The room was as large as the dining hall at Vocans, with a domelike ceiling and walls completely bare but for the entrance they had walked through, and a few dozen torches. In the middle of the room was a large, round table of polished wood, with a strange, cloth-covered object as tall as a man in its centre. The table was surrounded by high-backed seats, each with a standard affixed above it. Most were occupied – some by men and women, others by elves and, closest to Fletcher, dwarves. They had all turned to look at the newcomers. Fletcher shrank under their gaze.
‘Fletcher, your seat is here,’ whispered a familiar voice. Othello’s face peeked out from behind one of the chairs, his clipped beard strange compared to the row of grizzled dwarves to his right. He grinned as Fletcher broke into a smile, but held a finger to his lips.
Fletcher looked at the seat beside Othello, to find the blue and silver insignia of the Raleighs on the standard above it. It was so strange to suddenly have a history, even a family crest. He knew he would never grow accustomed to it – not least because it had a Manticore emblazoned across the centre. He took a tentative seat as both Sylva and King Harold walked around to find their places.
Harold sat down to Fletcher’s left, in between Alfric, Zacharias and Lady Faversham, who were carefully avoiding Fletcher’s eyes. There were four generals with lamb-chop sideburns and thick moustaches sitting closest to the elves. They sat with ramrod backs and stared straight ahead.
A hawkish noblewoman Fletcher did not recognise nodded to him. She was thickset and sported red hair shot with silver. Beside her a dark-skinned nobleman completed the human contingent, though he only stared at Fletcher beneath hooded eyes. Fletcher found it hard to believe that he was now as highborn as these nobles were, and was considered their equal.
To think, just a few hours ago he had been thought a common murderer, condemned to a brutal death. He felt a shudder of horror pass through him, and within him, Ignatius’s consciousness squirmed at his discomfort.
Athena did not react at all. Perhaps his father had trained her not to allow her emotions to cloud his own.
To his right, Othello, Uhtred and five white-haired dwarves sat in stony silence, waiting for the meeting to begin. It seemed the father and son had been made elders in the past year, perhaps for their respective contributions to the alliance with Hominum, or the high standing they held among their peers.
There were ten elves, including Sylva, who must have been representing her clan chieftain father. All were high elves and all but three were female. Each of them wore the same heavy armour Sylva did, though the colouring varied to match the banners above their chairs.
‘Well, now that we are all here, let us begin,’ King Harold announced in a loud, clear voice, banging his fist on the table for attention.
Fletcher was stunned by the change in the man. His voice had taken on an edge and his authority suddenly weighed heavily on the room.
‘We have three problems to solve today. The first, and most pressing, is the morale problem – among dwarves, men and elves alike.’
He pointed at Sylva and softened his tone.
‘You elves delayed our alliance for almost a year, because you were angry at the injuries Sylva sustained in our end of year Tournament, and at the hands of a council member’s son, no less. This animosity remains, in both wood elf and high elf alike. Do I tell a lie?’ he asked.
‘No, you are quite right,’ Sylva said, standing and looking at the other chieftains. ‘Though I have done my best to explain that all the students were put at equal risk.’
‘Quite so,’ Harold said, waving his hand for her to retake her seat. Sylva narrowed her eyes as Zacharias and Alfric exchanged amused glances, but sat back down. Harold was an excellent actor.
‘As for the dwarves, the terror attacks by the Anvils have caused much hatred between our peoples. I tried to assuage dwarven anger by rescinding the population and property laws, but it has had little effect,’ the king continued.
‘What use is being allowed to own our own land if your nobles will not sell to us?’ one of the dwarven elders asked in a quavering voice.
‘If they own the land, it is not my decision who they sell or rent it to,’ Harold replied. ‘Most nobles are reluctant to part with their lands at the best of times. I am no tyrant, they can do as they wish.’
‘The population laws are little use when our menfolk are away training,’ Uhtred added. ‘Fewer dwarven children have been sired this year than any other.’
Harold sighed loudly, then moved on, ignoring him.
‘Humans have their own reasons to hate the elves, after the expensive war you forced us into. If this gets any worse, there will be infighting among our soldiers. Dwarves, men and elves, at each other’s throats. A disaster that could lose us the entire war. Do you agree that this is a serious problem?’
There were nods of assent from around the table.
‘I’m glad we can agree on something,’ Harold said, easing himself back into his seat. ‘The next two problems can be explained better by another. Lord Forsyth, if you please.’
Zacharias stood and turned to the entrance.