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“There is a new emperor in Aleteria.”
The room fell silent.
“Even the Aleterians are not yet aware. I know the man who brings the news. He will be here within the day. When the prefect of Aleteria discovers it, he has orders to bend this island to his will, or slaughter you all. There will be no more Eaborik, no more Faen. Only Norbucum. And Aleteria.”
Revni wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Questions? Outrage? The flipping of chairs and cries of freedom? Everything went so silent it was as if she’d dropped a stone over a hole. A fly buzzed against the glass.
“Do you think they will negotiate?”
The question wasn’t meant for her. Men hunkered in whispers, frantically scheming.
“They could pay us off. Enough lands, enough money…”
“No one wants a war.”
“The prefect doesn’t want this. He likes it here.”
“Who will keep the Sculpae out, when the Isfolj are gone? They need us.”
Revni listened and watched, flabbergasted. “We need to fight.”
She was ignored.
“We can meet the Aleterians at the port,” she insisted. “We can cut Aleteria’s northern arm off. We can take Eaborik back.”
Toer wrinkled his brow in her direction. “No one wants Eaborik, girl. It’s a dog with too many heads. Where’s the money in driving Aleteria out?”
They went back to their panicked conversations. Revni felt like she’d been kicked in the womb, like someone had come along and sliced it out of her and left her bleeding on the floor.
“The money?”
“Land, Hyldyttr. What’s the point otherwise?”
Clearly they didn’t understand. “You must bend the knee completely,” she pushed. “No more weapons, or Councils, or Halls. Sacrifice your sons to their army and your daughters to their soldiers. Worship Aleterian gods.”
“Who cares what gods we worship if it means we get to live?” someone said, and those bees in her ears turned to a swarm of wasps.
“Erik, we can use this. No reason the Isfolj should be among the conquered.”
Erik—the second jurl—waved everyone to silence. “Go on.”
“What if we were their army? Or a branch of it.” A few men grunted nods. “Joint rule, but of a different kind. Let the prefect keep his meetings. But in exchange the jurls keep their sons, and we—the jurls and sotis—we help them when they need it. Surprise attacks. Put fear into these local tribes. And then we hold Norbucum while they send their army to do the rest.”
“This is a good idea. We could even patrol the coast. A little piracy to line our pockets?”
Laughter. Too-wide smiles. Shiny teeth. A wave of ice threatened at Revni’s corners. Capitulation…selfishness…No, worse, far worse. A soti swore an oath to the gods, not to jurls, not to men, not to money. This was sacrilege. Revni gripped the sword tighter, pushed the wave back.
“What about the people?”
A few heads turned her way, but most were too engrossed.
She raised her voice. “What about the Isfolj that are not soti? The crews and servants and merchants?” A hand waved her off. “What about the Faenish that live here? What will happen to them?”
“You said it yourself,” Svei said, annoyed. “They’ll submit, or die. This isn’t our problem.”
Revni's ears were ringing, like she'd been punched in the head. Like when Eavus wrecked her jaw. She had to blink it out.
“Not your problem?”
