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Skiro straightens, then shrugs off his blue robes as though he’s become overheated. “Explain.”
“If Ravis ruled, the rest of you would be dead or in captivity. He wouldn’t take any chances that any of you had ideas to usurp him. And before long, Kymora would likely have murdered him anyway. And then we wouldn’t be in a position to stop her.”
Marossa finally looks up from her nails, “I believe what Skiro is trying to say is that we’re not in a position to stop her now. He’s already convinced we’ll lose.”
“We’re not entirely hopeless this time,” Petrik says. “We will get to choose the battleground. We have more men this time if we are besieged again. Z—the smithy has magicked every soldier’s armor so it is impenetrable. The men are training. They will be in good physical condition, able to withstand a long battle, and Kymora’s men will be tired from their march.”
“Don’t forget my horses,” Marossa says.
“And we have a cavalry,” Petrik adds, “also protected by magicked armor.”
“It’s not enough,” Skiro whispers. “Five hundred cannot take two thousand. Just because our odds are better than last time doesn’t mean we will succeed. We need more. Don’t get me wrong, the magicked armor will certainly help.” Skiro tries to be stealthy when he glances at me, but I don’t know that he succeeds. “But armor doesn’t cover the entirety of the body. There are gaps. How long will it be before Kymora’s men utilize that?”
“Then perhaps you should have this smithy magic more than just armor for us!” Marossa says, finally looking as though she cares about the conversation. “We need weapons that can even out the numbers. Make each one of our soldiers able to counter ten of theirs. That would give us a real edge.”
Skiro frowns. “I already told you that wasn’t possible.”
“Isn’t it? It sounds more like you need a better handle on your subjects.”
“Technically, I’m your subject.” Though my voice fills the room, it doesn’t seem to come from me.
“Excuse me?” Marossa asks.
This is what happens when I think without speaking. I putmyself on display. Forget the anxiety that creeps up as soon as the attention is on me.
I feel sick, but I say, “I was born in your territory. I’ve spent my life living in Lirasu. I’m your subject.”
“Fine,” the princess says, as though she doesn’t care one bit that my identity has finally been revealed to her. “ThenIorder you to make weapons for the war.”
Skiro scoffs. “And what are you going to do if she refuses?”
“She can’t refuse. It’s an order.”
“Orders are refused all the time!”
“Fine, then I’ll punish her. Algarow, do we have a stocks?”
“No, Princess.”
“No stocks? How about a work camp?”
“Afraid not.”
“Adungeon?” she asks, as though on her last nerve.
“I think we could lock one of the rooms in the palace from the outside.”
Marossa nods, pleased. “There. We’ll—”
“Stop it,” Skiro snaps at her. “We need to reward our people for their work. Not punish them.”
“Stop being so bossy. I’m your elder, Skiro.”
“By eleven months.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
“You’re embarrassing yourselves,” Petrik hisses to the both of them.
