Bounty Hunter (The Black Tulip Chronicles #1)

4. Ikar

Chapter 4

Ikar

I settle my large frame carefully into the ancient, half-fossilized wood chair, cringing as it ominously creaks beneath my weight. The others, the four low kings, have already taken their seats, but I prolong the discomfort of the hard chairs as long as possible, knowing this will be lengthy. I lean back, putting on a relaxed air even though it feels as if I am in a den of snakes. These annual meetings of the kings are a tradition not easily broken, nor do I think they should be, but their length is absolutely criminal. It is a facade of unity and friendship between the low kings when in reality, each wants the best for his own kingdom without care for any other. And I think, beneath the surface, they’d all like to do away with the High King all together. Which is where I, the High King, come in.

“Welcome to the 1,712 th semi-annual meeting of the kings,” I begin, and the conversations immediately halt. “We’ll begin with the oath. Everyone, rise.”

We all stand, except for King Adrian Farlow, who’s chin has just met his chest in sleep. Odd, rumbling snores already sound from his nose. He’s the oldest of us by far, crowned when my grandfather was still High King. For that reason, he remains undisturbed. I feel mildly jealous that he can get away with napping the entire council away as we continue with the oath and seat ourselves, and I proceed to listen for the next several hours. My mouth quirks as King Waylon Orlet’s eyes fixate for the eighth time on the aged, sleeping king and frowns. It’s amusing how much it bothers him. He always does enjoy the stuffy, ceremonial parts of the council.

I listen as disagreements between kingdoms are brought up, lengthy deliberations continue back and forth, at times some shouting, and there’s even a heated exchange involving the drawing of swords that I had my guards step in to stop. Fortunately, I have nothing to contribute to this part of the conversation this time, other than preventing a sword fight. With time, the low kings come to fragile agreements, but I listen closely anyway, aware that everything that is discussed is under my rule. Their people are my people. Everything from new trading routes, raising and lowering all sorts of taxes, banning of illegal goods, the running of shipping ports, catching elusive and dangerous criminals to risky river travel. I jump in when needed, my focus solely on protecting the interests of all equally.

In the early morning hours of the next day, things finally wind down. With burning eyes, I place my hands on the table and begin to stand to end the council when the youngest of the low kings, King Rhomi Miden, suddenly speaks, looking uncomfortable but determined. I relax back in my seat, curious, and motion for him to continue.

“Though none of us want to admit there is a problem, we know magic has been struggling. The gloam creatures are coming in larger and larger numbers. My low kingdom is literally shrinking, and it is difficult to pull magic at all. What should be done?”

The room is silent. Guilt tightens my jaw. The question of my life.

“Come, now. I know for a fact your kingdoms have been hit as well.” He attempts to meet the eyes of every king around the table, but all look away.

While I am aware of the true state of each of the low kingdoms, thanks to my own trusted advisors with lofty positions in their courts, it is taboo to speak about weakness amongst the other low kings, and he has just spilled his to the entire council. It is unfortunate that the lack of trust between us goes this deep. But he isn’t admitting to weakness that none of the rest of us have, so is it really any more vulnerable?

I speak up then. Done with the drama and this eternal meeting. “Waylon, your wood has tripled in price in the last two years. We all know the gloam has been infesting the forests.”

He shifts uncomfortably.

My eyes slide to his right. “Drade, the fae’s healing potions hardly hold their potency long enough to be effective anymore.”

Drade, the fae low king, looks at me with wrath-filled dark eyes. “If you don’t like them, don’t buy them,” he snarls.

I ignore him and look at Rhomi. “The gloam creatures have been coming out in larger numbers in all the kingdoms.” Then I check to see if Adrian is awake. “Adrian?”

His eyes lift and his head jerks upward as he briefly wakes.

“We know the weapons are becoming weaker. Not the steel. The enchantments. We know it’s magic weakening.” My hand burns at the memory of the molten metal of my enchanted sword in my grip. I lean back, not caring that I’ve just ruffled the feathers of every low king in the room. It’s refreshing. “So, I second Rhomi’s question. As protectors of the people, what will be the solution?” I wait. I hope more than I should that someone will come up with something that I haven’t. From the heavy silence, it’s not likely.

I hear another of the ancient chairs creak somewhere in the room, and a few seconds later, Waylon swallows with so much effort I can see the tightening of his throat with the motion. “We’ll need to work together more than ever before,” he spits out, trying to sound helpful but actually sounding like he hates the idea.

His answer is dodgy at best. I hold back a heavy sigh.

“Magic will decide our fate,” Adrian mumbles, slow and ominous. The old man has practically passed back to the other side of magic already and seems to have given up.

Waylon speaks up again, and all of us swing our gazes back to him. “I agree with Adrian. Who are we to believe we can manipulate magic? It cannot be forced to our bidding, the only thing we can choose is how we react to its decline. We can lower some of the prices, try to invigorate trade.”

Rhomi nods, thoughtful.

Drade speaks up. “Our healing potions still work well within our borders, so I can offer to make it easier for those in need to enter our kingdom.”

I nod, actually impressed at the compromise on Drade’s part. We all know the fae have the strictest crossing regulations of all the kingdoms.

Waylon speaks up again, “There have been times such as this that light magic has struggled beneath the weight of dark, but it has always pulled through. We are hopeful that your marriage to my niece, Nadiette, will bring more power to our world, in the form of an heir.”

He smiles with pride shining in his eyes. There is nothing to indicate that my marriage to Nadiette will improve the condition of magic in our world, and I am highly aware that I need an heir. Especially after the shard beast incident.

“There is nothing to indicate that a marriage between myself and Nadiette will improve the state of magic,” I say bluntly.

Waylon’s eyes darken, but he doesn’t disagree, and the conversation continues. I listen as the low kings continue to discuss, adding their opinions and comments, all in support of Waylon that we simply need to be patient with many congratulations on my coming engagement. I end the meeting with no true resolution and more pressure than ever to marry.

I knock once and enter my top advisor’s private office. He’s strange but knowledgeable and trustworthy, so I ignore most of his shenanigans. I call him my advisor, but he’s more the mad-wizard type. If there are such things as wizards outside our storybooks. Highly intelligent, odd, powerful, but loyal and trustworthy.

I catch him with beakers and bottles of all sizes, filled with colorful liquids above boilers, tubes and ingredients scattered messily across a desk. A rancid and slightly fruity smell washes over me, and though it smells five times stronger to me with my hunter senses, I’m not sure how he can handle it. It’s currently very close to inducing my gag reflex. I make my way around the room and slam open the windows along the outside wall of his tower office, gulping in fresh air and waving the rancid out.

“Good gracious, Jethonan,” I growl.

He looks at me over his shoulder, like he’s just noticed I’m here.

“My lord! How do you this day?” Pieces of his long, brown hair are plastered to his sweaty face.

“Better before I entered this room,” I mumble beneath my breath. My eyes linger on the mess in front of him, and I itch to clean it up, but after eyeing what looks to be burn holes through his robes, I instead fold my arms across my chest and take a seat near one of the open windows—the sacrifices I make to keep a good advisor…

I let out an audible breath of air, gathering my patience. “What are you doing? This smell could kill everyone in my castle.”

He chuckles like he thinks I’m joking. “I got a recipe from a fae healer. I’m trying my hand at a healing potion.”

I frown. Fae healing potions are the best of the best, and they smell that way too. The last one I used smelled of sweet berries, another fresh citrus.

“Either, the recipe you got is fraudulent, or something has gone horribly wrong in the process,” I say, feeling nauseous the longer I sit.

Jethonan spills something, and I hear him curse beneath his breath, then there’s a sizzle and an audible pop before a beaker explodes. I think the hint of smoke actually improves the odor.

“Imagine how creating our very own healing potions will help our kingdom!” He speaks animatedly, his eyes bright.

He has a point. The fae potions have grown weaker with the lack of lucent magic. They are now only potent in the fae realm, making them very difficult to use when needed. I wonder when the charms the weapon enchanters weave into our weapons will begin to fade too, leaving us defenseless. Which reminds me why I’m here.

“Jethonan. I need you to create some type of conductor for my kingdom. We have to harness more magic. Five of my soldiers died on patrol last night, villagers are suffering, our food production is down, the weather, pulling magic… It’s all falling apart.”

He turns toward me finally, and I see that I’ve caught his attention. He nods as he thinks for a moment. He is well aware of the problems facing our kingdom and does everything he can to combat it, which is why I leave him to his creative hunches like the one currently happening. Jethonan has a brilliant mind—if anyone can do it, it’s him.

“One of the low kings suggested something to do with marriage to a Nadiette, and the people are hoping it will help. It seems ridiculous to ask, but is there a way to harness Nadiette’s power to spread further?” I feel like an idiot even asking. If there was a way, I’m sure we would already have been doing it generations ago.

A thoughtful look comes across his face, and he thinks quietly for a moment, his utter stillness as his mind works a high contrast to the busy and constantly moving Jethonan otherwise.

“I’ll look into our options, Your Majesty.”

Then he’s moving again. Something behind him bubbles over, and he turns, his robes spinning around his ankles as he tinkers with whatever he’s using to heat something that smells like rancid potion currently brewing on the table.

I stand, ready to escape the odor that is overwhelming my heightened sense of smell. “As soon as you find something, send for me.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he says, as his hands flutter around the table.

I can’t help but grin a little. I close the door behind me and lean down to sniff the shoulder of my shirt. The smell has infiltrated its fibers, and I frown. I don’t have time to change. I’ll have to meet Nadiette the way I am.