“Peace, brother,” Ellias said. “Let me tell you sometime of Master Gerimian. Before the gift came to him he was a beggar in the streets of Loklallin. Can you imagine it? A beggar giving instruction to the greatest minds in the kingdom?”
“You’re unfamiliar with Lord Dura, Ellias,” Rymark said. “The man is a walking curse. You know, Lord Dura, that you’re something of a legend in Vaerwold. It’s going to take a long time to erase the memories of what happened there. Didn’t your masters tell you to be circumspect?”
Cailin’s voice came from the stone. “Let him speak.”
“Is that an order, regent?” Rymark asked.
“Enough, Rymark,” Ulrezia said. “We already know of Lord Dura’s proclivities. We’re at war. Any weapon that comes to hand is a good one.”
On my right, Bolt nodded. “Wise woman.”
“Oh, by all means, speak, Lord Dura,” Rymark snarled.
I took a deep breath. It didn’t help. “Cesla is working to disguise his deeper purpose. He’s not interested in fighting a war.” Perhaps something of my words or tone struck a chord with Rymark. He managed to remain quiet. “At the moment, victory or defeat in battle is immaterial to him. He has a more immediate goal.”
“And what would that be?” Boclar asked.
“He wants to open the prison in the Darkwater,” I said.
“Who told you there was a prison within the Darkwater?” Rymark asked.
I ignored the question. “The prison is made of aurium. If Cesla manages to free those trapped inside, we cannot win.”
“What is the source of your information, Lord Dura?” Rymark’s voice scaled upward.
I continued to try and bluff my way through, hoping that something I said would be alarming enough to shut King Rymark’s mouth. “Cesla is leading you by your expectations,” I said. “His goal isn’t to fight you—it’s to get enough skilled people into the forest to break the prison.”
“How do you know this?” Rymark must have been screaming. Even coming from the stone, his voice echoed in the confines of Boclar’s study.
“Ealdor told me,” I said.
“Who is he?” Ellias asked.
There was no help for it. “One of the last of the Fayit,” I said. “If you don’t believe me, inquire of Pellin, Fess, or Toria Deel. They’ve seen him as well, though not so extensively as I.”
“How convenient,” Rymark said, “that we are unable to speak with them to verify Lord Dura’s story. My fellow rulers, you know his circumstances. Personally, I think it’s possible that the forest has already taken him.”
“If he had, I wouldn’t be here talking to Boclar. I’d have killed him by now,” I shot back.
Bolt shook his head. “Someday we have to talk about how you choose your words.”
“Fayit and fairy tales,” Rymark dismissed. “Just what are we supposed to do?”
I couldn’t make myself say it. If the existence of the Fayit had garnered this reaction, what would they say when they heard my plan? Boclar, seeing me flounder, leaned forward. “Lord Dura has shared his counsel with me, at least in broad terms.” He paused long enough to give Herregina another wink and smile that made him seem years younger. “Lord Dura requests that all the kings and queens of the north meet so that we can summon the Fayit to aid us.”
I gaped at the king, who smiled at me.
“Your Majesty,” Rymark’s voice cut through the din. “I urge you to take Lord Dura prisoner, now, so that Pellin can arrange for the transfer of his gift. There can be little doubt that the vault in his mind is the source of this insanity.”
Boclar shrugged as though Rymark hadn’t just tried to put a death sentence on me. “He doesn’t look crazy. Perhaps we should hear him.”
“Has he touched you?” the king of Moorclaire asked.
“No, Ellias. My mind and my memories are still my own.”
“Toria Deel and Fess said nothing of this when they were here,” Rymark said.
“They’ve seen Ealdor”—I was desperate to earn their trust and cooperation—“but we have only recently uncovered evidence of Cesla’s intetions, of his efforts to prevent a gathering of those with the gift of kings. Since I was given no stone, I have had no means of informing them of this new information.”
“The Vigil has always kept its secrets,” Ulrezia interjected. “That’s hardly proof of Dura’s insanity.”
“Proof?” Rymark practically screamed. “You require proof?”
The light from the brazier dimmed, and I saw a spasm of pain wash across Boclar’s expression before he could quench it. “Perhaps we should adjourn,” he said quickly. His words tumbled over each other. “We will take up the matter of Dura’s request and its implications again tomorrow. Kings Rymark and Ellias, I thank you for your service. Queen Ulrezia and Regent Cailin, I will speak with you again at the appointed time.” Boclar jerked a nod to Erendella and she darted forward to take the stone from its stand and wrap it in thick folds of velvet.
Boclar’s gaze latched onto his alchemist. “What’s wrong with the fire, Helioma?”
She shook her head, panicked, before donning heavy leather gloves and grasping the polished bowl to shake it. The light steadied for a moment, then flickered again. “I don’t know. The powder should have lasted for another hour yet.”
Erendella snapped her fingers at the rest of us and pointed. “Leave, now!” The light dimmed further, and Boclar edged toward it until the heat from the brazier reddened his skin.
I stood rooted to my spot. Waiting.
“If you wish my help, or that of my heir,” Boclar snapped, “you will leave.” A spasm wrenched his expression into something I recognized.
“Guards!” Erendella screamed. “Guards!”
The doors flew open, and Boclar’s men poured into the room. “Get them out of here,” Erendella said. “Keep them in the north wing.”
Half the guards, each of them a head taller than me, ringed us with steel and ran us toward the door. At the exit, I looked back to see the rest of the guards huddled over the supine form of the king as Helioma tried to wrest the last bit of light from her
