“A few things, actually,” said Dax who, until a few heartbeats ago, seemed on the verge of sleep.
Roa watched him motion to Lirabel, who stood with Jas along the wall. She wore a mulberry kaftan with creamyjasmine flowers embroidered up the sleeves, and her black curls were pinned up with ivory combs. Her hands gripped a scroll with acacia handles, each carved with the symbol of the House of Song.
It was the treaty they’d negotiated in the scrublands.
Roa’s grip loosened as she stared at Dax. Deep down, she hadn’t believed he would really do it—hadn’t believed he would uphold his promises.
Lirabel handed the scroll to the young councillor, who gave the king’s emissary a quick, dismissive look before taking it.
“What is this?” she asked, unrolling it.
“My treaty with the five Great Houses of the scrublands.”
The councillor stopped unrolling. Roa watched her hands tighten, ever so slightly, around the handles.
“It states three things,” Dax went on, leaning back in his chair. That strange sudden alertness left his body, replaced by the lazy slouch. “First, the sanctions will be lifted as of the end of this Assembly.”
A sharp, startled murmur rippled through the crowd. On Dax’s other side, Safire’s back went sword straight and her eyes narrowed.
“Second,” Dax went on, ignoring the chatter, “as of thenextAssembly, my council will be equally representative of the kingdom to ensure it can adequately make decisions in favor of all—draksors, scrublanders, and skral alike.”
The startled murmurs turned to exclamations of outrage. A restructuring of the council meant more than half the councillors—currently all draksors—would lose their positions.
But such a move was necessary if the skral, who were still vulnerable in the wake of the revolt, were to find equal footing among their former masters in Firgaard.
Roa’s heart quickened. This was more than she had hoped for—
“And third,” Dax continued, not bothering to raise his voice above the din, “the law against regicide will be struck down.”
The crowd erupted. Safire rose to her feet, communicating wordlessly with every soldat in the room, who immediately formed a strong, steadfast line between the now-outraged spectators and the king’s council.
The law against regicide was the oldest law in Firgaard. For centuries, kings rose and fell, but the law against regicide was ancient and unbreakable.
It was the reason Dax’s sister, Asha, was on the run for her life.
“If you cannot control yourselves”—Safire’s voice cut through the noise like a sharply honed knife—“my soldats will escort you all out.”
Her eyes glittered dangerously and her fingers tapped the smooth, simple hilts of her throwing knives—Saf’s weapons of choice.
The crowd fell into silence.
Roa couldn’t help it. A flame of admiration flared in her heart.
And then, shattering the moment: someone laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. Like bells chiming. It echoed through the Assembly.
All the eyes in the domed room fell on the young councillor. Despite her laugh, the girl’s eyes were cold and hard as Roa’s marble chair.
“Surely you’re joking, my king.”
Dax sighed. “I’m afraid it’s no joke, Councillor Silva.”
Silva. Where had Roa heard that name?
She smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. “We’ve discussed this before, my king. Your revolt and subsequent succession has already caused this city and its people considerable strife. What you propose—the abolition of the sanctions—will weaken Firgaard’s already damaged economy. It’s something that needs to be done carefully and gradually. By experts.”
Resting his cheek against his fist, Dax listened as Councillor Silva went on.
“As for your second motion: since the council is voted on, not appointed, that treaty promise was not for you to make.Your peopledetermine the men and women who sit on your council.”
