Chapter 80 The Close Council of Avalon

  The chamber doors boomed shut, sealing the council inside. Torches flickered along stone walls; their smoke clung in thin blue threads which seemed unwilling to rise. At the table's center, Magus Calvred set a blueflame ward; only after it was active did the members start to speak.

  Lord Eldric sat at the tables head, his gray eyes sharp, catching every flicker of light. Lady Seraphine sat beside him, calm as stone, her hands folded so precisely it looked like she’d practiced. On Eldric’s other side was his son, Aldric—he looked younger, thinner, but that stubborn jaw gave them away as family. He hadn’t said a word yet. Didn’t need to. Everyone in the room knew he had a purpose here. He clung to the edge of the table, knuckles bone white, silent but completely alert—missing nothing.

  Lord Eldric concluded his grim explanation in words measured and weighted with anger: "It is not error. It is design. The steward's hand has been guided for twelve years by spell and fraud. Our census has been false, our taxes hollowed, our treasury leeched. The ones behind this scheme fatten their purses while Avalon wastes away.

  Master Odran, the treasurer, glanced down at his ledger. “The numbers don’t lie, my lords. This isn’t just a mistake—someone’s stealing from us, and they’re doing it on purpose. We haven’t tracked where the money goes, not yet, but here’s what we do know: someone’s taken enough to fund an entire war.”

  The room went quiet. It felt like the air itself had turned to lead.

  Then the blue ward-flame at the center of the table fluttered as Magus Calvred stirred. His storm-gray eyes swept the room as if reading the secrets in each face.

  “The steward isn’t a thief,” Calvred said, soft but sure. “He’s a victim. The spell on him was sloppy, but it held—twelve years, like a leash around his mind. Magic like that chews you up. Memories get ragged, your will bends until you don’t know yourself. It’s vicious, but there’s a cleverness to it. Give me a little time and I’ll break it. Maybe, through what’s left in his memories, we’ll see who chained him in the first place.” Calvred’s eyes stayed locked on the blue ward-flame, never blinking.

  ‘Twelve years under a compulsion—this isn’t some parlor trick. Whoever did this isn’t just dabbling; they’re someone who walks close to the Veil. I’ll free the steward’s mind, sure—but the truth waiting for us might be worse than anything Eldric expects. There’s decay here, and once I drag it out, Avalon’s going to bleed.’

  A low, uneasy rumble passed through the room. Lady Anastara of Hollow March cut through it, her voice cool and sharp as glass. “While you dig into old memories, my lord, don’t forget the storm brewing at our borders. My spies tell me the princes are at each other’s throats again—louder than ever. If they keep it up, the whole kingdom’s going to feel it. The dukes will pick sides, and so will we, whether we want to or not.”

  Her gaze swept the table, sharp and deliberate. “And mark me well—this year’s levy will not be light. Already I hear it: Avalon’s share alone may rise to one million silver.” Her eyes rested on Lady Seraphine with intensity as she tried to convey her thoughts. ‘Let them rage at taxes and pirates. It is the princes who matter. If they fall upon one another, then the throne itself may shake. And if it shakes, someone will rise. Better that Avalon place its bets wisely—and better still if I am the one whispering in the right ear.’ Lady Anastara reclined with her faint smile, her mind sharper than any dagger.

  The chamber exploded. Voices everywhere, shouting over each other. Malric, Master of the Northern March, leaned back with his arms folded, but you could see he wasn’t calm. ‘A million silver. That’s not a levy, that’s a death sentence. The lords of Haldrith—those snakes—will sniff out our weakness the second we start hauling wagons south. Eldric needs to be ready to fight on two fronts, because money alone isn’t going to save us this time.’ Malric slammed the table, his words booming over the noise. “A million? That’s not a levy—it’s a noose!”

  Luceron’s face went dark. “That much will bleed us dry, Eldric. The caravan won’t make up the difference. We’ll lose everything we saved, every coin set aside for winter.”

  Sir Cuthred muttered, barely lifting his head, “And if war comes, we’ll be left with nothing.” He clenched his jaw, staring at the tabletop. ‘I swore my blade to Eldric, and I’ll ride when he calls. But I’ve been through enough to know when trouble’s close. This isn’t a fight against swords—it’s something darker. How do you cut a shadow with steel?’

  Off to the side, Aldric gripped the edge of the table, breath stuck in his chest. He’d talked this over with his younger brother, whispered about it by the fire, scared of what the numbers would mean. Hearing it out loud didn’t make it any easier. He stayed quiet, fingers digging into his palms. ‘Cealan warned me—the council only sees numbers, not people. But when this tax comes, it won’t be silver they’re taking. It’ll be bread from our mouths, futures from boys like us. Father’s playing the game set by our enemies. When the board breaks, I’ll be the sword that answers.’

  Lady Seraphine's voice sliced through the noise, which was calm, yet in command. "If we meet the levy, Avalon will starve its future. If we defy it, we invite reprisal. The council must decide how to balance survival against obedience."

  Eldric's uncle, Lord Malric of Ironford, said as he leaned forward, his weathered face grim. "I must warn that Haldrith watches with greed and hunger. If we show weakness, their nobles will press our borders as they have long desired. I would sooner face the Reach than their courts of silk and hidden knives."

  Luceron stared into the torchlight, mind drifting to the waves. All he could think about was the sea. Pirates kept getting braver, and with the crown taxing everyone to the bone, how was he supposed to build more ships? The Blue Coast was his responsibility, but money was the real tool he needed—silver bought sails, gold paid the crew. If Avalon kept squeezing them, the ocean would swallow up whatever was left.

  He shook his head. "While you worry about borders, the coast is bleeding. Pirates are out there, bold as ever, hitting merchant ships before they even make it to my harbor. If Avalon wants full coffers, I see no way it would come from the sea lanes. Every time raiders take a caravan, that’s another nail in our coffin. You want more gold? Secure the waters first."

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  The room went quiet, tension hanging in the air.

  Eldric broke it, his voice steady and sharp. “We have the duty to pay the tax. There’s no way around it. But we’re not handing over more than we owe. Odran, get those ledgers in order. Calvred, start your unbinding. I want every caravan watched, every tally checked. If the thief tries anything again, we’ll catch them in the act.”

  Malric’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod while he declared, “And when we do, we take them down. No mercy.”

  Anastara’s smile barely touched her lips. “Be careful where you swing, my lord. Cut too deep, and you might lose something you still need.”

  Seraphine's fingers, soft, found Eldric's hand under the table-a brief touch of steel-veiled comfort hidden from all but him. When she spoke, her words were scarcely above a murmur; yet they carried with the cadence of command, each syllable settling into the hearts of those assembled.

  "Avalon stands upon the cliff's edge," she said, her gaze sweeping slowly from face to face. "Princes contend and dukes conspire in their halls, pirates press upon our coasts, and here-within these very stone halls the veins of our realm are bled by unseen hands. If we do not tread with guile as well as with steel, we shall find ourselves swept aside-our house diminished, our people sold to the highest profit of our foes.

  The council sat heavy with her words. Eldric's son sat heaviest of all, silent, fists clenched, already dreaming of what must be done when whispers turned to swords.

  And at the head of the table, Eldric of Avalon oversaw them all, saw masks, and heard only what they chose to let him hear. 'So many voices, so many shadows. Yet the path narrows. If Avalon is to survive, I must strike before they strike us. And if I fail—may Veil's preserve my house, for none else will.'

  The Close Council of Avalon had cast its lot. The snare was set. Now, they waited for the unseen hand that was bold enough to take the bait.

  The chamber had grown colder, though no window was open. Eldric clasped his hands together upon the table, his gaze hard.

  “Then we come to the second matter,” he said. “The tax. It will be met this season, but not by chance. I will have the Silver Hollow Guard deployed along the routes. It will be obvious, perhaps heavy-handed, but I will not risk losing even a tenth of the levy to theft. We cannot afford subtlety when so much is at stake.”

  A stir circled the table. Malric snorted his disapproval, though he did not gainsay it aloud. "Soldiers make poor merchants," he muttered, "but aye, they make better escorts."

  “Then we must ask,” Eldric pressed on, “where shall the tax be collected? Where shall we have Avalon’s silver weighed, sealed, and sent?”

  “A fool's question,” Malric said bluntly. “Always at Isenford. It has ever been so. The marches are the kingdom's strongbox, and no levy leaves without my roads beneath it.”

  But Lord Luceron of Litus Solis leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Not always.”

  The words silenced the chamber.

  Luceron continued, his voice cold, almost weary. "For ten years now, the steward and crown have sent collectors to Litus itself. They come by sea, bearing writs in the king's hand. I thought it was known, as the steward oversaw it personally, though perhaps I was wrong to assume. Each year, they arrive, and the steward himself travels to my city to weigh out the sums."

  Even Seraphine's poise faltered at that; her fingers tightened on her chair. Eldric's brow drew low. "Ten years?" he asked. "Why has this not been spoken of here?"

  Luceron shrugged, though there was sharpness in his tone. "Because it was sanctioned, and no man questioned what came stamped with his Lord's and the King's seal. Each year, the same pattern: a young noble of Eastwatch, a tax official of the crown, and a priest robed in white. Always the same. They always leave with coin--never goods, never trade."

  The word "priest" hissed through the council like a spark.

  Calvred's head rose, his grey eyes locking intently. "White robes," he whispered. "Not any simple order of the veils, then, but one of the Ordo Puritas. Their order calls itself the guardians of purity, though most of us would say inquisitors. Wherever they tread, the truth is pursued… or broken."

  Lady Anastara leaned back in her chair, a faint chill smile on her lips. "How convenient. A noble with a family name but no power, a royal functionary with a lockbox, and a priest to sanctify the theft. It sounds more like a ritual than taxation.

  Malric's jaw worked as he ground his teeth. 'Ten years? While we sent caravans bleeding wealth through my marches, half the levy has been skimmed from the coast. Either Luceron has kept this too close, or someone wanted us blind.'

  Luceron stiffened at the way Malric scrutinized him, that silent accusation hanging in the air. ‘Let the old wolf judge, he thought. I held my coast together, kept the pirates off our backs, while you aimed your spears at Haldrith. If the crown treated Litus like its purse, then I just played the part they gave me.’

  Odran looked like he’d seen a ghost, his quill hovering uselessly above the ledger. Just coin, then. No cloth, no grain, no timber. Coin slips away easy—once it’s gone overseas, it’s gone for good. “If all our silver’s been pouring out like that, no wonder these numbers make no sense anymore. Oh, Veils, forgive me, I should’ve said something sooner,” he said, his voice thick with regret.

  Sir Cuthred's brow furrowed. "Coin alone, and in such secrecy. That is not levy-it is plunder. And to set the steward walking so far each year? There is no convenience. That is design." His hand rested on the pommel of his sword. 'I have smelt ambushes less rank than this. Were it war, I would call it treachery. Perhaps it still is.'

  The gaze of Eldric burned into Luceron. “And you have told no one? Not me, not this council?”

  Luceron met his eyes evenly. "I obeyed the writ. Do you accuse me of treason for heeding my own lord's seal?"

  The silence turned as keen as any blade. Seraphine spoke before it could snap. “No. No one is implying treason. But perhaps we have trusted too much. The loyalty of our house is its greatest blessing, but now someone has twisted it against us. And suspicion must be tested.”

  Magus Calvred exhaled long and slow. "The Ordo Puritas does not lend its weight lightly. If they are present, it means more than coin. They are shepherding something: an oath, a binding, perhaps some greater corruption than even we have imagined. Whatever is taken at Litus Solis, it is not simply silver. It is hidden power.

  Lady Anastara did not stop smiling, but in her mind, a storm raged. ‘So, Eldric, you have your snare. But which quarry do you hunt—the thief who has fattened on our coin, or the hand in white that blesses his theft? If you are wise, you will bait both.’

  Eldric drew in a breath, his scar catching the lamplight. “Then, three things we know. First, that our tax does not pass by one road, but two. Second, that coin alone is taken at the coast. And third, that the Ordo Puritas shadows its every collection. That is no accident. This has the design of years, perhaps a plot of decades. And it ends this season.”

  Aldric sat silent still, but his chest burned: 'A million silver. And half may already be lost before we weigh it. If Caelen were here, he would call it plain: they are stealing the lifeblood of Avalon. If we cannot stop it, then what future do we have but ruin?'

  Eldric's voice rose above the quiet. "The Silver Hollow Guard will march, and they shall march to both collection points. To Isenford, and to Litus Solis. No levy leaves without Avalon's eyes upon it."

  Malric muttered darkly, "Then let us hope your eyes are sharper than your steward's, else we march blind into the noose."

  And the council sat, each member wrapped in his own thoughts, each aware that this tax season would not be like any other. Too much hung upon it. Too much had already been lost.

  …

  With that, the council broke up, and only father, son, and mother remained in the room. Eldric said, “The fate of Avalon will be decided in the south.”

  “We shall have to trust Uncle to see us through this storm,” Seraphine whispered.

  To that, Adlric only shook his head and snickered. This reaction surprised both his parents, who looked at him for an explanation. For an instant, he seemed almost boyish, caught between obedience and defiance—then his expression hardened. A conspiratorial smile touched his lips, chilling in its certainty.

  “Of course it will,” he said with an unsettling calm, his voice carried through the chamber. “He already anticipated it. You forget…” He leaned forward with eyes sharp as steel. “Caelen went south.”