But some things haven’t changed. Waiting for us on the palace steps, having received word from the knights, undoubtedly, is Lord Cyrus, Ronan’s Grand Vizier. He strokes his long, silver mustache and smooths his white robes as he waits to greet his king.
And behind him, sitting a few feet back from the ledge in a wheelchair, is Quinn.
Quinn’s red hair has been cut even shorter, and her face is gaunt, with dark, empty hollows beneath her brown eyes and dents in her cheeks. She holds her head as high as she can as we approach, the muscles on her neck straining. She’s a tall woman, but in the wheelchair, she barely reaches my shoulders.
She looks at me briefly, her expression blank, then she turns away and addresses Ronan. “I see you found what you were looking for. And then some.” She gestures to where Seth is draped over Taran’s arms, her hands moving freely. At least shecan still use her hands. “Two Nithyrian traitors for the price of one.”
“Quinn,” says Ronan, a warning in his tone. “You will treat our guests with respect. Don’t make me ask you again.”
“Or what? You’ll paralyze my other legs? Oh, wait. I don’t have any.”
I feel an immense weight settle on my chest as I look at her in the chair. Quinn doesn’t strike me as the type of person who adapts well to change. I know this must be terrible for her now, even if she comes to accept it eventually.
And I know it’s my fault. She’s right to blame me for what happened in the throne room, for what Adria did. Not only should I have seen it coming, I could have stopped it if I’d acted sooner. If I’d had less misplaced faith in my sister.
Ronan returns to my side and wraps his arm around my shoulder. It’s as much a gesture of comfort for me as it is a message to Quinn about where his loyalties lie.
But I know he’s loyal to her too. I know it will take her a long time to forgive me,ifshe ever forgives me. But I hope she doesn’t force Ronan to choose between us in the meantime.
It would tear him apart.
I don’t say anything to Quinn, not here. I know she’ll only mock my apologies. Whatever needs to be said between us will have to wait.
There are more important matters to discuss.
“Your majesty, we’re gathering in the library to discuss our strategy over dinner. Should I make sure there’s enough for our guests?”
He’s asking Ronan if he intends to let us sit in on the war council, and judging by his tone, he’s skeptical of taking the risk and trusting us.
Ronan isn’t. Well, he isn’t reluctant to have me join at least. “Yes, of course. Taran, can you take Seth to my baths so he’ll stop his moaning? We’ll start the council without him.”
“Very good, sir,” says Cyrus.
Taran’s arms are straining from holding Seth for so long, but he doesn’t put him down. “Yourbaths, sir?”
“I can’t very well have the second-highest-ranking general of the Nithyrian army in the public baths. Take the servant’s route if you can. The fewer who know he’s here, the better.”
It’s a nice idea, but I imagine the word is already spreading like wildfire.
“Have fun,” I whisper to Taran, watching the flush hit his face as he walks away with my idiot brother.
“Now who’s encouraging him?” mutters Ronan.
The war council has moved from Ronan’s quarters to the library on the palace’s ground floor. The room puts our small library in Kalla and even the larger one we had in the castle in Pyka to shame. It’s much like the Great Library of Faros, or at least a single floor of it, though the walls here are square rather than rounded, so I imagine it took less effort to carve the wall-spanning shelves. The items on the shelves aren’t as neatly arranged as in the Great Library or even the shelves in Ronan’s chambers, the books here stuffed with loose pages seemingly at random, piles of scrolls lying in heaps on the floor or crammed into gaps.
Seth is going to lose his godsdamned mind if they bring him in here.
The center of the room is dominated by a large rectangular table carved from a light wood with more than a dozen leather seats gathered around it. Ronan’s map of Selara is sprawled across it, with small figures carved from stone representing my sister’s forces, Felix March’s Third Enezian Navy in the harbor, and the city’s meager defenses.
Faros looks terribly small on the map. Even at this grand scale, it’s no larger than the palm of my hand. I know the city has surprising strength, both in numbers and defenses, but looking at it there, surrounded on all sides by enemies, the harsh desert sands, and the sea, my heart aches for it.
After we left Pyka as a concession in the last war, I never thought I would feel like I was home again. Even Pyka hadn’t felt like home, not for a long time. Not since before the war, back when I was a child who knew nothing else.
I never thought I’d love a place again. I’d survived in Kalla, trying to carve out a new life there as we helped our people rebuild. I’d tried to find my place in my family as we prepared forthiswar, but Kalla always felt like a steppingstone, a temporary stop before our triumphant return to the place I grew up.
But there’s just something about Faros. And yes, a lot of it is because of Ronan, but it goes beyond that. There’s something about living here nestled in its walls, surrounded by its history. Something about the way people from all backgrounds and from all over the world have come together here to live together, to share their food and their culture in the market, to create art in its galleries and theatres, to fight for glory in the arena, to advance their learning in the Great Library, that calls to me.
Faros is the center of everything, and that’s where I want to be.
