Chapter 3: Maverick

The Amethyst Quill

City of Jeryl, Kingdom of Delos

The crowd inside the Amethyst Quill Casino was just as noisy and equally as unsavory as the population of Jeryl itself. A good representation then, if Maverick's eyes did not deceive him. He sat in one of the plush chairs that this establishment had no doubt stolen from a finer institution such as the Exalted Curtain or the Alabaster Tempest on the other side of the city. He was leaning back, casually, and taking in the view of the room while the other men and women seated around him were taking their turn at the blackjack table.

On the other side of the room, a man he had come to know as Teagan Horan after the endless times the gent had tossed him out on the street already for what his boss called "winning too much", had his vice-like grip on the arm of some poor innocent whelp he'd caught cheating at his tables. He was dragging him out, past tables and screeching chairs, as other patrons leapt out of the way with a scandalized gasp and the trickster whined at his treatment. Maverick couldn't help but smile as he turned back to find the owner's eyes set firmly on him. He raised a hand and wiggled his fingers in a friendly little wave, enjoying the scowl that crossed his face as he turned away from him.

Maverick heard some giggling from a few feet away and turned to see two petite blondes sitting at the bar, smiling his way. They were pretty enough but their makeup was too gaudy and their dresses looked as if a toddler had dumped a can of glitter and sequins over their head. He shot them a wink anyway and turned back to the game at hand. He tapped the table and waited. A King for his ace. Twenty-one. The others at his table cursed and threw their hands down.

"Congratulations, prince," the dealer snarled. He collected his winnings and grinned back at him. The barb had long since lost its sting, at least, the way they intended it to bite.

Checking the clock in the corner of the room, he rose, bidding them all a good evening and heading for the door before Teagan could come up with a reason as to why Maverick hadn't actually won that last hand at all, or the one before it, or perhaps the one even before that. He knew the game well enough. If the house didn't profit, the winners didn't truly win. Besides, it was getting late. He would be missed if he stayed out too much longer and, as much as he enjoyed making half-assed explanations to his clearly disapproving, disbelieving mother, he simply wasn't in the mood for it tonight.

He was out on the street before Teagan could even look his way, pulling his hood up and wrapping his cloak tighter around him to avoid detection as he always did. He'd only just gotten his cloak fastened when he sighed.

"You can come out of the shadows now, Neva," he said.

She emerged, her slim body sliding into view as though she'd simply appeared out of thin air. She tossed her braid over her shoulder and frowned at him, the dim street lights making her dark skin shine in the deep night around them.

"I don't understand why you come here," she told him, not for the first time. He reached into his pockets and held up his winnings. She wasn't impressed. She never was. "You don't need that."

"It's not for this," he admitted. "But I'm assuming you didn't stalk me all the way out here for a pleasant chat about my habits."

"Your father has visitors."

His father. It was an apt title, he supposed, and one with which he'd been referred to all his life, despite the fact that he didn't deserve it. He'd never done a single fatherly thing, as far as Maverick was aware, since he'd been born. But blood was blood and he couldn't separate himself from the king any more than he could from his half brother, the true prince, or his mother, the King's most favorite concubine.

"Good for him," Maverick grunted, leaving the alley of the Amethyst Quill and stepping into the main thoroughfare of the city, reminded of his previous intent to leave this place.

"Royal visitors," Neva continued and he hesitated, stopping quickly and peering back at her. His eyes narrowed in question but she answered before he could ask. "From Idoria."

He relaxed and nodded. That was better than any other alternative, he supposed, but still, he didn't like it. He turned back around and quickened his pace on his way back to the palace. Neva followed behind him, as silent and swift as a spider. A talent she had put to good use during her time in Delos, a gift she had even used in service to Maverick on more than one occasion.

As she had suggested, the palace seemed to be awake as he approached it. A soft glow emanated from the portion of the grand castle that would be the throne room. The King was entertaining an audience, then and, at this hour, that could only mean it was someone important. The guards let Maverick and Neva inside without a word, having gotten used to his late night exploits and learned long ago not to question them. They gave him a sharp nod and moved aside to let him enter. He went straight for the throne room, leaving his cloak with a servant along the way. If Idorian royalty were here, this was important, and he couldn't trust the recollections of anyone at court to tell him later what had truly transpired here. He needed to see it for himself.

His mother's eyes found him the moment he slipped into the room at the back. They narrowed briefly before returning to the dais where the king sat a few meters away from where she was standing.

Maverick noticed the bright orange armor with a start and wondered how it hadn't been the first thing he saw upon entry. Ten men and women stood in a semicircle with their backs to the crowd, facing the king with stony expressions. Their burnt orange armor glistened in the multi-faceted light of the elegant chandeliers. They had no weapons, not in their hands nor on their hips or concealed anywhere else as far as Maverick could tell. But they didn't need them.

"Makana," he whispered the name given to the elite magical warriors who served Idoria. He had read about them, of course, had been fascinated by stories of them as a child. But he'd never seen one in person before. Until now.

Neva stood rigidly at his side, hand hovering over her hip where he knew she concealed a blade. She wouldn't use it. Not here, not against them. But they made her uneasy and Neva always went for her weapons when she was uneasy.

In front of them stood a young woman, even younger than Maverick and his eighteen years. She had stark white blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She smiled up at the King and bowed lowly, holding up the dainty fabric of her pale pink dress as she did. But there was something about that smile, something off, something that made it look more like a sneer.

"Princess Seraphina," Maverick's father, the King, was speaking and the crowd fell deathly silent as he did. "I'm so very pleased to find that you've made it to Delos safely. You will, of course, be granted rooms here in the palace, you and your fine warriors, for as long as you need."

His tone was friendly, hospitable even, but the way he glanced nervously at the Makana standing at the princess' back told another story.

"Thank you, Sire," the Princess bowed her head demurely, that odd smile still in place. "Praise the Almighty for the peace between our countries."

It was a test. She waited to see what the King's response would be. In her land, in the fanatic religion of the Idorians known as Allegiance, the King would have praised the Almighty deity in response, would have blessed her and sent her on her way. But King Helios Aphelion did no such thing, instead giving her a curt nod and gesturing for a few chosen servants to come forward and lead the princess and her retinue of guards along to their rooms.

Maverick watched the princess curiously as she left. She held her head high and her eyes were bright with that self-righteousness that only came from a chosen path of piety. There was nothing wrong with the Allegiant, strictly speaking. Their religion even had some beauty in it. The belief that all things, all people were imbued with some magic of varying degrees, that it was the life force which sustained us, whether we decided to recognize it or not, was something to be admired. But it had been used by evil men, corrupted to justify violence against any perceived oppressors. And the royal family of Delos had never been followers of the religion, even if it was starting to spread to their outskirts of their country.

"Close the doors, Danica," the King spoke once the princess and her guards were gone.

There was a crackle of tension in the air as the Captain of the Delosi Royal Guard moved to do as directed. The King sighed, rubbing his forehead in apparent exhaustion, and then faced the gathered nobility waiting on tenterhooks to hear what all of this was about.

"It has been decided," the King began slowly, "that the Princess Seraphina Eretria will marry my son, Orion."

A cacophony of shocked outrage filled the throne room at once. Maverick's own jaw dropped open in surprise.

"This will ensure," the King continued, raising his voice to be heard over the commotion, "that the peace between our nations continue in the trying times ahead."

The voices began to die down, rocked into submission by the reference to the conflict in the East.

"With Karil pledged fully to their cause, it seemed appropriate that Delos and Idoria-"

"No."

Murmurs rose up from the crowd once more as everyone turned toward the man who had interrupted the King. It took Maverick a moment to realize that he was the one who had spoken. But with all eyes on him now, he decided it best to utilize the stage he'd been given.

"Despite the position of the Karilish, you cannot support the radicalized religion of the West," Maverick said, stepping forward. "The Allegiant are dangerous."

"The Allegiant are harmless," the King hissed with a wave of dismissal. "And I'll thank you to remember your place, son."

Son. Maverick clenched his jaw.

"Even so," he spat, unable to stop himself despite the whispered warning of Neva, the closed eyes of his mother, "they will seek to convert us. And you've given them a window to do so. The Karilish will believe we've chosen sides against them. They—"

"It is my concern what the Karilish believe," the King snapped. "Perhaps you should consider this further before you speak again. Danica, take him to his rooms to think it over in peace."

Danica stepped forward but Maverick waved her off, turning on his heel and storming out of the throne room on his own volition, listening to the King make an effort to uproot any seeds of doubt he had managed to plant in the noblemen's minds with his outburst behind him as he went. Neva was no longer at his side. That wasn't surprising. She tended to disappear on him when she was angry with him. He wasn't particularly in any mood for company anyway.

When he got to his rooms, he went inside, slamming the door behind him and crossing the foyer to his bedchamber where he lifted the glass pitcher of water a servant had left behind and threw it against the wall, watching it shatter into a million pieces. He ran a hand through his hair and cursed.

"Such a display," a voice spoke from the shadows, heavy with disappointment, "for a prince."

Maverick whirled to find that his mother was already there. She sat in an ornately carved armchair near his closet, hands folded elegantly on her lap, one brow raised in question, mouth set in a grim line. Maverick just shook his head and huffed, turning away from her.

"You must learn to calm yourself."

"He's weak," he turned suddenly, leaning forward and snarling the accusation at her as if she had anything to do with it. "He's incapable of listening to reason and he will regret it. Unfortunately, the nation will suffer for it."

"You're so certain the Allegiant will ruin this country?"

"Sooner or later, the Conjurers, or what they call Makana and Karil calls Magi, these people who have magic in their veins and can wield it for or against the world around them. Sooner or later, they will realize that they are stronger than us. Fewer but stronger. Sooner or later, they may decide they don't like being ruled by the powerless, they don't like being oppressed by barbaric warlords like the Karilish or exalted by dim-witted fools like the Idorians. They will get tired of fleeing their homelands, forced to live as refugees in the countries that will accept them but never love them, never get over their fear of them. They will rebel. And when they do, they will win."

His mother said nothing, just sat in that chair, watching him closely, carefully.

"We shouldn't be worshiping them and their gifts as the Allegiant do but we shouldn't be slaughtering them out of fear like the Karilish are," Maverick rushed on, finally saying all of the things he had kept at bay for years now. "If there is a way forward, a true path to ensure our mutual survival, it must be together. Orion should be marrying a powerful Conjurer. Not a soft-headed religious zealot. We should be opening our borders to more Karilish refugees, not closing them for fear of reprisal. We should be wary of the Allegiant and their Saints and their Church. We should be worried about this man they call The Chaos, this madman ordering the Idorian armies about here and there with no explanation, no direction, this Makana they say fulfills some foolish ancient prophecy."

"Prophecies are a lot of things," Maverick's mother remarked calmly from her seat, "but they are not foolish."

She rose, stepping toward her son. Valencia Laurier had been beautiful once, the most beautiful maiden in the kingdom. Her soft blonde hair lying in gentle waves midway down her back, her cunning green eyes sharp as knives. Her beauty had faded from what it had once been but the grace, the elegance, the gentle authoritative presence remained behind. That, and the love of the King. Maverick looked much like her, he saw that in times like these when he raged and she calmed him, despite the spark behind her eyes that told him she agreed with everything he was saying but that she was far too well-mannered to voice any of it herself.

"I may not be a prince," Maverick whispered as his mother approached him, "not truly. Not ever. But this is still my country. And he's tearing it apart."

She smiled gently up at him, reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand.

"We have a very precarious position at court, my dear," she reminded him, not for the first time. He clenched his jaw and looked away from her, staring at the window beside his bed to avoid watching his mother give him the same cold-hearted rationality she'd given him so many times before.

"What use is any place at court if I cannot use it for good?" he snapped. She withdrew her hand and sighed.

"You have a good heart, my son," she spoke quietly, turning to leave him to his brooding. "But nations are not often ruled by men who would do what is best for them."