Marton was the first to speak. “What proof, madam, do you have of this?”
The woman didn’t seem surprised by the question, nor as irritated as Zelen would’ve been—though, granted, she didn’t have ten years of dealing with Marton to get her back up in advance. She faced the assembled council with her shoulders straight and her chin high: serenity, thought Zelen, but no trace of arrogance.
He also thought that bad news had never come in such a lovely form.
Madam Alanive was as tall as most of the council, as tall as Zelen himself or taller, with broad shoulders, round hips, and hard muscle showing beneath the sleeves of her tightly laced gown of blue wool. Her eyes were a slightly darker blue than the gown’s summer-sky color, her hair rich gold and pulled back into a simple knot, her features square and strong boned.
Along the hem of her gown and the cuffs of the sleeves ran gold embroidery in patterns of knotwork diamonds, and opals shone from the ends of a bronze torc at her neck. The woman wore no rings, and the torc was too broad, and too open at the front, to be used against her. Her skirt was neither very full nor very long, and the boots she wore under it were polished to a sheen, but still boots.
That might have been normal dress in Criwath, but Zelen suspected it was more significant, and he wasn’t surprised by the woman’s reply.
“I was present at Oakford when he attacked, my lord,” she said. Her voice was low-pitched and precise, every syllable clear. “I witnessed his magic at work. The man himself, if he is a man, was recognized by the soulsword of a Sentinel there, among other signs.”
The soulsword made sense. The Sentinels, odd creatures that they were, each carried a dead person’s spirit in their sword, usually one with some expertise in battle or magic.
“Sentinels,” Starovna said, more to their fellow councillors than to Branwyn, “generally know their business where such things are concerned.”
“After a hundred years,” said vulpine Yansyak, “even a spirit could be in error.”
“And the Sentinels have their own…agendas, you know. I know little about them or their training,” Marton said, proud of his ignorance, “but they’re not precisely human by the time they take the field, and even assuming good intent”—which his tone implied would be foolish to do—“gods know what sort of faults in perception or judgment that leaves them open to.”
Branwyn Alanive listened quietly, without a dramatic change of expression, but Zelen saw her jaw tighten. He felt for her: he wanted to throw inkstands at half the council on a regular basis, and he wasn’t generally pleading for help in a war.
“It seems to me,” he said, leaning back in his chair and drawling in a manner that had always infuriated his father and older brother and did much the same to Marton now, “it doesn’t matter much whether the Bloody-Handed himself has made an appearance or not. The lady’s speaking of a damned large army on the Criwath border, with at least one magician who’s Thyran’s equal in power. Unless we claim Olwin and the rest are imagining that, it sounds as though the rumors are true, and we have a problem.”
The other five glanced at each other. Kolovat and Starovna were nodding, grave. Yansyak was chewing on her lower lip. If Thyran wasn’t leading the army, she was too polite to say in front of the visitor, maybe whoever it was would be content with Criwath. Maybe it wasn’t Heliodar’s fight. Marton was tapping his fingers on the table, considering a number of issues, none of them likely matters Zelen wanted to hear about.
Rognozi surveyed all of them and then lifted his thin hands.
“Enough,” he said. “Madam Alanive, you have stated the premise of your case and stated it well. We’ve asked those questions which come to mind, and you’ve answered. This matter deserves more consideration than that we can give in an afternoon’s audience. We will take it up again…” He considered, glanced at the faces of his subordinates, and then said, “Two weeks hence, at noon.”
This time, Branwyn’s dismay was far more evident. The others might not have noticed the tension in her shoulders or the widening of her eyes, but her quick inhalation nearly echoed in the room. “My lord,” she said, taking a step forward, “I don’t wish to question your judgment, but the matter is urgent. The border holds for now, but there’s no knowing when Thyran’s next attack might come or what he’s doing in the meantime.”
“All the more reason for caution,” said Starovna, with the same lack of passion they’d used to support Branwyn’s claim.
“As you say,” Rognozi agreed. He addressed Branwyn again, a perfect formal blank that Zelen knew from experience was utterly immovable. “Madam, your passion speaks well for your cause. But if the matter is an urgent one, so too is it weighty, and I will not see our blood spilled in haste. The schedule stands.”
Branwyn, without Zelen’s experience, nonetheless clearly had caught on to the futility of arguing. “As you say, my lord.”
Only then did Rognozi allow himself his dry version of sympathy. “Where are your lodgings?” he asked.
“The Leaping Porpoise, my lord, near the harbor.”
“I would house you as befits an ambassador,” said Rognozi, “and my wife would welcome the company.”
Knowing Lady Rognozi, Zelen was sure that was true, but Madam Alanive wasn’t. He recognized the struggle on her face as she battled between not wanting to impose and not wanting—or not daring—to decline an offer from the high lord. “My lord is too kind,” she finally said.
Rognozi gestured to one of the footmen. “You will tend to her belongings.” Not bothering to get an answer, he turned back to the room at large. “The hour comes for us to take our
