The Dragonblood Conclave

  The morning sun shone brightly on Ixtin’s face, forcing him begrudgingly from his slumber.

  He groaned, labouring into a sitting position. Blood of The Merciful One, he felt old.

  “Asher!” Ixtin called. “Asher!” His scratchy voice rasping across his sleeping chambers like a pile of dried leaves. He cursed. His voice was once so powerful, so commanding, it held weight like an anvil. Ixtin had once ordered his servants about with such thunderous authority that he had caused one in particular to release their bladder before him. He smiled to himself at the memory.

  “Asher!” He called again.

  A small portly man appeared beside the door, huffing slightly. His figure was defined by a small hunch of his shoulders, causing him to remain in a constant bent forward position.

  “Good morning, Master.” The man said, bowing his head. “Apologies, I was tending to the harvest.” He walked across the room carrying a golden tray which had a steaming mug of Toahasca Tea sitting carefully in the middle. Asher placed the tray on a small table and picked up the tea, beginning to walk toward the bed.

  “Leave it where it is.” Ixtin said gruffly, casting his blankets aside. He started shuffling to the corner of his bed causing Asher to tense visibly.

  “Umm Master, do you think it wise to leave your bed in your condition?” Asher asked tentatively, placing the tea back on the tray. Ixtin dismissed this with a wave of his hand. However, by the time he had reached the side of his bed his chest felt tight, as if his body was too small for his organs. Testing the sensation, Ixtin inhaled deeply causing him to cough violently. Bringing withered fingers up to his face he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Blood.

  He cursed to himself, flicking it away. This caused Asher to gasp slightly and scurry to clean the spatter from the floor.

  Within his mind, Ixtin felt no different than before. He still regularly cast his eyes over plans and communications, was able to speak whilst maintaining the same grace and cohesion he had always exuded. It was his body that was failing him. Day by day Ixtin grew weaker, and despite seeking counsel from the finest medical minds he could, there was, laughably, no diagnosis.

  No one could tell him why he was dying.

  “Asher, fetch me my robes. I wish to walk the grounds.”

  The man looked up from scrubbing the floor. “Master… I…” he sputtered.

  “Just do as I say.” Ixtin replied, sighing. “I am in no mood to spar with you on this matter.”

  Wordlessly, Asher stood up and walked over to a large mirror that consumed an entire wall. He pressed firmly on the mirror’s frame causing it to open on a hinge with a satisfying pop sound. Asher disappeared from view momentarily as he strode inside the newly revealed wardrobe.

  Ixtin reached over to the table and retrieved the tea, blowing the contents gently as he brought it to his mouth.

  He stared blankly at a wall as he sipped. He was going to miss his morning tea…

  Asher reappeared a moment later, carrying a fine green robe with intricate white patterns imprinted across it. Ixtin raised an eyebrow at his selection.

  “An interesting choice.” He said, a faint hint of a smile drawing his lips apart.

  ~

  Ixtin held onto a post, steadying himself, cursing between staggered breaths. He could feel his legs protesting violently at their load.

  “Chair.” He rasped to Asher who was already fetching one. Ixtin looked at his outstretched hand clutching feebly at the post, his knuckles white with strain. He snorted to himself in amusement. The end was close, he could feel it.

  Asher’s return was announced with the sound of his slow, shuffling gait. He dragged a fine woven chair in tow.

  “Please, Master.” He said, guiding Ixtin into the seat. “Rest. Look over the pastures while I fetch you some tea.”

  Ixtin gazed out across his fields with a yearning. He wouldn’t see another harvest.

  He sat on a balcony overlooking his plantation. Several workers dotted the fields, their heads appearing briefly above the tall plants, before disappearing again, returning to their work.

  Asher returned, handing Ixtin another warm cup of tea. Ixtin leaned back in his chair in thought. “Asher, fetch me my writing equipment, I wish to send correspondence.”

  The short man bowed his head before hobbling off toward the study.

  Ixtin continued his observation of the workers across the fields; how diligently they toiled about their duties. Harvesting Pa’Uala was lucrative work, and every single individual under Ixtin’s employ had been meticulously selected through a rigorous and extensive process. There could be absolutely no stealing of product and no selling of their unique horticultural secrets. Pa’Uala plants, when disturbed, secreted a sap that was an essential ingredient for creating bonding essences. He didn’t really understand the science behind it, and he didn’t need to, the money made from his fields over the years had made Ixtin one of the wealthiest men in the Southern Region.

  The plantation had been inherited from his father many years ago. Ixtin had never had any interest in being a farmer, but understood the necessity of it for the illusion. The real reward lay beneath the extensive harvesting fields.

  Asher returned dragging in a compact wooden writing table with a curved groove carved into its centre, fitting perfectly around Ixtin in his chair.

  Placed neatly on the table was a small stack of rolled parchment, a decorated inkpot filled just over halfway with obsidian ink, and a quill of Asher’s choosing - an unsightly bright white monstrosity.

  Ixtin unrolled the parchment, being welcomed by the smell of warm leather as he did. He tested the slight roughness of it, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.

  He dipped the quill lightly into the inkpot, letting the ink lap hungrily onto its point. With routined movement, Ixtin tapped the quill on the side of the inkpot three times then began scratching his letter, reapplying the ink every few words:

  Inoch,

  This will be my final contact.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  The time we have spoken about is now upon us. You are to return to my plantation with immediate effect. My illness blights me to the point of damnation and I fear the days I have of existence left on this world are drawing to a close.

  You are my heir in all things.

  You are to return so that we may anoint you in my place. You will take control of my lands, and oversee all of my interests.

  Pertaining to my interests, you shall not be alone in this matter. I will be sending word to Katarangi for him to return and guide you. He was there to steer me when my father passed, and shall now in turn aid you, as you lead The Conclave.

  Inoch, I know I have been somewhat distant these last few years. I suppose only when staring at death do we consider the time we have wasted in life. I regret deeply that we have not spoke in so long, my work has required day and night attention, eating into every moment of free time I can muster. If this cursed illness did not kill me, then my work very well may have. I only pray that you make it here in time for me to meet my grandchildren.

  In the event that I pass before you arrive here, I have set up a contingency for your ritual coronation into The Conclave as my successor.

  You will be a good leader, I am proud of you Inoch. I always have been.

  Your father,

  Ixtin.

  Ixtin placed the quill to one side, holding the parchment up to read it back. A tear formed in his eye. Inoch had been a good son. Ixtin had not been a good father.

  He gestured Asher over. Asher hobbled toward him, producing a large spoon and candle from his robe before placing them on the table. He lit the candle then reached into his pocket again, this time withdrawing a wax cylinder about the size of his index finger. The wax was decorated in a deep green colour with flecks of brilliant white, Ixtin’s house colours.

  Ixtin folded the parchment and slid it cleanly into an envelope. As he did so, Asher placed the spoon in a perch above the candle and deposited the waxy cylinder into it.

  Ixtin slid open a draw that was built into the desk’s groove. Within it lay a single item, a small wooden stamp with Ixtin’s crest carved into the bottom.

  Once the wax had melted, Asher lifted the spoon and gently blew out the candle. The wax sloshed lazily around the spoon’s deep recess before being poured onto the envelope’s seal.

  Ixtin brought the stamp down onto the wax, pressing as firmly as his feeble body would allow him. It was not firm enough to seal the letter.

  He felt a heavy hand pressing down on his own, assisting him with the imprint. Ixtin looked up at Asher, the man’s eyes were filled with pity as he smiled at Ixtin.

  “Allow me to help you with that, Master.” He said.

  Ixtin would usually have scowled and called the man every name under the Merciful One’s sun. But this was important, and Ixtin was appreciative of the assistance.

  He let out a rare smile. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Ixtin passed the now sealed envelope to Asher with reverent hands. “You don’t have to say a word, Master. This will be attached to a carrier bird as soon as you settle down for your afternoon rest.” Asher smiled, tucking the letter into the folds of his robes. “Will you be requiring further use of the writing equipment?”.

  Ixtin gestured with his hand, signalling he had finished with it. “No, take it away. I shall write Katarangi tomorrow, I don’t think I have the strength left today.”

  “Very well, Master. A wise decision.” Asher replied. He clicked his fingers toward the balcony doors where two unseen servants stood ready. They moved diligently, deconstructing the temporary writing station in seconds and removing each piece of equipment back to their respective homes. Ixtin snorted, he hadn’t noticed them. How long had they been there? He stared at them as they worked, he didn’t even recognise them.

  If he was being truthful with himself, he hardly recognised any of his close servants these days. Though, he supposed, he had no real need to know them anymore, Asher saw to the employ of the servants now. He saw to most needs now. That was enough.

  ~

  Ixtin spent the next few hours reminiscing within his mind whilst staring out across the fields. He had passed the stage of self pity, he knew there was nothing to save him now. He cast his mind back to his letter to Inoch. He hadn’t realised it, but he did want to meet his grandchildren. It wasn’t something he had given much thought prior to today, but Sixth Hell, he was determined to stay alive long enough to meet them, the stubborn old fool he was. Ixtin felt something deep within him, a warmth he had not experienced since first he became ill. Purpose.

  In slow, contorted movements, Ixtin pulled himself from his chair, smiling widely as he did. “Ha!” he exclaimed loudly.

  Dragging his feet in an excruciating shuffle, he began his march to his bed. He would make it unassisted. He would fight this. Today he would fight this!

  After an eternity of gruelling agony, every muscle, every bone in Ixtin’s body screaming for precious rest, he rounded the door to his bed chambers.

  Inside a young servant was leaning over his bed, placing the blankets neatly into a folded pile. Several candles had been placed around the room in anticipation of Ixtin’s daily afternoon rest. She gasped upon seeing him.

  “Lord Ixtin! Please, let me help you!” She blustered, spinning toward him.

  “No, it's… it's quite alright.” He wheezed. Pressing his hands to the door frame. “I.. I just need my bed, and a cup of tea, if you will.”

  She nodded violently before scurrying out the door. Another new one, he thought to himself. His servants knew not to make eye contact. Ixtin huffed, straining himself forward, one pained step at a time. He would speak to Asher about servant protocol this evening, he did not have the energy to chastise this young woman.

  He sat down on the side of his bed and exhaled deeply. He had done it. Ixtin took a moment to consider the achievement he had just managed. It had been nearly two complete moons since he had been able to move that far. He smiled a haggard grin, maybe it would be worth looking into alternative treatments, he had tried everything else, what did he have left to lose?

  The same servant returned a short time later carrying the same golden tray as before, with a mug of Toahasca Tea, placed identically as it had been this morning.

  Asher had taught the servants well at least.

  She placed the tray on the table and passed the tea to Ixtin with two hands. He took it, blew the steaming mug as before and drank deeply. Merciful One, was he thirsty, he had only just noticed.

  He stood up slowly, the servant watching him warily, unsure whether to help and cause offence. So she watched as he rose to his feet, grunting and moaning as he did.

  “I wish to use the privy, please leave me.” Ixtin said, not looking toward the servant as he passed her back the mug.

  She turned to the table and moved toward the tray, falling to the floor as she did. Ixtin had not noticed he had been standing on her robes and the girl’s sudden movement caused him to be upended as well. He fell beside her with a thud that caused him to see stars. Pain washed over his body like a violent tide crashing into rocks. As he lay there whimpering, he spotted a small vial on the floor having fallen from within the servant’s robes. A green, viscous liquid dripped out in quick successive drips. The smell of the liquid attacked his senses almost immediately, Ninth Hell it smelled like death itself. Was this… poison? Was he being poisoned? Was this his illness?

  The servant began rising to her feet clumsily. There was no chance that someone had not heard multiple loud thumps from his chambers.

  “Asher…” He croaked. Did he? Or was that in his head?

  The servant - no, the assassin, passed through the door frame turning out of the room as if headed to the balcony.

  Ixtin felt his body swimming. His weight becoming one with the floor, his vision becoming black and spotty.

  Mercifully, Asher entered the room a moment later, his face immediately flashing terror.

  “Ixtin!” He shouted. The hunched man hobbled over to his master as fast as he could. All sense of formality gone from his voice.

  Ixti’s vision was filled with Asher’s concerned face, his hands grasping him by the shoulders. Asher was saying something frantically, but all sound was fading, everything was starting to turn black.

  “Inoch…” Ixtin wheezed. “Letter.”

  “Yes, Master, of course!” Asher was shouting, cradling Ixtin in his arms. “I will send the letter!”.

  Ixtin let out a long rattled sigh before falling limp.

  Sweet release.

  Asher watched Ixtin, his Master of so many years, slip quietly beside him. He paused, taking in the scene before him.

  His Master was gone.

  Asher’s contorted, mourning face became expressionless with a blink. Wordlessly, he dropped Ixtin’s body to the floor with a thonk. He stood, rising to his full height, the hunch disappearing from his form. Standing tall, Asher’s loose robes fell across his body, revealing a long and well muscled physique. He had spent the majority of his days for the past six years hunched and draped in clothes that hung off of him.

  He walked over to the bedside table and produced Ixtin’s letter to Inoch. Then without hesitation, he held it over one of the candles allowing it to ignite, then threw it onto the golden tray, where it burned with a quiet crackling sound.

  He put one hand to his shoulder, rotating it, stretching out the muscles, before rolling his neck and letting out a deep satisfied sigh.

  Asher took one last look at Ixtin’s body then strode out of the room.

  He had plans to make.