Crescendo songs of the fallen by Rachel Haimowitz

Author:Rachel Haimowitz [Haimowitz, Rachel]
Language: nld
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, Gay Romance, Romance, slavery
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Lord Trúr made surprisingly good company when he wasn't tending to the post of sentry with dangerous

zeal. The ambassador was clever, impassioned, and unafraid to speak his mind, even in the company of his

betters. Nor did he begrudge Freyrík for nearly lopping off his stones. Berendil was wise to have trusted him,

wiser still to have included him in this intimate gathering. Their number was rounded out only by King Villtr,

whose mind was sharp as an elf-steel blade on the rare occasions he chose to wield it.

They all huddled in Berendil's drawing room, close round a table piled high with ancient scrolls—

accountings of Surges from the very first to the very latest. Or rather, three of them huddled close. King Villtr

was leaned back in his chair, content to let the rest of them sift the wheat from the chaff.

And wheat they had found indeed, a faded account of a dark elf sighting some two-hundred years back,

and the Midr king's petition to track them down and kill them.

Berendil furled the scroll closed, absently tapped it to his lips. Brittle as the old thing was, a piece of

edging flaked off at the contact.

"Brother, please," Freyrík said, reaching out to still him. "While Your Majesty's kiss is surely an honor, this scroll mayhap is too withered to survive such excitement."

Berendil huffed, half laugh, half irritation, and placed the scroll back on the table.

Freyrík slid it over with reverent fingers and scanned the ancient lines of text once more. "I wonder. . If

they had succeeded then, might we all have been born free of this war?"

Another huff. "We'd have frittered away our youth to boredom and idle leisure."

"Like some wealthy midlander, gods help us."

Berendil nodded. "Gods, you'd have become a poet. How utterly mortifying."

Freyrík laughed along with Berendil, and even Lord Trúr was smiling. King Villtr, on the other hand, was

glaring daggers at them all.

Freyrík cleared his throat and kicked his brother under the table— respectfully. "Apologies, Your Majesty," he said to King Villtr. "We did not mean you, of course."

"Of course," Berendil added.

King Villtr merely grunted.

"Anyway," Freyrík said, fingering the scroll once more, "I wonder why we were not taught of this. An

Aegis who planned to take the war to the darkers—"

"And was overruled by the Council. How ironic."

Berendil slid the scroll out from under Freyrík's fingers, tied its old ribbon back round it, and set it aside

with a pile of others. "Do you see now, brother? The gods have whispered this plan in the ears of kings before. We have ignored them, and see how our people have suffered for our hubris! But no more. Tonight, but three hours

from now. ."

Berendil's breath caught, and he dropped his gaze to his clenched hands. Overcome by excitement?

No, there was no mistaking the sudden shine of his eyes, the furrow of his brow.

"It pains me," Berendil said at last. "I too loved him as a father. But in that regard, he has failed me. Failed us all." Berendil looked up, but only at Freyrík. There his gaze remained, soft, beseeching.

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