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“Hello, Darius, Fatima.” I nod, as if my only crime against the guild today is arriving late to a meeting.
Darius’s crystal blue eyes flare with surprise. Of course they would assume that the old crow who trained them three decades ago would not recognize them behind those intimidating masks.
I lift my chin. “I hope you are both still practicing your flame progression.” A trivial beginner skill, considering what they’ve learned since they were recruited to the Shadow squad.
Delight flashes in Fatima’s eyes, and I imagine that wide-toothed grin from her childhood hiding behind the metal. “Of course, Master Scribe.”
“Very well, then.” I nod curtly toward the door, bolstering my nerve.
She yanks the handle. It opens with a noisy creak that earns a few glances as I duck into my seat.
“… Her Highness is beside herself with worry. She has not heard from either of her children in a full moon’s cycle, but the latest messages arriving from Cirilea are ominous. They speak of Prince Tyree’s capture and a bounty placed on Princess Romeria’s head,” Lorel says from her seat at the council table, ignoring my tardy entrance. The Prime is dressed in her formal crimson and silver attire, her hair pulled into a chignon—an indication that she has just returned from visiting Argon and is relaying words directly from the queen’s mouth. “Furthermore, she has vowed revenge against Islor for the assassination of King Barris.”
“And did she show you the body of this supposed Islorian assassin responsible for the king’s death?” Solange asks, her husky voice almost a purr, the unspoken accusation hanging out like linen on a clothesline for all to see.
Lorel’s lips purse, the lines of age crinkling the skin around them. She came up in Mordain two decades after me, but her time as Prime has aged her prematurely. “She did not reveal it, and it is not my place to make such a request.”
“Surely, it would be seen as a reasonable one,” Allegra pipes up from her seat opposite Solange. She also wears her formal crimson and silver dress, for no reason other than to stand out in the assembly. The two casters claim equal rank as Seconds, beneath the Prime. As the three governing guild members, they decide what is deemed important. The rest of us—the masters of each faction—are spectators, to provide answers and cajole into picking sides in the rare case when a vote is demanded. In the end, it is always Lorel’s choice that prevails.
Solange’s willowy frame is stiff within her seat, her lengthy chestnut hair bound with braids and coiled into a bun, making her features more severe. At thirty-eight years of age, she is the youngest Second in the guild’s history. “I suppose accountability is a luxury we can no longer afford.”
“And how would that be perceived by Her Highness, besides a sign of Mordain’s mistrust?” Lorel’s eyebrows arch in challenge.
The Second doesn’t balk. “Fates forbid we appear anything but cowed by the Ybarisan queen.” Solange is the only one who dares so brazenly challenge the Prime’s decision making.
Few around this table are foolish enough to believe Lorel’s decisions are driven by anything but her need to curry favor with Queen Neilina—and retain her anointed position. Even fewer are foolish enough to believe that our southern neighbors had anything to do with the king’s demise. It was widely known that Neilina was opposed to any sort of arrangement with Islor and resented her husband for entertaining it.
“What of her response?” Allegra steers the conversation away from coming to blows. A wise move. While the youthful Second might be a natural conspirator, she walks the line of diplomacy so effortlessly, few see any hints of betrayal.
To that, Lorel’s sagging features turn grim. “Her efforts to drum up support have been fruitful. Both mortal and elven armies march in masses not seen since King Ailill and Caster Farren tore the veil into the Nulling. She intends to rescue her children from Malachi’s demons.”
“And what is expected of Mordain?” Allegra asks, but we all know the answer. It’s what we’ve been fearing for months.
“The elementals are organizing to leave for the front line.” The Prime squares her shoulders as if preparing for battle herself. “I have committed the Shadows, our strongest healers, and our architects to join them.”
Murmurs erupt around the table. Beside me, Master Healer Brigitta exhales, the only sign that sending her best and brightest to war concerns her.
“Mordain has not fought in a battle for a hundred years,” Solange begins with forced calm.
“Is that not the very thing you train your Shadows for?” Lorel throws back.
Solange’s teeth grit. The Shadows have been hers—to recruit, to train—for nearly a decade, since the last Shadow Master passed. She’s never had to send them to their deaths. “This is not Mordain’s war.”
“But we are allies, and that is what allies do—support each other.”
