Chapter 3 The Council Below

Veshta hurried down the last of the steps. The secret chamber lay deep underground, and the narrow corridor was colder than usual, the air still and crisp. She strode to the final door, her fingers curling around the iron handle, smooth and cold beneath her touch.

The door creaked open, revealing a brightly lit chamber fifteen strides square.

Flanking her entrance stood twin gargoyle statues, mirror images carved from translucent grey marble and polished to a soft luster. Their grotesque faces twisted in silent judgment, each clutching a sconce with an unlit candle in its outer hand. Their inner hands were extended, palms up, as though demanding tribute from all who dared cross the threshold. Identical doorways pierced the other walls, each guarded by its own pair of statues, each pair unique in design and expression. Overhead, a vaulted ceiling soared, fashioned from the same meticulously cut stone as the floor and walls, lending the space a solemn symmetry.

Veshta stepped forward and placed her lightstone into the palm of the left gargoyle. If it added any brightness, it was not discernible. She removed her cloak and hung it on the right gargoyle’s arm, the fur-lined garment settling heavily.

Then she turned to face the room.

At the center stood a large octagonal table, its surface carved with intricate patterns, its edges worn smooth by years of use. Three men sat around it, their postures alert but wary. As Veshta approached her chair, they rose in unison.

“Brothers,” Veshta said, her voice thin and steady.

“Sister,” they replied.

She sat. The chair creaked softly beneath her. After a beat, the men followed suit.

To her left sat Dorian, Duke of Brodiak. Handsome, lean, and usually too ready with a smile. Tonight, he seemed to sense the severity in the air and kept his expression carefully neutral.

To her right sat Galfodrin, or Brother Gil to most. Towering, scarred, and broad-shouldered, he looked as though he had been carved from the same stone as the chamber. His eyes, usually warm, were cautious. She was surprised that he was present; a fast messenger and a quick return would still have had him an hour away from Silverspire.

Across from her sat Lord Avalin, chamberlain to King Ulfric. Tall, severe, and unreadable, he studied Veshta with the patience of a man accustomed to storms.

Dorian broke the silence first, attempting levity.

“Where is your Valkyrie?” he asked, craning his neck as if expecting someone to appear behind her.

“She sends her regrets,” Veshta said. “She was worried she might step on you.”

“Did you hear that, brothers?” Dorian exclaimed, clutching his chest in mock delight. “She doesn’t… want me… harmed.” He faltered seeing the look on Veshta’s face.

Avalin cleared his throat. “Let us begin. Why are we here, Veshta?”

Her jaw tightened. “The Cyclops is back,” she said. “And he is headed to Mardan.”

Avalin’s head dropped as if the words had struck him. Gil let out a low groan, rubbing a hand over his face. Dorian’s composure held, but his eyes narrowed.

Gil exhaled heavily. “As a healer, you should know that picking at old wounds is never a good thing.”

Veshta’s eyes snapped to him, “I was a healer.”

Silence settled over the chamber.

Avalin spoke first. “Veshta, that was a long time ago. What do you want to accomplish?”

Dorian attempted a smile. “Maybe she wants to take his remaining eye.”

Veshta turned her head toward him. The look she gave was not anger. It was something far worse.

“I do not want the eye,” she said, her voice low and even. “I want him dead.”

“Veshta,” Avalin pleaded. “That was almost twenty years ago. He was a paid mercenary, and we lost.”

“The man fought with honor,” Gil added.

“Honor?” Veshta slammed her fist on the table and stood. The thump was shockingly loud for a woman her size.

“Wars attract all types of men,” Gil said quietly. “On both sides. Remember Tirnwick?”

“I remember the village of Tirnwick,” Veshta said coldly. “Do you think that when we hung those five men, the stain of their crimes was scoured away?”

“No,” Gil replied, shaking his head slowly. “A man’s sins don’t disappear because a rope tightens around his neck. But those men were our responsibility. Should the fathers of those girls seek our blood as well?”

He lifted a hand, forestalling her retort. “When a hound goes wild, you take its life so it cannot bite another. We made certain those men could never harm again.”

Avalin interrupted. “What would you have us do?”

The softness that had begun to form in her eyes vanished. “You need not do anything. I am informing you that I will be sending someone to take care of this. And you may want to send a message to Ocksdale and warn them of what is coming.”

Veshta rose from her chair with a quick, decisive motion. The legs scraped against the stone floor, the sound echoing through the chamber like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Brothers,” she said, the word clipped and final.

All three men stood at once. It was instinct, tradition, and respect woven together, but she did not acknowledge it. Her attention was already on the doorway.

Her hand swept her cloak from the gargoyle’s arm in one fluid motion, the fur-lined weight settling over her forearm. With her other hand she plucked her lightstone from the statue’s palm, the glow catching the hard line of her jaw.

The iron handle groaned as she pulled the door open. Cold air rushed in from the passage beyond. For a heartbeat she stood framed in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the silver-lit chamber.

Then she stepped through, and the door closed behind her with a heavy, echoing thud.

Only after the sound faded did Gil speak.

“Sister…” he murmured, the word thick with worry and something like sorrow.

The three men sat back down. Silence stretched until Avalin finally asked, “Do you think she will do it?”

“The world will have one less one‑eyed bastard in fairly short order,” Dorian said.

Avalin shot him a look. “This is not a jest.”

“I am not jesting,” Dorian replied, his voice low. “You saw her eyes. She has carried that wound for twenty years. If she has decided the Cyclops dies, then the only questions are how, and when.”

Gil rubbed a hand over his face, the lines around his eyes deepening. “I do not like how this is unraveling, and it seems…”

“Unsporting?” Dorian guessed.

“No,” Gil sighed. “Bereft of honor.”

Avalin’s gaze drifted to the door flanked by the gargoyles. “Her anger has not dulled.”

“It has sharpened,” Dorian corrected. “And now it has purpose.”

Gil frowned. “Purpose without restraint is a dangerous thing.”

Dorian smiled, though there was little warmth in it. “You want to warn the Cyclops.”

Avalin’s brow rose when Gil did not deny it. “Has twenty years in the Priory’s shadow turned you into a devout man?”

“I have always been for what is fair and just. If the gods are such, then I suppose I have been devout all along.” Gil pinched the bridge of his nose, the gesture weary rather than defensive. “The stag in the forest knows it is hunted. Every sound, every shift of wind, is scrutinized for its survival. The lamb in the pen? Barely so.”

“The Cyclops is no lamb,” Dorian pointed out.

Avalin’s gaze drifted to the door. “I would think that a betrayal such as warning him would never be forgiven.”

“I do not worry for the fate of the Cyclops,” Gil stated. “I worry for our sister. She has lost so much, and I fear…”

“That she will lose the rest,” Dorian finished for him.

Gil nodded, and Avalin found himself doing the same.

“You know she is right,” Avalin said, getting both Dorian and Gil’s attention. “If the Cyclops is in Mardan, chances are that Duke Dirgan might try to take another run at Ocksdale.”

“Agreed,” Gil said. “One of us should talk to Veshta…”

There was movement from Dorian and Avalin. When Gil looked up, both men had their left hands balled into fists, touching the center of their foreheads.

Gil stared at them, incredulous. “What are we, children?” he asked, almost laughing.

Dorian smiled. Avalin only shrugged.

“Right, I will talk to Veshta,” Gil said, resigned. “If you do not see me for a few days, I expect one of you to retrieve my body.”

***

Veshta entered her study and shut the door with more force than she intended. The sound cracked through the room like a whip. For a moment she stood still, her breath tight in her chest, her hands trembling at her sides. The familiar space felt too small, too warm, and far too full of things she suddenly wanted to smash against the wall.

Her eyes swept the room, searching for something that would break cleanly in her hands. The inkstone on her desk. The glass goblet on the shelf. The carved wooden box by the window. Each one called to the part of her that wanted release, the part that had been clawing at her ribs since the moment she heard the Cyclops’s name aloud.

She curled her hands into fists instead.

The anger was not new. It lived in her, old and painful as a buried blade. But tonight it pressed harder, rising like a tide she could no longer hold back. Twenty years, and still the thought of him made her vision narrow and her pulse quicken. Twenty years, and still her friends looked at her as if she was the one who had lost her senses.

They did not understand. They had never understood.

How could they speak of restraint? How could they speak of letting the past lie when the past had never released its grip on her?

She moved to the desk and braced her hands against the edge, knuckles whitening.

Why did they not feel what she felt? Why did they not burn the way she burned?

The Cyclops had taken everything from her. Everything. And yet she was the only one who still carried the fire. Did anyone care about what he had done? She felt something that she had buried years ago, something she hoped had been driven from her life. She felt alone.

Her breath shuddered out of her.

She still wanted to break something. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the room apart until nothing remained standing.

Instead, she closed her eyes and forced the storm back down, inch by inch, until she could breathe again.

When she opened them, her breath had slowed, her hands had stopped shaking.

If they would not share her fury, then they would not stand in her way.

She sat at her writing table and pulled out a small sheet of vellum. She drew the inkpot and quill toward her and hastily wrote down three names. After a moment of thought, she added a fourth.

She blew lightly across the drying ink, then let her eyes drift over the surface of the writing table. A small smile touched her lips. It was strange to think that a gift she had once loathed had become something she used almost every day. The dark mahogany was polished to a soft sheen, and although the wood was hard, it bore the dents and scratches of years of use before it ever came into her possession.

The desk must have been built for a ship’s captain or a harbor master, given its nautical theme. The carved oak legs rose like rolling waves, each one unique. Hidden within the curves were jumping fish, shark fins, and fishing boats. One leg even featured the curling arms of a kraken, cleverly woven into the crashing surf.

Veshta blew on the vellum once more, then folded it in half, concealing the names.

“Lady Morin.” A voice startled her.

“By the Gods, Kat. I swear I will put a bell on you if you keep doing that.” Veshta turned and smiled, imagining a dainty bell dangling from a ribbon around the sturdy woman’s neck.

Katwyn ran Veshta’s household with the precision and authority of a ship’s captain, every task charted and every person accounted for. Yet despite her feline nickname, there was nothing soft or sleek about her.

Katwyn was, in nearly every way, Veshta’s opposite. Where Veshta moved with the grace of a swan gliding across a placid pool, Katwyn strode like a warrior carved from marble, tall, broad-shouldered, and with a purpose that made people give way. Her skin was pale as moonlight, her features smooth and statuesque, a stark contrast to Veshta’s sun-darkened complexion and sharply chiseled cheekbones that hinted at shadow and mystery. Veshta’s long, flowing raven-black hair and soft doe-brown eyes stood in contradiction to Katwyn’s braided blonde locks and piercing ice-blue gaze. So fair was Katwyn that her eyebrows nearly vanished against her skin, and each morning she swept them with coal dust, not out of vanity but necessity, lest her expressions go unread.

Veshta had long been called alluring, her presence like a flickering candle that drew people in like moths with its warmth and mystery. Katwyn, on the other hand, was described as handsome, as if her strength made her something other than beautiful. Her beauty was not the kind that inspired ballads or sent princes galloping across kingdoms. It was quieter and much steadier. The kind that lingered in the mind long after first glance. Unconventional, yes, but fully undeniable.

What bound them together, despite their outward dissonance, was the brilliance of their minds. Veshta, born to modest means, had clawed her way into the realm of scholars with sheer determination. Her library was a sanctuary of parchment and ink, a labyrinth of knowledge that had earned her reverence among sages. She devoured texts with hunger, annotated margins with fervor, and wore her intellect like a crown.

Yet even in her pride, Veshta acknowledged Katwyn as her better. For Katwyn possessed something Veshta admired with quiet envy. Wisdom. Not the kind found in books, but the kind etched into the soul by experience and perception. Katwyn spoke sparingly, but her words held a depth and certainty that commanded attention and were impossible to ignore.

“Brother Gil is here. He asks to be heard,” Katwyn said, her voice husky with a deep northern accent.

Veshta held up the folded vellum. “I have a task for you, if you would please, Kat.”

Katwyn walked over and accepted the vellum.

“There are five people I would very much like to have supper with tonight. The four on this list, and you,” Veshta said. “I understand you only have a few hours, so I will be happy with your best effort. Speak with the cook. I leave the menu to your discretion, but please, no fish.”

“We have both venison and beef in our stores,” Katwyn offered.

Veshta waved her hand. “Your choice. I would also like the musicians to play while we eat. After the meal, they can join the rest of the staff in the small hall. We will have things to discuss.”

“And Brother Gil?” Katwyn asked.

“Ah, yes. Please bring him here to the study.” Veshta sighed.

In a short matter of time, Katwyn ushered Gil into the study. Veshta made a mental note of how Katwyn stood almost as tall as Gil, then of what a formidable couple they might have been, if Gil had ever shown the slightest interest. Katwyn backed out of the room and closed the door behind her. Gil was holding a small wooden box.

“I came to offer my apology,” Gil said, his voice low. “You have our support, and whatever aid you require, you need only ask.”

This was the opposite of what she had expected. She had expected Gil to come and try to talk sense into her, to convince her to abandon her plans, to remind her of restraint and patience and all the things she no longer had.

The silence stretched as her mind worked over his words.

“Thank you,” she said at last, though she was not sure what she felt.

“And we agree with you that word must be sent to Ocksdale, so I have decided to send a couple of boys.”

“It is a simple task. Why not just send a messenger?” Veshta asked.

“Ortgar has always fancied himself a warrior. If you remember, he followed me around like a stray pup.” Gil smiled at the memory. “I feel a personal letter delivered by my Priory boys will add some needed importance.”

Veshta smiled as she too remembered the young Ortgar trailing after Gil like a squire. She wondered how he would remember those days now that he was Duke Ortgar.

“You did not expect to see me in the chambers today,” Gil said. When Veshta did not respond, he continued. “I was already in Silverspire. I had four of my boys in the Constable’s jail.”

“Trouble?” Veshta asked raising her brow.

“There have been some issues with a few of the merchants’ sons. A tavern brawl. I am hoping that we have seen the worst of it. To help that cause, I am sending two of them to deliver this message.” Gil waited a few heartbeats, then added, “Havik and Gray.”

Veshta looked up. “Gray? He is too little.”

“You obviously have not seen the lad lately. The boy is almost as tall as me, and damn near as wide.” Gil grinned.

“I meant young,” Veshta corrected herself.

Gil did not waver. “Age is not the measure I am using. Gray is intelligent and unshaken under pressure. The boy has read every tome at the Priory, and with that comes an insight that rivals those of educated men. You would be hard pressed to find a subject he knows nothing about.”

When Veshta remained silent, Gil continued. “Knowing the way of boys, I was hoping you might be able to spare someone, anyone, to keep them focused.”

“My best will be…”

“Busy, yes, I know,” Gil said quickly. “I believe only another person is needed. I would send another boy from the Priory, except…”

“You think that would probably make things worse,” Veshta said.

Gil nodded. “Almost assuredly.”

“I have a wagon of cut wood that needs to be delivered to the Black Willow. They can accompany it if you wish.”

Veshta reached into a drawer of her writing table and produced a dragonfly broach.

“Give this to one of the boys so they can be identified by my agent,” Veshta instructed.

Gil smiled. “Thank you. I will rest easier knowing there is someone there to watch their backs.”

“It is a small thing to do for our son.” Veshta looked at the box in Gil’s hands.

“Oh, Dorian asked if you could give this to Katwyn.” He handed over the box.

“What is in it?” Veshta asked.

“I am not sure I want to know,” Gil reasoned.

Veshta accepted the box, “do you have a meeting place in mind?”

“I was thinking the Golden Stag, tomorrow?” Gil looked for some kind of affirmant, getting none he continued. “They can meet, have supper then leave first thing in the morning.”

Veshta nodded, but her concentration was entirely on the box. She turned it in her hands, gave it a slight shake while holding it to her ear.

“I will head back to the Priory,” Gil stated. “It is going to be a busy day.”

Veshta looked up from the box, her fingers still resting on the lid. Gil stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame as if steadying himself before he spoke.

“I mean it,” he said, his voice sincere. “If you need anything, we are here for you.”

For a moment she simply watched him, and he seemed to wait for a response she did not have. Gil gave a small nod, as if sealing the promise, then turned and left. Veshta placed the box on her writing table and stared at the now empty portal, her mind struggling to make sense of the visit.

She closed her eyes and drew a slow breath. When she opened them again, she found herself looking at the box. She picked it up and inspected it. The box was well made and adorned with an intricate northern knot, its painted lines weaving over, under, and around each other in a mesmerizing pattern. She carefully removed the lid.

Inside, a large folded parchment filled the box, obscuring whatever lay beneath. Her name was written across it in elegant, sweeping script:

Veshta

She unfolded it. The message inside read:

“Would you please give this to your voluptuous Valkyrie. I saw it and thought instantly that no other should ever wear it.  Dorian”

She looked at the contents and muttered, “spirits.”

What was this supposed to mean? She knew the answer before the question had fully formed. Dorian was smitten, and judging by the size of the pendant, easily as large as her closed fist, he was smitten in no small way. Well, it was going to be an eventful dinner, and now it was going to be that much more interesting.