“I have an idea!” It was abundantly clear that she was trying to cheer him up.
“The masquerade ball is tonight! The palace will be full of people. It’s going to be grand, just like the old days! Why not let me help you choose something to wear?”
Having finally adjusted the dreggan baldric and knife quiver to his satisfaction, Tristan turned. He scowled when he saw the open wardrobe full of useless puffery.
He had forgotten all about the ball. In fact, he wished he could cancel it entirely. It had been the wizards’ idea. The nation had finally healed, they said. It was time to celebrate the peace by opening the palace to the populace, even if it was only for one night.
In the end, Tristan had reluctantly agreed. He knew his presence would be mandatory. But that didn’t mean he liked it.
The prince glowered at his sister. She countered his glare by folding her arms across her chest and impatiently tapping one foot on the floor. Tyranny smiled.
Tristan shook his head. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he answered.
Shailiha walked over. Pointing to his worn clothes, she shook her head and made a disapproving, clucking sound.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to wearthose!” she exclaimed. “There will be more than a smattering of young ladies there, eager for your attention! You have to look your best!”
The moment the words left her mouth, she realized how insensitive she had just been. Tristan’s face darkened. Trying to warn Shailiha, Tyranny cleared her throat.
The princess immediately went to her brother. She took his hands into hers.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “I should have known better.” She pulled him to her.
He closed his eyes again. “I should know better, too,” he answered gently. “You also understand what it means to lose the love of your life.”
“I know how much you hurt,” she whispered. “But each day gets a little easier. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”
Silent moments passed as he tried to believe her. Finally she let him go.
Gathering himself up, Tristan took a deep breath. “Now then,” he said, “I must oversee the meeting.”
He held out an arm to each of the women.
“By all means,” Shailiha answered.
The princess gave Tyranny a wink; then, with a look of mock ferociousness, she pointed her index finger into the air.
“We must not be late!” she said, imitating Wigg. “Such meetings are of the utmost importance!” Tyranny and Tristan laughed.
It is good to hear him laugh, Shailiha thought as they walked to the door. Especially now that it happens so rarely.
Entering the hallway, the trio headed for the Redoubt.
Tristan looked across the highly polished table, first at Wigg, then at Faegan. “Give me a progress report on the acolytes,” he said. “How soon can the Black Ships sail?”
Wigg placed his gnarled hands flat on the table. The Paragon, hanging on a cord around his neck, twinkled in the candlelight.
“Two more weeks,” he said firmly. Then he added, “I know how badly you want to attack, but any sooner and we cannot guarantee that all the acolytes will be ready.”
He looked over at the First Sister. “Adrian has learned quickly, despite a few mishaps. If the others do as well, the ships’ seaworthiness will soon be ensured.”
Taking a moment to think, the prince looked past the table at the flames dancing in the blue marble fireplace. He purposely kept his eyes away from the empty chair to his right-Celeste’s chair. Her name was still inscribed on the back as a painful reminder of her absence. Pulling his thoughts together, he addressed Traax.
“How many fighting warriors do we still command?” he asked.
The Minion commander shook his head. “Not the number I would like,” he answered glumly. “Wulfgar’s second invasion force slaughtered too many.”
Tristan wasn’t in the mood for half answers.“How many?” he asked once more.
Traax sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. “At best-including the female warrior-healers led by Duvessa-we might summon fifty thousand. As you are aware, we do not know whether that will be enough to take the Citadel. Even worse, there are hardly enough fletchers, armorers, healers, cooks, and so on to support them.”
Tristan was about to respond when an insistent knocking came at the doors. Ox entered at Tristan’s command, and it was plain to see that the gigantic warrior was worried about something.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
Ox bowed. “I be sorry to intrude,” he said in his broken Eutracian. “Visitors come to palace gates to request audience before Conclave. At first me not want to let them in. But they seem in bad way. They ride hard to get here. Lose three horses to the pace, they claim. I put them in Chamber of Supplication, then give them food and water. They wait for you there.”
“What do they want?” Abbey asked.
“Me not sure,” Ox answered. “But they say they must see entire Conclave-especiallyJin’Sai. ”
Tristan looked around the table. “Does anyone know what this is about?” he asked. They all shook their heads.
Tristan looked back at Ox. “They wish to see usall, you say?”
The warrior nodded. “Me believe that you should go. There be ten of them.”
Tristan nodded. “Very well,” he announced, and led the way out.
It took some time for the Conclave members to navigate the serpentine hallways that led to the Chamber of Supplication. On the way they passed dozens of servants-cooks, housekeepers, musicians-all hurrying to finish the preparations for that night’s masquerade ball.
Tristan sighed. We should be attacking the Citadel, he fretted. Instead, we will be foolishly feasting and dancing until dawn. Quickening his pace, he rounded the final corner to stop before the pair of massive doors that barred the way into the Chamber of Supplication. Each door was adorned with a golden roaring lion superimposed by a golden Eutracian broadsword: Together, they comprised the House of Galland’s heraldry. At Tristan’s signal, the two Minion guards on duty swung the doors open. He quickly led his group into the room.
The recently renovated chamber sparkled with cleanliness. The morning breeze flowed through opened stained-glass windows, gently moving the patterned draperies. The smell of fresh-cut flowers permeated the air. Pillars of sunlight streamed in, highlighting the violet walls and ceiling, and the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Hundreds of upholstered chairs sat in neat rows on the floor before the dais. This was the hall where the late king and the onetime Directorate of Wizards had heard specific requests from the populace. Such meetings had always occurred on the first of each month. Supplicants by the hundreds had always arrived, each seemingly bearing a request more urgent than the last. If the need had been found to be in the nation’s best interests, it was often granted. The wizards had yet to suggest that Tristan reinstate this old custom, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before they did.
Tristan made his way to the dais, where a row of high-backed chairs waited. From that vantage point, he looked down at the people who had come to see him. Although not one seemed injured, they all looked to be in a bad way, and all of them-five men, four women, and one young boy-were so intent upon a table that had been laid with food and drink that they hadn’t even noticed the arrival of the Conclave members. Watching them eat, Tristan realized that Ox had done the right thing by bringing them here.
Tristan decided he wanted Shailiha at his right side and Wigg at his left. As he directed them to their seats, the beleaguered citizens below finally realized that the Conclave had entered the room. Plates and goblets were set back on the table with a clatter.
A middle-aged woman with dark hair clambered up the carpeted steps to stand directly before the prince. A blond-haired boy of about seven Seasons of New Life followed her. They looked filthy and exhausted.
The woman started crying. To Tristan’s surprise, she threw herself at his feet, wrapping her arms around his knee boots. Bending down, he gently lifted her chin so she could look up at him.
“You’re safe here,” he said quietly. “What troubles you so?”
