by Mary Weber
Eogan-who-is-Draewulf smiles. “On Faelen’s behalf? Is it not your governing belief to let the strongest survive and claim what’s theirs? The circumstances surrounding how I chose to survive or gain rulership are not for you to question. Or do you challenge my wisdom and loyalty, General Cronin?”
The silver-haired general ignores him and looks around the room. “King Odion led us into battle just like his father, but he . . .” Cronin points accusingly toward Eogan. “He fought against us at Faelen’s Keep. He has sold us out to the very country we should now own.”
That dull, drumming cold in my bones is spreading up my spine. I shift in my seat toward Rasha. “Why are they discussing this in front of us? Wouldn’t it be better handled privately?”
Rasha turns me her reddish gaze. “In this room I believe they are required to do so, especially in regard to political matters.”
“You speak as one still stuck in the old days,” a white-toothed, rough-faced Bron general near Draewulf is saying. “What Eogan has done for us is innovative at the very least; at best it’s saved us manpower and multiple deaths. While all of us here grew up accustomed to the war, not all of us saw the need for it.”
I see eight, maybe nine people agreeing.
“A nice sentiment, but how many here would back you?” General Cronin’s voice grows louder. “We are a people of war! And we, as Bron’s leaders, have a country that after one hundred years of war has been promised a victory! Submitting to anything less than that will be viewed as a defeat, and all of us will lose the respect of our citizens.”
Heads are nodding.
“We want repayment,” several voices mutter.
“We want victory!” others say.
Oh.
Oh litches.
“They still want a war,” I murmur, awareness dawning.
“They do?” Lord Percival whispers. “With who?”
Apparently my voice carried louder than intended because the old, wrinkly general looks me square in the face, then breezes his gaze across the other delegates. “It’s not even that we want a war—it’s that we’re in danger of our own. The plagues from Drust have reached the plains and rumor has it Lady Isobel’s Dark Army is shortly behind them. Yet here Lady Isobel sits. Sire, perhaps it’s not our place to ask where you’ve been the past four years, nor to speculate on your current relationship with Faelen. However, we cannot negotiate and find stability in a peace treaty while Drust is breathing down our neck. There are dark dealings over there, ones your brother chose to ignore in his hunger to launch against Faelen.”
I look at Lady Isobel’s flawless face and note the strain of her flexing muscles. I wonder how much self-control she’s exercising right now.
“And I argue,” the rough-faced general says, “that we’ve got citizens tired of war and wondering if this peace treaty—as well as an attention to things closer to home—might not be wiser.”
“Except we’re a nation of war,” General Cronin groans. “You can’t merely change who we are.”
“Maybe once. But I think you’ll find a few of the newer Assembly, as well as some of the people we represent, are weary of it. Why not save our resources and pursue what we want through diplomacy rather than force?”
“Which is why we’re all here, is it not?” Eogan says, spreading his hands.
The silver-haired general guffaws. “I would agree with you, Your Majesty, except one cannot help notice a representative from Tulla is not part of this delegation. And Cashlin?” His mouth curls. “No offense, Princess Rasha, but you are all your country saw fit to send? It leads one to doubt the seriousness with which your country takes these negotiations.”
“As you well know, my people lacked the ability to get here from Cashlin as quickly as needed,” Rasha says. A ratlike, sly smile comes out in full play on her face. “However, I assure you that, merely because a task has befallen you in recent days which you are illequipped to handle, sir, does not mean that I am impotent for mine.”
The man’s cheeks pale as fast as her grin disappears, and I’ve no idea which pantaloons of his she just aired, but from his panicky expression it’s clear they’re quite awkward.
“Let’s move on,” he mutters.
Except His Majesty’s not listening. He’s leaning back speaking with a soldier wearing the eerie black mask and garb of the Mortisfaire. Isobel’s guard? How did one of them get in here?
Ten seconds later he’s twitched his hand again and murmured whatever incantation brings that unnatural silence over the room. “Perhaps now is a good time to take a three-minute refreshment pause.”
CHAPTER 22
BESIDE ME, LADY GWEN RISES AND MOVES DOWN to question Myles. I lean into Rasha and shake off the few stares I sense from the Assembly as they get up to talk amongst themselves. “About the guards killed,” I ask her. “Do you think it was specific toward them because they were my guards?”
She eyes me stiffly. “We believe so, seeing as the Bron people are clearly not pleased by your presence here.” She purses her lips. “Little did they know they needn’t have bothered killing off half your protection unit considering you’ve managed to endanger yourself much worse through Myles.”
“You can’t be serious. I wasn’t endangering anyone. I’m trying to help.”
“Maybe so, but at some point the lust for power requires a price.”
“Price? Are you saying I caused their deaths?” I peer around at the generals and delegates before lowering my voice. “I went with Myles as a responsibility to my people. And even to these people.”
“Just because you won Faelen’s war doesn’t mean you have to do it again.”
I scoff. “I wish it were that simple, but you didn’t see how scared Eogan was for everyone. How he looked at me and begged me to kill him yesterday.”
“If you were that concerned, maybe you should’ve done what he asked.”
The cold warping my bones flares. Is she jesting? How could she say that? “Is that what you think? That I should’ve let everything go without even trying?” I wrap my hands around my arms. “You’ve lived in luxury with friends who’ve trained and honored your ability your whole life, but I haven’t. And that . . . animal”—I jerk my head toward Draewulf—“just stole what few things I call mine, not to mention he’s about to steal a lot more lives. So before you judge me, consider the fact that in my situation, you would’ve done the same.”
She snorts. “No, I wouldn’t. And if you think that, then you don’t know the Luminescent race very well.”
“I know them well enough to know that while for the past hundred years Faelen’s been fighting a war they didn’t start and my Elemental people have been slaughtered, the Luminescents stood by caring about little else but themselves.”
The second it exits my mouth I wish I could take it back.
Oh hulls—that came out wrong. “Rasha, I didn’t mean . . .”
“Yes, you did.” She looks around at the delegates reseating themselves. “We’ll discuss this later. The meeting’s starting.”
I look at her and watch her expression turn stony, as if I don’t exist.
You’re blasted right we will.
Because I can’t leave it like this. I can’t lose her too.
When I look up, I find Eogan watching me again, but it’s with black wolf eyes rather than the emerald ones I’d give anything to see again. I sharpen my glare at him and will him to read my mind: I’ve no idea what you need to achieve through me, or what the hulls that even means . . . but I will stop you.
I will not break first.
Sir Gowon wastes no time in calling the meeting back to order, and it occurs to me that in the three-minute intermission, there’s been a shift in the air. Not merely between Rasha and me, but between the hundred Assembly members facing the table of Faelen delegates and Bron generals. Although, as far as I can tell, the only physical difference is that Lady Isobel has seated herself right next to Eogan this time.
If she feels me
staring, she doesn’t let on. Her condescending interest is on the generals as Sir Gowon waves the water servers from the room. When the last doors have shut, the old man folds his hands behind his back and steps up behind Draewulf.
“His Majesty has the floor.”
“Delegates and Assembly,” Draewulf announces smoothly. “I see no point in drawing this meeting out with endless negotiations. We have made a treaty and will therefore stand by it and will not replenish our storehouses through Faelen. I expect you to support this decision as subordinates who are to obey. Especially as, I believe, you’ll find what comes next will silence further arguments from here on out.”
When he takes his seat, Lord Wellimton’s sigh of relief is so heavy I can almost feel his wet breath slather across the table just as unease twists in my stomach. I glance at Princess Rasha, but she’s studying Lady Isobel. The part of her face I can see is narrowing and there’s a small red glimmer.
The silver-haired General Cronin rises and gives a long, slow clap of his hands. “Bold speech, my lord, but will the majority here support you? Especially those who feel they are owed more by a man seeking to establish himself as king? You would deny them replenishment of their very livelihoods?”
The wolfish black in Draewulf’s glare thickens until the whites of his eyes are nearly hidden. He stands enough to lean down the table toward the general. “I never said I wouldn’t reclaim what is owed Bron. I simply said we won’t do it through Faelen.”
He looks at the whole Assembly. “I will give you the war you’ve been thwarted from—a war that will supply your storehouses with food and minerals and natural resources deprived you far too long.” He rocks back on his heels and suddenly smiles, and it’s more unnerving than his threatening gaze when he lifts a hand and lets his voice boom.
“I set forth the motion that we prepare for war against Tulla, the land we have easier access to thanks to my treaty with Faelen.”
I freeze as a visceral gasp rocks the room.
He wants to go after Tulla?
That’s Colin and Breck’s homeland.
The delegates shift in their seats, making them squeak, the sound only diluted by Myles’s mutter of, “You’ve got to be bleeding jesting.”
The words sink past the chill in my skin and pull the cold back down to the marrow of my bones as I watch Sir Gowon’s expression turn as stunned as the rest of ours. His gaze focuses in on Eogan’s face.
Between Lord Wellimton, Percival, and Gwen whispering to each other, I can barely hear the silver-haired general stuttering. Like a little boy trying to cover his embarrassment for a game he’s losing. He looks over at me for a second. I don’t know if he reads my horror or my flinch as the iced poison bleeds deeper into my veins.
I clench my teeth and will it to recede, but it doesn’t. It just settles like a low vibration in my blood.
General Cronin is back to glaring at the king. “A positive step, King Eogan.” Except his tone is as challenging as the sneer on his face. “But may I ask when and how you propose we do so?”
Draewulf slides a paper in front of him. “Your report stated thirty-five airships are still battle sure. It also states you have enough men to operate them.”
“Enough engineers, yes,” the old, wrinkled general chimes in. “But many of our soldiers are still out of commission. Practically speaking, we can be ready in six months, but—”
“Good, General Naran,” Draewulf cuts him off. “Then we won’t need to wait.” He stands again and splays his palms to the room. “I plan to move on Tulla immediately. To give—”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I don’t see how that’s possible,” General Naran interrupts. “Our warboats—”
Draewulf’s expression turns lethal. As quick as a lightning crack, he lifts a hand and touches it to the older man’s arm. The general doesn’t wince, but his voice cuts off even while his mouth continues forming words. It takes him a second to notice and fumble to a silent halt as confusion forms around his wrinkled eyes.
Sir Gowon looks sharply from Draewulf to me. I look at Princess Rasha.
She’s still studying Lady Isobel, who peers up and says in a tone so low that I swear it rattles the floor beneath my feet, “We only need the airships and a few waterboats.”
The silver-haired general stirs from staring at the silenced man. He scoffs. “Only? And what, may I ask, do you know of this? How do you propose we provide the soldier-power?”
Draewulf holds out his hand to Lady Isobel in an invitation to stand. She rises beside him and stares at the Assembly with disgust.
That chill in my bones shifts. Until it’s rattling, spiking, warning that something is off.
Draewulf’s teeth poke out through Eogan’s lips as he announces, “Lady Isobel’s Dark Army will provide the soldier-power.”
CHAPTER 23
AS IF IN UNISON, EVERY SINGLE MEMBER IS YELLING.
“Your Majesty, the Dark Army doesn’t exist!”
“Are you insane? Lady Isobel hasn’t even answered for her attempt to betray us to Faelen!”
The old, wrinkly-eyed man, General Naran, who’d been silenced, speaks up. “Going to war is one thing. But this is inviting war to our very doorstep! These things—these monsters—have no sense of morality! Rumor has it they’ve already laid waste to the western border.”
“Not just laid waste!” someone in the crowd yells. “They’ve invoked a bleeding plague! First on the livestock, then on our nomads! It’s the same thing that wiped out our forces on Faelen’s island cairns—it wasn’t the Faelen army, but the plagues and monsters!”
The anger, the fear in here—it’s humming around me, and my nerves are soaking it up.
Feeding off of it.
This is what Draewulf had planned?
The king raises his hand for silence, and I peer up at Sir Gowon. Now does he believe me about Eogan?
“I assure you the Dark Army does in fact exist,” Draewulf says. “Is it dangerous? Yes. But a dangerous army is exactly what’s needed, and if one has already been developed by a country under our subjugation, I see no reason not to utilize it to the full extent of our purposes.”
General Cronin stands, his silver hair glinting beneath the lights. “You knew about them and yet kept that fact from us once you arrived yesterday?”
Draewulf flips around. “Treasonous words considering every top general here heard news of such an army months ago—and a week ago you received evidence confirming it.”
“We kept it quiet until the rumors were verified,” General Naran says. “We saw no need to worry our people until we sent soldiers to investigate.”
“And what did they find?”
“Half . . . half of them didn’t come back.”
“Because of the plagues,” someone calls out from the crowd.
General Cronin pounds the table. “Because the Dark Army is a menace which she”—he points at Lady Isobel—“is controlling!”
I glance at Lady Isobel who sits watching, then my gaze falls to Rasha. Her expression is complete horror. This is what she was seeing on Lady Isobel’s face a moment ago. The army. The plagues. I recall my ride through Litchfell Forest where the plagues had struck just before Bron attacked. The treetop houses reeked of death and disease. Even the bolcranes had left the bodies alone.
She peers over at me. What have we done by keeping him alive?
“Your Highness,” one of the generals protests. “Odion never would’ve approved this decision. Isobel approached him months ago offering her services, and he turned the Dark Army down out of understanding of what it would cost Bron.” He hesitates. The flash in his eye says there’s more—there’s something else he’s not saying.
General Naran puts his hand out as if to calm his colleague. “Your Highness, allowing Lady Isobel here for questioning is one thing. But allowing this may likely start a civil war. Yes, we want to pursue what we need from Tulla, but allow us to do it with our own people in a time of better choosing. Not wit
h a rabid army we know nothing about who is a threat to our very existence.”
“You disagree with my tactics?” Draewulf snarls and his tone feels like a stone being sharpened.
“I think you unintentionally have conveyed disregard for our people, our generals, and our way of li—”
His voice cuts off so smooth that General Cronin picks up speaking for him, unaware of Draewulf’s hand stretched out. “What is it—four years you’ve been gone? Perhaps it’s time for new leadership the Bron people can trust to hold their best interest.”
Rasha rises.
Isobel’s hand flashes out and slips between the man’s shoulder blades so fast, General Cronin doesn’t even have time to wince. Nor to notice the cracking of his colleague’s neck beneath Draewulf’s fingers.
The silver-haired general’s face has already paled and suddenly the only sound emerging from his lips is a gasp for air followed by a gurgle before he slumps chin-first onto the table, dead like his wrinkly cohort, blood oozing from both their mouths.
Lady Isobel steps back, and every face in the room is riveted on her and Eogan-who-is-Draewulf.
I pull out both knives and am preparing to toss them low when Eogan’s hand flicks and an unseen force flips my blades down, impaling the knives into the ground at my feet. Without batting an eye, he twitches his hand again, and this time, that invisible force is pressing me against my seat.
I try to lift a fist as the darkness slides along my veins like a raw hunger stirring. Why the members here aren’t alarmed at Eogan using powers his real self isn’t capable of is beyond me. Or perhaps he’s been away so many years, they no longer know what exactly he is capable of anymore.
Abruptly that cold in me is coiling with this whole scene. My skin is cooling rapidly and my heartpulse is speeding up, but when I try to focus on it, to see if I can funnel it toward Draewulf or his daughter, nothing happens beyond the chill fusing deeper to my bones.
A vision of the spider biting, numbing, working her poison through my blood materializes, and the thought erupts again that the abilities are not expanded enough to work here, not now, on real people.
