Cole was overseeing the staff’s creation. He was laying spells of protection and binding into the materials as well. She was confident that he wouldn’t fail her. He never had before. He had known Gerard, and how she felt about him. He knew how important trying to contact him was to her.
As she strolled through the castle, in her blood red silken robes, she wondered at how smoothly things were going. The people of Westland seemed to be carrying on as if nothing had changed. Sure they mourned their losses, but those losses were mostly due to Glendar, not her. They had all seen the amount of power she wielded, both as a sorceress, and as a dragon rider. It seemed to her that, as long as she didn’t start blatantly abusing her power, she would go on unchallenged as the new ruler of Westland. Crops were still being tended, and herds were still being sheared, or brought to market. Trade and commerce continued as it always had, save for the addition of Dakaneese slave ships in the Westland ports.
The Zard weren’t accepted in the cities very well, but they had found their places to work, and to dwell, and they stayed to themselves as much as possible. There was a lot of animosity between the three races, but Shaella made it clear that open violence against each other wouldn’t be tolerated. The Breed giants were having a hard time trying to settle into the northern reaches of Westland. Farming and raising animals had never been a part of their heritage. They would eventually figure it out if they wanted to survive. There would be no more raiding and pillaging. Shaella, with Claret’s effectively persuasive abilities, had driven that message home. The message had been clear: learn to associate and work with each other, or die.
Bzorch, her Lord of Locar, was the exception to her rule. He was given some leeway in his dealings with the humans in his little part of her kingdom. Shaella was pleased with the effort he was taking to strengthen the defenses along the riverfront. His idea to build towers along the banks, not only had created work, but would go far in keeping barge thieves and smugglers from sneaking in and out of her territory. Already, men were harvesting the lumber for the construction from the Reyhall Forest, and barges were being readied to float the wood into place.
She refrained from telling Bzorch that the idea was far from original. The Westlanders had done the very same thing along the marshland border a few hundred years earlier. Settsted Stronghold and all of its outposts were further apart than Bzorch’s towers would be, and they were made of stone; but Shaella saw no point in bruising the Lord of Locar’s feral ego by telling him this.
She wandered into her empty, yet torch-lit throne room, and touched the burn scar on the side of her head absently. The wound Claret had inflicted there was now healed over, but her hair still hadn’t grown back. From a line that ran across her left temple, up and over her ruined, but still functioning ear, then down to the middle of her neck, there was nothing but scar tissue. At times, she felt like a monster. Only those quick and fleeting glimpses in the reflecting glass, where she saw only her right profile, reminded her that she was still quite beautiful.
The low feelings she was having as of late, had more to do with losing Gerard, than with her personal appearance. She was the woman who let her father send her dying lover into the blackness of the Nethers, and the guilt of not protecting him better was where her saddened state was rooted. Other than that, she just plain missed Gerard.
She tried not to care what people thought about her, but it was hard. She was the Dragon Queen after all, the Conqueror of Westland. She couldn’t let her emotions show. She had to appear confident and in control. As much as she hated the idea, appearances did seem to matter. So, she spent a lot of her time in public trying to mask the turmoil that roiled inside her.
She was startled by the sudden, sizzling pop of someone snapping magically into the room. She was even more startled to see that it was Pael. He looked angry, anxious, and spectacular in his glittering black robes. His pupils were dilated, his eyes open wide, and the deep purple bags of exhaustion under them, gave his head a skullish look. He moved skittishly, as if he was wound up as tight as a drum. Shaella realized she was more than a little bit frightened of him.
“Where are my texts?” he asked sharply.
The question threw her off, because she hadn’t yet moved any books out of the tower. After a moment’s thought though, she realized that he was most likely referring to the volumes she had moved to protect them from the rain.
“The hole you left in the wall up there was letting in the weather.”
She spoke the words slowly, and then paused, letting the idea that they might have been ruined, have a chance to sink into his slick white head. The way his angry eyes flared, and the way he nervously wrung his hands together, caused her to cut her pause short.
“I moved them so that they might not take damage.”
Pael slowly stopped his fidgeting, and let out a long sigh of relief.
“Show me!” he ordered.