thus would attempt to cross the Great Desert on the back of a Sandwyrm, or joined an expedition to the unknown depths of the Continent's Underdark.” For two years, there had been little word of the expedition, and Elain had to rely on glimpses of Nahida’s future beyond the darkness to endure the separation. One day, out of nowhere, their daughter was back home with a grin on her lips and a scar on his cheek."
"Orlaith never did anything of the sort!" Lucien pointed out, distressed. "Nor do Hyperion or Calliope!"
Phoebe raised an eyebrow at him. "Orlaith takes issue whenever she is forced to make the smallest physical exertion. The Spring Court would also collapse without her presence. Hyperion is nine year old, fonder of books than people, and Calliope is two years old."
As if Nahida hadn't, at the age of nine, talked her sister and cousins into an escape to the Land of Dusk to see the Pegasi, even though they had no way to get there. She'd taken the children halfway to Velaris’ port before the adults caught up with their antics, which was rather impressive for a group of children.
"You," Rhysand had said with exasperation as he used the High Lord voice on Nahida and the three miscreants, "are the Crawling Chaos come again."
Most People would tremble in fear before Rhysand's age — Orlaith was sobbing and claiming she only went to make sure they didn't get into trouble, Gawayne and Letha wanted to hide — but Elain and Lucien's eldest just looked up at him, golden eyes alight with curiosity. "What's a Crawling Chaos?"
"An ageless horror which prowled our world in times immemorial, wearing the ill-shaped body of a fae. It brought chaos and ruin by playing with the our desires, wrecking the nascent civilizations — and not even the power of Cauldron could kill it. So the ancients banished it to a prison beyond the stars, where it shall stay until reality falls apart and it's released. You are as persistent and as chaotic, if not malicious." Rhys kneeled before the group and warned, "So you better behave, or no more visits to the Illyrians or to the Valkyries."
The threat of never going to see the Valkyries or the Illyrians again was effective enough. The comparison to the Crawling Chaos… Elain could have murdered Rhysand for that one. Nahida was not horrified; she was delighted. That somehow ended her raiding the libraries and claiming she wanted to hunt down monsters like the heroes of legend. Mother help them all.
She missed Nahida's wild, chaotic energy. She missed Orlaith's endless fussing and need to have everything in sparkling order. She missed their arguments and the troubles they'd find themselves in.
She wanted her daughters back.
How was she to survive when Hyperion and Calliope were old enough to leave the Red Palace and build their own lives? Letting Orlaith and Nahida so soon after each other had nearly destroyed her.
Then she heard the sound of footsteps, one after another in quick succession, someone running. Elain let go of her quill and lifted her head to the door, from where no sooner did her lady-in-waiting, Thalesa, emerge.
Elain's brows furrowed. This wasn't like Thalesa at all. “What's the matter?" She questioned. When her gaze fell on the scroll crushed in the lady’s firm grip, Elain's body ran cold. "Has something happened to Nahida? To Orlaith?” No. Please, let it not be so. Anything but her girls. Not her girls.
“Not to the Lady Orlaith, no." The female shook her head and scurried closer. She handed Elain the letter. “One of Scythia's herald ravens has just arrived with this."
Not Nahida or Orlaith, but Vassa. Dear Vassa. The Herald Ravens bred and kept by Mortal Royalty were a hallmark of human ingenuity, of what they could achieve with the proper research and confidence. They were sturdier, faster, and more resilient than their close kin, capable of flying for days on end without food or water. Precious and expensive to breed and maintain, their use was restricted to times of war and calamity. Mother, please, let Vassa be safe and sound.
She snatched the letter from Thalesa's hand and tore through the wax seal, unrolling the parchment and rushing to take in words written in black ink. With each line she read, dread climbed up her spine like a spider.
“Call my mate,” Elain said, but she didn't need to. At the other end of the bond, Lucien stirred, feeling her distress, her call for him, and hurried to her. “And tell my handmaids and Lucien's grooms to begin preparing for travel. Now, Thalesa, now!"
She paced from one side of the room to another, glancing at the door every now and then as if it would summon Lucien faster. What Vassa had relayed in the letter wasn't just bad news — Herald Ravens wouldn't have been needed for that, either — but a disaster waiting to happen, the likes of which they had not faced since Koschei, since the King of Hybern. The Continent's balance of power had just been turned upside down.
Where could they go first? Vallahan? Montesere? Scythia itself? Where to start?
Lucien burst through the doors, his eyes wide with concern. Before he could say anything, Elain brandished the letter. “This has just arrived from Scythia.” She pressed the parchment against his chest. “It's from Vassa. She requests our immediate assistance.”
“Why?” Lucien asked, straightening the paper and giving it a glance. “What happened?”
“Nothing yet. But if we don't go?” Elain's expression was darker than a raging storm as she said, “Then war. The Archon of Vyrai is dead, Lucien, and Prince Viy has ascended in his place— not as Archon of Vyrai, but as Emperor of All Rask."
In the distance, a raven cried, low and ominous.
༻ ❁ ༺
In the Continent, Elain and Lucien's reputations preceded them. Their triumph over Koschei had grown taller with each retelling, so much so that it hardly resembled what had actually gone down in the Lake. Amidst the humans, they were folk heroes along with Vassa and Jurian, the epitome of the Good Neighbours — the Fae who actually cared and helped humans.
Alas, many of the fae saw the Prince and Princess of the Day Court in a less flattering light. For them, they were the cunning interlopers who had taken advantage of the fear in the aftermath of Koschei's fall to goad their monarchs into signing a pact of non-aggression with the Mortal Lands.
Not that either of them regretted it much; few memories were as satisfying as the now-dead Archon Radast of Vyrai burning with rage upon realizing he had been outmaneuvered. Less satisfying was watching the Princess of Montesere bare her fangs and usurp her brother's throne in a violent coup.
At least Isabet of Montesere, unlike her brother, was fonder of the quill than the sword. She had been perfectly willing to negotiate with Prythian and the mortal kingdoms over the other fae lands so long as it was to her advantage. As the biggest question mark between the westernmost realms, Montesere became the first stop on their diplomatic tour.
They had winnowed to the Night Court and taken ship to the port town of Seirat, where a delegation awaited to take them to the Pale Court, seat of Queen Isabet. The Court was located deep within the land, on the forested hills leading up to the eponymous Montesere massif at the raskian border, built on ruins of an ancient temple for gods so long dead none remembered their names.
No one, except the ancient, massive yews surrounding the court in a perfect circle, which had witnessed unending centuries and knew more than any fae alive did. Beneath their entwined branches, death kept its pale court.
The Queen of Montesere awaited them on her throne, a great chair of carved out bone — Lucien had always wondered if the Bone Carver had a hand on its making — set at the roots of the largest, most imposing tree in the entire forest. Over time, the roots had grown and fused with the old bone, life growing where even death had long reigned.
After all this time, after everything she had seen in their vast, strange world, Elain still didn't understand how this place existed, this true contradiction hiding away in the mountains. None of these trees should be alive after so long, wood should not grow from bone, and the air shouldn't be so still and dead. The Bog of Oorid was much the same after Fionn's murder; she wondered what the ancient fae of Montesere had done to cast such a heavy shadow upon their home.
And looking upon Isabet of Montesere, she had no doubt something had been done. Her hair was pale as the walls of her Court, the color of old bone, tied up in a long braid that reached the floor. Withering flowers were woven in its smooth tresses along with ruby droplets. The gemstones matched the vibrant color of her bow-shaped lips and crimson eyes, creating a sharp contrast with her pallid skin. She was as beautiful as she was eerie.
“Your majesty,” Elain and Lucien muttered in unison, dipping into a courtesy. He continued, “We thank you for receiving us on such short notice.”
“Prince Lucien, Princess Elain,” Isabet greeted them, her voice a deep and rich baritone. She stood, opening her arms. “We are delighted to welcome you to our court. Please, be at ease. There were no major hurdles in your journey here, we hope?"
Elain smiled and gathered her hands in front of her body. “None, your grace. Only clear skies, swift winds, and the pleasant company of your gracious subjects."
“In the middle of the storm season? Fortune truly does smile upon your family, it seems.” Queen Isabet grinned, revealing sharp, pointed teeth.
“The Mother smiles upon us all, majesty,” Lucien agreed pleasantly, letting the jab slide. “Might we offer you a token of our appreciation, your grace?”
“A gift! You have brought us a gift?” She stood from the throne and clapped excitedly, her eyes alight with greed. “Where is it? We wish to see it. You have always brought us precious gifts.”
Elain motioned for one of their aides to come forward. He kneeled at the queen's feet and offered her a large box with a yew tree carved in bas-relief and encrusted with rubies in the place of the fruits.
Isabet approached, moving so swiftly she seemed to glide above the floor. She ran her long, manicured nails over the carvings, head askew like a curious animal, and opened it.
The Queen of Montesere shrieked with delight, removing the shimmering pelt from the box and holding it high above her head.
“The pelt from the legendary Morning Stag, found only in the Middle,” Elain supplied. It had been a pain to track it down — the blasted animal only revealed itself at the break of morn, under a special set of circumstances — but Isabet was a vain woman and a collector of the rare and precious. It would earn them her favor. “We have also brought its hooves and horns, which are said to be the purest of golds.” Three aides stepped forward then, bringing the massive horns into view.
Isabet laughed and wrapped the heavy pelt around her shoulders. “This is magnificent! Magnificent! I shall have my craftsmen begin working on it immediately. But on what? A cape! Yes, a cape will do. Theron!” She shouted, glancing around.
The man — her beleaguered assistant — rushed to her side, bowing his head low. “Yes, my queen?”
“Give it to the craftsmen. Tell them I want the finest cloak anyone has ever seen. They have until dusk in three days.”
“Three days?” The aide's eyes widened. “Your grace, I beseech you, give them more time. Such a monumental task—”
“They live to serve us,” Isabet interrupted looking at him with furrowed brows and a slight smile, slipping back into the royal voice she had but for a minute abandoned, delighted with her gift as she was. “If they cannot serve us accordingly, then perhaps they ought not to serve at all. Do remind them of that.”
Theron bowed low, not daring to contradict his liege. Lucien grit his teeth and did his best to keep the pleasant grin fixed on his face. By his side, Elain did the same. She gently touched his hand to remind him this was not the time nor the place to intervene. Later, when they were alone with the queen, they might try and say something.
This was another of Isabet's contradictions: capital punishment was, by her own decree, outlawed in Montesere, but she had no qualms about making people wish they were dead instead. She was a ruthless authoritarian in her own right and only better than her brother Ferrain by comparison. Ferrain was a violent male who had anyone who displeased him killed, who loved to hunt humans and lesser fae for sport, and used their severed limbs and heads to decorate the Pale Court's walls. His wife, Queen Haeva, daughter of a then lesser branch of Vallahan’s royal line, was made to walk the Court wearing a gold collar around her throat, gold shackles around her wrists and heels, and bare arms to show her husband's violence.
Sometimes it was easy to forget that Isabet had risen to power by slaughtering her brother, his wife, and her baby nephew with her bare hands, as well as their supporters. All her courtiers walked on eggshells around her because she was spiteful, demanding, easy to offend, and eager to dole out disproportionate punishments. Death was outlawed, but maiming, torture, and worse were acceptable to Isabet.
Elain and Lucien kept their silence and waited for a good opportunity to open negotiations with the Queen.
༻ ❁ ༺
It was another week before Queen Isabet deigned to receive them in private. In the meantime, Elain and Lucien attended dinners and balls, made small talk with politicians, and invited merchants to come and see the Day Court for themselves. On the fifth day, they had to watch a courtier who displeased Isabet be dragged in front of the throne, forced into hot iron shoes, and dance in agony until she was satisfied.
He had begged for death. It was not granted.
"Sometimes I wish we did not have to play our parts in silence and could instead intervene," Lucien confessed as he and Elain took a turn through the Montesere's wilderness, away from the Pale Court's prying eyes and attentive ears. "Isabet reminds me of Amarantha and all the tragedy she wrought upon Prythian." Except Isabet was more beautiful, more powerful, and more intelligent than Hybern's General. She'd come to power by force, but on the arms of her people. If some of them came to become disillusioned with her reign, she was still preferable to the alternative.
"Would that we could do something so drastic, but pray tell, who would take her place?" Elain questioned with a slight shake of her head. "She's the last scion of House Montesere and, unlike Ferrain, Isabet has always been very careful to keep a good relationship with her armies. We cannot take her down without a clear and established plan to handle the succession crisis that will follow, and we have no way to ensure the powers will go to someone less despotic — and even if we did have a plan and a successor at hand… it wouldn't be our place to do so, Lucien." Not unless circumstances were dire enough and Isabet posed a threat in a large war. The cold calculus of war made the decision acceptable when in peacetime it would be unthinkable.
"I'm aware." Lucien ran a hand over his long hair and scowled. "Still, I wish we could do more." Elain deeply sympathized with his struggle; it was most difficult to see the unfairness wrought by a tyrant and turn a blind eye, but they could only do so much as diplomats. If they begun intruding far too explicitly, they would be barred from most courts.
They spoke nothing on the subject afterwards. When Isabet summoned them to her on the seventh day, she received them in her conservatory, where she cultivated poisonous flowers and plants for her own use and entertainment. A table was set near a patch of deadly nightshade, where the queen sat on a wrought iron chair and carefully picked the ripest fruits with gloved hands.
"Prince, Princess," she rose to greet them with a slight smile, turning away from the nightshade. “Your gifts have pleased us greatly. Look what wonders have my tailors and goldsmiths created with it." Isabet twirled, and the coat of Morning Stag's reflected a thousand different colors under the faint sunlight. A collar of gold antlers wrapped around her neck, her wrists, and around her head like a circlet, glimmering like the first stars in the dawn sky.
"Wondrous," Elain said pleasantly, a twisted truth. "It becomes you, your majesty, but with your beauty, there's little in the world that does not."
The queen grinned. "You are too kind, Elain Archeron. Now sit, sit. Let us have some tea whilst we talk."
They sat down. Soon, a group of servants brought in a silver tray lined with white porcelain cups painted with flowers and rimmed with gold. They filled it with a sweet, floral tea and served the cups, one for each. Isabet plucked out her stained gloves, tossed them on the tray, and waited for her guests to drink — a small test of trust, clear as a mirror. Elain and Lucien drank.
Satisfied, Isabet followed suit and peppered them with questions about Prythian, about Feyre, Rhysand, Nesta, and Morrigan — "Do tell them to come visit anytime. They are always welcome in our home." —, about Orlaith and Nahida, and even the young children. They indulged her questions by answering enough to satisfy her curiosity, but were careful never to give anything truly significant away.
"You must be quite busy as well, your majesty, with the recent developments in Rask," Lucien said, finally guiding the conversation to the subject hanging over their heads like a sharpened sword. "You had a good relationship with Archon Radast, if I recall."
The Queen of Montsere laughed, but a shadow fell over her eyes, gone just as quickly. "We were sad to see him depart, indeed. Radast was always kind to us, and he was most supportive when we liberated the Pale Court from my brother’s tyranny. Never could we imagine he would fall so abruptly — and that an Emperor would rise in his place. An Emperor!" She placed an elbow on the table and leaned against her hand, looking at them with anger, incredulity, and disgust. "How long has it been since Rask hasn't had an Emperor?"
The House of Vyrai ruled unchallenged for thousands of years, steeped in the religious fanaticism surrounding the dragon cults. It wasn’t an external force that toppled them, but the family's own inner struggle over the throne. A curse fell upon their bloodline; the family went extinct, and civil war spread like wildfire in the aftermath of their downfall. After an era of bloody conflict and no resolution, the exhausted warlords forged the Vyrai Accords and created the office of Archon of Vyrai, an elected position to be filled by one of their own.
The Archons of Vyrai, despite their authority, were a placeholder for the empty throne. They had to constantly barter with their subjects; the powers they derived from the land were a mere shadow of the dead Emperors, Prythian's High Lords, and the monarchs of Montesere and Vallahan. The belief that the House of Vyrai would rise from the ashes, reclaim their throne, and lead Rask to newfound glories had taken deep roots in their culture, bordering on religious worship. The other countries fueled this belief: they didn't think the House of Vyrai would ever return, and so long as this belief existed, Rask remained a fractured powerhouse.
No more.
"Too long, we fear," Lucien said empathetically. "How will his ascension change the shape of the Continent, we wonder? No one has managed to fully unite Rask in over a thousand years, and the emperor is young besides. Who is to say his nobles will not try to rule over him?"
"Rule over him?" Isabet laughed, strained. She leaned over the desk, and her red eyes burned with loathing. "No, that will not happen. Do not underestimate Emperor Viy, your highnesses. You shall lose." As I did, the words hang over them, unsaid.
Elain wasn't satisfied with her succinct answer. "To leave such an impression on you, your majesty, he must be quite a formidable individual." Then she added, "It must not have been pleasant, for someone as exalted as yourself."
"Pleasant?" Isabet scowled and waved the thought with her hand. "No. Not at all. And formidable, indeed." She nursed her tea, her expression cold and furious. "But we cannot have everything we want now, can we?"
She switched topics then, asking what they thought of the trade deals the Queen of Vallahan was discussing with the Night Court. The subject of Rask was done. Isabet was not going to help them; she might even be helping the Emperor.
But a question remained between them, echoing through the bond: how had Viy cowed one of the most powerful, arrogant monarchs of the continent into submission?
They had no answers for this.
༻ ❁ ༺
They fared a lot better in Vallahan, where the Snow Queen, Nehalenia, received them with open arms. A warrior of great renown, she was a distant cousin to the late Ice King and the older sister of the former Queen Haeva of Montesere. The Wellspring of Winter choosing her as ruler surprised all in Vallahan, most of all herself, but the Eindreggr had celebrated one of their own as Queen of Vallahan.
Despite her title of Snow Queen, Nehalenia was charming, boisterous, and endlessly personable, warm as a hearth in the cold of Everwinter to her friends, allies, and subjects but as merciless as a blizzard to her enemies.
She needed no convincing to pledge her full support against the Emperor of All Rask; Nehalenia offered her help freely and with no strings attached, both in light of her buoyant friendship with the Night Court and the Valkyries and for more personal, selfish reasons.
"If that traitorous, murderous cunt on the throne of Montesere gets any ideas, I shall bring the full force of my armies down on the Pale Court." Nehalenia cracked her knuckles and grinned at the fantasy of a dead, drawn, and quartered Isabet. Her icy eyes burned with righteous fury. "Cauldron, I hope she does. Let's see how she likes being torn apart by my bare hands while still breathing. I, unlike her, am not a coward."
Elain disliked the crass words and the promise of violence, but she couldn't begrudge Nehalenia her hatred. Isabet had become Queen of Montesere over the butchered corpses of Queen Haeva and Prince Sanse. That Nehalenia had never declared war and kept diplomatic relations with Montesere was a testament to her mettle as a ruler.
When in Vallahan, they received an invitation from the Emperor of All Rask himself to come visit his court. The fact that it was so friendly only added to the underlying threat.
"Do you think we should go?" Elain asked Lucien when they were in bed, playing with a lock of his fiery hair. "Rumours must have reached Viy of what we've been up to so far."
"We have no choice. If we don't go, we shall be confirming everything Viy believes about us."
"And if we go, we might be walking into a trap with no way out."
"He wouldn't dare," Lucien said, pulling Elain closer. "To harm us is to invite the full force of Prythian upon the Continent. Even Emperor Viy would be wise to fear that."
Elain sighed. Her mate was right, and that was precisely why Viy had sent the invitation. He wanted them to come.
"Fine. We shall go," she decreed and fisted his linen shirt. "Let us see up close what the Emperor Viy is all about."
༻ ❁ ༺
Elain and Lucien had gone alone to Vyrai, unwilling to put any of their personnel in a position to be held captive. Good thing they had, for the Obsidian Court was suffocating. The castle was dark, with polished walls of basalt lined with trophies of wars and hunts: skeletons from great beasts, faded tapestries, weapons preserved with magic, and gold — so much gold. Gold running like veins on the dark walls, gold decorating the pillars, the vaulted ceilings, the statues; gold dangling from courtiers' necks, wrists, clothes.
They all wore black with splashes of other colors — burgundy, red, dark green, purple, navy — and all of them wore masks when in public. It was a court of shadows, lies, and deceit, where none could be trusted, and political intrigue was drenched in blood and poison.
The Emperor of All Rask shone like the gold adorning his dark court. Lush golden curls brushed his collarbone with a single black streak, framing a face so sharp one could cut themselves in his cheekbones. His eyes were bright blue, tinged with violet and purple, the color of the hottest flames, of the dragonfire his predecessors had wielded to devastating effects.
He wore nothing on his head but a crown of swords forged from the darkest iron. No mask for the Emperor, for he needed none.
All throughout their stay, Emperor Viy had been nothing but courteous to Elain and Lucien. They'd been offered the very best Rask could boast, all the dignities expected of foreign royalty on an important diplomatic mission. Not for a moment had Viy's composure faltered, nor had the tranquil smile gracing his fine-boned face slipped. The Emperor was as beautiful as he was empty, as imperturbable as the dark, deep waters of a lake on a land with no wind, still as a grave. His eyes burned, but there was no joy in them, no anger, just endless hunger.
Viy would drag the Continent into a bloody, brutal war and burn everything to the ground just to escape the boredom of every day. The Emperor of All Rask held nothing sacred, not even his own life, and would cast himself to the flames along with all else for his own amusement.
At night, Elain dreamed of Nahida walking these dark halls, wearing a mask of blood and gold, and it chilled her to the bone. The next day, she prepared to leave.
They left Rask straight to Scythia. No more stops, no more delays.
In the audience chambers of the Queen of Scythia, they waited for her arrival with bated breath. Elain imagined the doors opening and Vassa walking inside with a grin, red hair faded with age and leaning heavily on her cane, telling both her and Lucien that they were late. Didn't they know that when a Queen called, you did not leave her waiting?
It wasn't her friend who walked through the doors but another Queen of Scythia named Vassa, with hair as dark as raven’s feathers and kind blue eyes. Those were Vassa's eyes, Jurian's nose, Marya's build, and so many others whose names Elain could no longer recall after two hundred years. Still, they'd promised to watch over Vassa and Jurian's descendants and aid whenever they could, and neither she nor Lucien would ever go back on that promise.
"Prince Lucien, Princess Elain," Vassa said, coming over to greet them like old friends. "Thank you for answering my call, although I must say — I didn't think you would be coming to Scythia."
"Oh?" Lucien's brows furrowed, and he inclined his head. "Why wouldn't we come when you asked for our help, your majesty?"
"Because I got here long before either of you, of course!" A familiar voice chimed in from the hallway; Elain almost burst into tears at the sound of it. Lucien, himself, stared on with glistening eyes as Nahida strolled into the chambers, grinning mischievously. "Hello, Mama, Papa. Took your sweet time getting here, didn't you?"
To the Cauldron with decorum. Elain stood from her seat and rushed across the chambers to envelope her eldest in a bone-crushing hug. She felt her mate approach and soon enough, his warm and strong arms were around them both, holding tightly.
Lucien pulled away first and placed both his hands on Nahida's shoulders, narrowing his eyes. "What, pray tell, are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to be crossing the Great Desert of Aratar on a Sandwyrm and then to visit the Empress of Xian?"
"Was I?" Their daughter laughed and looked away, sheepishly scratching the back of her head. "Well, things happened, I met some people, and decided to go to other places. That sort of thing. It happens with everyone, right?"
"With you more than most," Elain commented drily, crossing her arms. In fact, she would go so far as to say Nahida looked forward to this kind of thing. "Without warning, might I add."
"Point is, I heard rumors of trouble brewing in Rask, and lo and behold, months later, the Archon is dead, and Rask has an Emperor. It didn't seem right to just leave for Xian when this part of the Continent seemed poised to explode."
"Lady Nahida arrived a few days before you," Vassa supplied with a chuckle, taking a seat on one of the many empty chairs. "I assumed that her presence meant you were no longer coming, but I realized my mistake when your letter arrived soon afterwards. She claims to have disconcerting news that I ought to be shared to you before we begin to plan our next move."
"What," Elain said, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur, "have you got yourself into now?"
"Nothing!" Nothing yet, Elain's mind corrected instantly. "Why do you both assume I must have gotten myself into trouble?"
Lucien merely raised an eyebrow in lieu of answering. Under their accusatory stares and Vassa's amused one, Nahida huffed, outraged, and pulled a chair to sit down. She leaned back, propping her elbow on the raised back.
"Fine. Maybe I do get myself into some… unusual cirscumstances more than most, but not this time! This I learned entirely by coincidence while trying to understand what exactly was going on in Rask."
"In other words, you were spying on them," Lucien said bluntly.
"Well, I wouldn't call it spying —"
"Call it snooping around then," added Elain bitingly. Nahida had been snooping around for information and stumbled on something important that she had no business knowing. Again.
"Fine. Have it your way. I was poking my nose where it didn't belong, and I ended up discovering how the Emperor got Queen Isabet to not interfere and even to collaborate with him in secret."
So Viy really had something to hold over Isabet's head, something dire enough that would tempt her to break her neutrality.
Vassa leaned to the edge of her seat, ramrod straight. "What is it?" she urged. "What could he have on that tyrannical woman?" And how can we take this advantage away from him?
"That's the thing, it's not an it." Nahida bit her lip and looked around, her golden eyes lingering in each of them. That she was hesitating to say it meant it was something she believed directly impacted their chances. "It's who. Prince Sanse is alive, and Queen Isabet has kept him hidden away for the last two hundred years. If she kept him alive out of sentimentality or until she had a heir of her own, I know not, but alive he is, and the Emperor stole him from right under her."
"Mother save us all," Elain whispered, massaging her temples with her fingers. "This has just become countless times more troublesome."
"Now it makes sense why Isabet is collaborating," Lucien reasoned. "She is feared, but not beloved. Sanse's existence would give her opposition a figurehead to rally behind, one with the support from the Snow Queen and her Eindreggr." The elite soldiers under sworn to serve the Crown of Vallahan, some of the most feared and trained troops in the world.
"Sanse could also be used as a deterrent against the Snow Queen herself," Vassa pointed out, tapping her finger on the table. "Would she still come to our aid or attack Montesere if his life was on the line?"
They lapsed into silence, the questions heavy. Sanse of Montesere, alive after all. A prisoner since he was a babe at arms, kept isolated from the world, forbidden from ever going outside by his cruel aunt. Was he given an education? Had he interacted with other sentient beings? What kind of male had these circumstances created?
"It seems like the course of action is clear," Nahida said at last, breaking the silence. "We must rescue Prince Sanse and deliver him safely to the Snow Queen."
"And how are we to go about it?" Elain questioned, shaking her head. "We cannot waltz into Rask and the Obsidian Court to look for clues on his whereabouts, nor can we directly take part in a rescue mission. We are too recognizable; the Emperor and the Courtiers would have us pinned in instants."
"We could look for someone else," Vassa said and rubbed her chin in thought. "Someone they don't know and would never expect, but capable enough to infiltrate the Obsidian Court and make it out unscathed. Does the Night Court not have anyone like that?"
"No need to go that far," Nahida chimed in, glancing between them as though they were stupid. "I can do it myself.
"What?" Elain cried, turning on her seat to face Nahida. Had she lost her mind? Her? On a mission like this? No. Absolutely not, perish the thought.
"You are out of your mind if you think we're going to sanction this," Lucien ground out, slamming his hand on the desk. "This isn't just some adventure you can go on a whim. Nahida."
"Even better, because then I can claim I acted on my own accord!" She snapped, frustrated, light brown hair falling over her shoulder as she leaned over the table. "Don't you see? We have no time to waste! I know more than anyone about where Sanse might be, the courtiers of Rask have no idea who I'm as I've never interacted with them, and I can easily pretend to be from somewhere other than Prythian to gain access to the Obsidian Court."
"It's dangerous," Elain said, clutching her pearl necklace tightly. The vision of Nahida running through the hallways of the Obsidian Court with a mask of blood and gold returned with a vengeance, unbidden. "You could die if you are caught."
"I could have died in the Underdark as well, or in the Mountains of the Moon, or in the Great Desert! I could have died in so many places, so many times, and I haven't so far," she argued, and Elain hated how true it was. "I'm skilled, I'm intelligent, and I'm powerful. You killed a Deathless God, Mama, with only your wits and courage. Why can't you trust me to outsmart a simple tyrant?"
That was different, Elain wanted to scream. She had not been alone; she had Lucien with her, and Jurian, and Vassa. She had Nesta's death-dagger to protect herself. Nahida had nothing — but wasn't Koschei far more dangerous than Viy? Wasn't the Death God a much bigger risk, so much so that even with all their advantages, they'd almost lost?
Nahida stood, tossing her light brown hair over her shoulder. A halo of sunlight shone on the back of her head. "I'm going to do it," she declared. "I'm going to save Prince Sanse, I'm going to ruin the Emperor's plans, and I'm going to do it whether you like it or not."
Lucien tugged at the bond; he and Elain stared at each other, helpless. What Nahida wanted to do was dangerous, risky, and could potentially backfire on them all. Rather than avoid a war, their daughter could ignite the fire of a new one. Out of the three Archeron sisters, how in the world had Elain ended up with the child most likely to accidentally start a war?
They were loath to let her go, but what manner of parents would be accepting of their daughter willingly walking into the dragon's nest with no way out? But — and she hated to admit — Nahida was also correct that she had the most suited skill set for the task. If anyone could pull something so ridiculously audacious off with style, it was their eldest child, the female who contained multitudes: Princess of the Day Court, Honorary Valkyrie, Friend of Hyperborea and Xian, Occasional Rider of Sandwyrms, Explorer of the Underdark, Crawling Chaos. She was born to be and do something great.
"You relented," Nahida said, picking up on their acceptance before they could even say a word, because of course she also had to be sharp. One couldn’t go around causing chaos without being sharp. "You are going to let me go."
"We are," Lucien concurred. "Mother help us all, but we are."
"Just remember one thing, Nahida," Elain started with a long-suffering sigh. "Your goal is to stop a war, not start a new one — and to come home safely. Understood?"
And Nahida, in typical Nahida fashion, laughed bright and clear in answer.