The Azimar Archives Book One- The Book of Death

Mothlenor

Mothlenor bit back an angry snarl, tossing the dragon's eye back onto its plush cushion. "Damned thing. Utterly useless." The soft whirling colors of the stone winked out, leaving only the neutral tones of polished stone behind. Mothlenor stared down at it, anger building. "What could they be up to?"

It had still been late morning when Nevina had stepped into his brother's chambers, but dark would be falling soon, and there was no sign of her leaving. She'd said their meeting would run long, but I was sure she'd been trying to anger me. What was left for the Coven to discuss with the king?

Their numbers were quickly dwindling, that was no secret. But Gifted girls could only be found, not plucked from thin air. There was nothing Areanath could do to help them. Except, perhaps...

Mothlenor pushed the thought away. It was impossible. His brother was feeble, and too soft.

"In more than one way, surely," Mothlenor muttered to himself, amused by the idea. "It would be completely useless to her."

But they've had the whole day... Surely she could make it work eventually...

"Damn them both," Mothlenor growled. "It's not possible." He tugged open one drawer of his desk and swept the dragon's eye inside, slamming it shut. "And why would she choose him?"

And why not me?

He couldn't bring himself to ask the question, but it was there, simmering under the surface.

Asking it would only mean admitting that he wanted her, and she was a Coven witch.

The Coven was nearly as bad as the elves, always taking what they pleased, and asking for more. Only giving their squealing, unwanted young.

They were a disease, running rampant through all of Azimar.

And Azimar must be cleansed. Starting with Etritia, and the castle.

A rough knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts. He realized that he had pulled another one of his possessions from its place on his desk, and sat with it resting in his lap, both hands tracing the whirls and ridges of the surface. He hardly remembered pulling the object from its place, yet there it was. He blinked several times before hurriedly tucking the object into the drawer next to the dragon's eye. "Enter," he growled, before the knock could sound again.

Ferrand opened the heavy door and stepped over the threshold, wearing the black cloak of a King's Guard. It fit him nicely, accenting his pale skin and high cheekbones. "You called for me, my lord?" His voice was smooth and deep, and the sound of it irked Mothlenor on some unspeakable level.

"Ferrand." Mothlenor stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "I have another job for you."

"Of course." Ferrand bowed slightly, eyes never straying from Mothlenor's own. They were dull and expressionless, like something not quite alive. "Following the Matriarch again?"

Mothlenor's lip twitched into a small snarl. "Yes, but this time I want her followed all the way back to whatever hole she's hiding in. Can you do that?"

Ferrand frowned thoughtfully. "I have someone in mind that could." The frown deepened slightly, as did his voice. "But I'll need a key to the prison."

Mothlenor blinked slowly. Of course Ferrand had a man in jail. "Why was he locked away?"

Ferrand shrugged. "He's a thief. He was caught."

Mothlenor huffed lightly. "Not a very good thief, then."

"No." Ferrand smirked, eyes darkening. "But he is small, and quiet, and will owe me a favor if I let him out."

"He'll tell you where she's staying?"

"And then?" Ferrand asked expectantly.

"And then you bring her to me."