“I am Princess Syla Moonmark, and I am the one who sent a letter to you.” She raised her chin and did her best to look self-confident and regal, though that had always come much more easily to her mother and sisters. She preferred a quiet room in the temple, healing people and avoiding public attention. Surprisingly, as she willed her back straight and her fortitude to show itself, a tingle of power came from the quarter-moon birthmark on the back of her hand and ran through her nerves to her entire body. “I am certain I did not in my letters offer up any of ourislands, but I invited you to come and state what you seek to obtain from your attacks in case there is a possibility thatwe might be willing to barter and reach an agreementwithoutfurther deaths. On either side.”
“There have been no deaths onourside,” one of the riders muttered with a scoff.
Jhiton looked at him, and the man snapped his mouth shut.
Vorik clasped his hands behind his back, watching Syla and his leaders while, she had no doubt, maintaining awareness of every potential enemy—and probably even chairs and vases—in the throne room.
“We’ve recovered from our initial surprise and are even now preparing a potent military offensive that you might find detrimental to your people.” Syla lifted a finger to scratch her jaw while showing off the moon-mark. Was it glowing faintly silver? Usually, it only did that when she was healing someone and needed to draw upon a great deal of her power.
The chief’s and chieftess’s eyebrows arched in skepticism.
“Verydetrimental,” General Dolok said, though Syla hadn’t spoken to him of military matters beyond securing the tunnels below the castle and had no idea if he had plans to do more than defend the islands.
“Will these potent offensive attacks involve your people leaving the protection of the shields the gods made for you?” Chief Tenilor asked.
“We’ve gathered much intelligence on where your people’s cave camps are and when in the year you live in each,” Mosworth said.
“Impressive,” Shi said, “considering that your people never leave your islands except to scurry quickly across the sea between them, with your tails between your legs, fearing a dragon will flick a smoking nostril in your direction.”
Syla lowered her hand. They’d probably noticed the glow but been underwhelmed by it and her power. They would know she was merely a healer, and they didn’t seem to respect her peoplein the least. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to earn that respect by standing there tossing insults back and forth. Too bad none of them had arrived with venomous basilisk fangs stuck in their hands that she could have removed.
“We have all that we need here,” Syla said before Dolok, who had steam wafting from his ears, could speak again. “More than we need. I understand food is scarce on the mainlands and other islands, places not protected from predators by the shields and where the climates were not magically modulated by the gods before they left.”
“There is enough out there to sustain people strong enough to obtain it and protect it,” Shi said.
From what Vorik had said, that wasn’t as true as it had once been.
“Then why are you stealing our crops from Harvest Island as we speak?” Syla asked.
“We arestealingnothing,” Chief Tenilor said. “The dragons are hunting there because they enjoy the prey that lives there.”
“You’re taking fruit, grains, and vegetables from the cultivated fields, orchards, and bog lands that our people work hard on throughout the year to ensure we have plentiful harvests.”
“Workhard.” Tenilor scoffed. “You gardeners haven’t the faintest idea what it is like to work while you forever watch the sky for predators who’ll kill you in seconds if you let your guard down. When those predators strike, you must drop what you’re doing and grab your weapons to defend yourself against foes with all the power the mad god could infuse into them because it amused him to do so.”
“Our people work very hard, I assure you.” Syla groped for something else to bring up, something that might intrigue them and get past their desire to throw insults, but the chiefs’ choice to do so made her believe they hadn’t come because they wanted tonegotiate. Whatdidthey want? She looked at Vorik, but he was keeping his face neutral now and didn’t signal her in any way. As Fel had suggested, she would have to get him away from his people before he might reveal something. “As I said, we often have a food surplus. In the past, the Kingdom has decreed that trade with stormers is forbidden and illegal for our people, so it’s existed only when skirting the law. Since the world is changing, we must be willing to change. We would be open to trading some of our food to you in exchange for the goods you make, the pelts you procure, and the valuable medicinal plants you forage from around the world and that are useful to our people.”
“We’re not giving themfood,” Dolok snapped without bothering to addYour Highnessor any sign that he respected Syla. “Like godder zealots leaving out offerings on their knees in the hope that the deities will return one day.”
Syla gritted her teeth, more annoyed with him than with the stormers. Why couldn’t he make a show of being on her side, at least in front of them? Even if he didn’t support her, they needed to put up a united front.
“We have food that we could spare.” Syla smiled and reached out to pat Dolok on the shoulder, letting her hand linger and hoping that if she treated him like an ally—perhaps one she was disagreeing with at the moment—the stormers wouldn’t believe them divided. “Were we to receive something in return, such as the cessation of hostilities you mentioned, we might also be talked into sharing some of our recipes or sending a few pies and cobblers along with the more practical staples.”
When she glanced at Vorik, she caught a wistful expression on his face.
“What’s a cobbler?" one of the younger Storm Guard troops whispered.
“A dessert,” Vorik murmured over his shoulder to the man. “Sugary and sweet with juices that run down your chin.”
General Jhiton looked at him with a quelling glare, the same as he’d given the other rider. Vorik grinned back at him, licked his lips, and rolled his eyes skyward. The glare hardened. Vorik sighed slightly and returned a neutral expression to his face, though he slipped in a wink toward Syla.
Warmth spread through her, and for some reason, it pleased her that Vorik’s cold general couldn’t quash his personality.
“Cobbler?”Dolok whispered harshly. Incredulously? “This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a farce. Princess.” He reached up to push her wrist away. “You lack experience. Letmehandle this.”
Not wanting to be shoved away, Syla tightened her grip on his shoulder to keep it in place and looked him in the eye, willing her power to influence him. Even if her magic hadn’t bound him in any way, wasn’t it possible he felt some shred of loyalty or gratefulness to her for healing him? He’d had so many broken bones, it had looked like he’d fallen off a cliff.
“General, please be open to this discussion.” A zing of power flowed from her hand, down her arm, and into him. His eyes widened with surprise. It surprised her as well. She hadn’t hurt him—she was sure of that—but merely shared magical energy. And maybe a touch of a warning? “It is our current relationship with the stormers that has prompted them to attack. Something must change. We must be open to bartering.”
