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"But not all?"
"Those born after the war don't always appreciate his authority. They take him for granted, and some even doubt his power."
Cera frowned. "That seems like it would be easy enough to rectify. In Atera, our army goes on an annual campaign across the country." At the risk of sounding like her father, she said, "It's important that the people recognize the might of their leader."
"Perhaps," Esodir said slowly. "But our leader commands no army. Viranhildr has only a small militia and the citadel guards. Ishvalier's army was lost in the war and the territory is little more than a relic, hardly anyone lives there."
There was an obvious question to ask, but Cera sensed that she already knew the answer. "Lord Isael doesn't need an army to secure his position. He has the dragon's wind."
To call Avalrashael ameredragon seemed almost sacrosanct. Even in Atera, where most people adhered to the monotheistic Solan religion, most humans would concede that Avalrashael was an 'old god.' It was the title given to the few remaining remnants of the pre-human world.
The difference between Avalrashael and most other gods was that few could deny his existence. The dragon god controlled the northern winds, and he was not shy about using his considerable might against any who would challenge him. Although he'd been largely quiet in the past few centuries, historical records abounded with tales of his exploits, most of which included dead kings and vanquished armies. Only Isael had ever challenged him and escaped alive. Allegedly.
"He can command the wind," Esodir concurred.
It was an innocuous statement. It conjured images of creating a cool breeze on a hot afternoon or whipping up a flurry of autumn leaves. But Cera knew the reason why wind dragons had been systematically hunted, not only by humans, but by their own kind. Any being that could control the wind could control the very breath in a man's lungs.
In every tale of Avalrashael's exploits, there was no mention of cities being razed or cyclones being summoned. He did not need to lift a claw or bare a single tooth to cripple an army. If the stories were true, then a single flex of his power was enough to put a thousand men on their knees, asphyxiating within seconds.
If Isael could command even a fraction of that power, then every elf should have feared him.
"If he has that kind of power, why let anyone doubt him?" she asked.
"I asked him the same thing when I was younger," Esodir said. "He told me that there is a fine line between being respected and feared, and that fear manifests differently for each person. It can inspire loyalty, it can act as a paralytic, or it can breed resentment.
"Isael's power is great, but it also makes him a target. He needs some of the people to doubt him, because if they understood what he is capable of, they would seek to kill him simply to restore the balance of power."
Cera nodded, but she still had a difficult time believing that Isael really did command the wind. He had a certain otherworldly quality to him, but she had now touched him, slept beside him, and dined with him. He didn't strike her as a man capable of conjuring tempests or stealing the breath from her lungs.
"Do you think you will be able to give him a child?"
Esodir's question seemed to come from nowhere, but Cera had the sense that it had been on the tip of his tongue for a while.
"It's why I'm here," she replied, carefully sidestepping the question. She pretended to be interested in the food again, even her stomach was well-past full.
"He's had many concubines before you. Some have gone on to have children with other men after leaving his bed. Others still hover about, hoping to regain his favor. Like Maewyn."
She recognized the last part as a jab. Not one intended to harm, but more like a test. Even more than before, he seemed like a child. One that had uttered a naughty word and was watching to see how the adult would react.
Cera did not give him the satisfaction. Her only response was a polite smile in between nibbles of bread.
The revelation that Maewyn may have been Isael's concubine did not ruffle Cera's feathers. ‘Concubine’ was a position she'd been made to fill. She was starting to warm to Isael, but could not claim to have affection for him. She did not feel antipathy toward any other woman who had held her role, nor would she be jealous if another woman had his affections.
She was there to give him an heir. Nothing more.
* * *
Maewyn circled Cera like a shark,smoothing creases in her dress and righting errant strands of silver hair.
"Remember not to talk to anyone," she said, as she worked. "Most will not understand you anyway. The human languages are not a priority for us to learn."
Cera thought that if she lived for centuries, and perhaps she would, she'd most definitely take the time to learn as many languages as possible. She'd lived only two decades, but she already spoke three languages, four if one was to count the Kytan language as separate from Ateran. However, the two languages were so similar that their differences could be chalked up to regional dialects.
She didn't voice any of these buzzing thoughts. If the afternoon spent with Maewyn had taught her anything—literally anything—it was that it was best to just let her speak and occasionally reply in the affirmative. It was the same philosophy she'd had with the queen mother, except that Maewyn wasn't inclined to box Cera's ears if she thought Cera was being cheeky.
At the moment, Maewyn felt as significant as a fly buzzing about her ears. Cera was standing before a floor length mirror, fully taking herself in for the first time. She'd seen herself in the morning, but only in a hand mirror and after a torturous night that had left her pale and disheveled. Now, she'd been bathed, groomed, and dressed in fine clothing.
Her outfit was what must have passed for a dress among the elves. To Cera, it seemed more like an elaborate set of white and blue robes. An under layer of fine, gauzy material spilled out of the overly large sleeves, giving the robes a feminine touch. What was decidedly not feminine was the cut of the dress. The transformation had done little to minimize the feminine curves of her human body, and the dress was clearly fashioned for a lithe, elven woman. It was uncomfortable, but Cera was accustomed to the minor agony of taut corsets, and she issued fewer complaints than the women who had dressed her.
