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His eyes bulge. “She went to Cirilea?”
I don’t know whether to be furious or proud of her. “She is fearless.” Of course that snake was hiding something vital until I left. It’s as if she wants to put Romeria in danger.
“When it involves helping others, yes.”
Even ones who may not deserve it. My brother has ordered her death, and yet it sounds like she saved him.
Elisaf frowns. “She means to rob your coffers?”
I smile grimly. “That, I am not surprised about.”
Abarrane has had enough of playing bystander. “Who is robbing you? What is happening?” she demands, and beside her, Telor and Kienen look as impatient to know.
I sigh. Where do I even begin? “I should have executed Adley the day I became king.”
The rift lookouts spotted our lengthy processional not long after we emerged from Soldor. Telor ordered his men to wave their banner high. It seems to have worked, as only a small delegation rides out to meet us, rather than enough to match us in force.
Ulysede’s banner, we keep lowered for now.
No one has tried to put an arrow into the taillok yet. It soars above us, waiting for my return letter while giving Gesine a bird’s-eye view to relay back to Romeria.
“How long has it been since you were here last?” Telor asks.
“Too long,” I admit. I entered this camp as the crown prince, and now I come as an exile. Never before have I felt this discomfort approaching my Islorian subjects, but I harden my resolve. There can be only one outcome, whether they support me as king or not.
The sprawling elven barracks are to the right, the tributaries housed next to them in a fortified encampment fit for the criminals who are sent to serve as fodder. Mortal army quarters comparable to the elven are on the left, though the two sides merge in the middle for training exercises and daily life. I’ve always thought the divide pointless but, given the growing turmoil and the willingness to murder the elven for freedom, perhaps not.
Behind are the officer quarters—larger pavilions surrounded by guards. There is no pomp or luxury here, no silken tents. As is the way of life at the rift.
“Not much has changed.”
“That we can see. Who knows what schemes live beneath our noses.” Sadness marks Telor’s face.
He must be thinking of Braylon. I’ve avoided mention of it until now, giving him space to mourn quietly. “That was not a mortal versus elven issue, Ailis. That was a son who was tired of waiting for his turn at power. He saw an opportunity and he took it.” I add more quietly, “I know what that betrayal feels like.”
“He always was ambitious. Perhaps he was right in his desires, if not his methods.” He shakes his head. “I have toiled for days now how to tell Erwynn. Braylon and I did not see eye to eye on many things, but he was our only son. I fear she will not believe it.”
“Lyndel is not even a half-day’s ride from here. Do you wish to see her and share the news?”
“That is better left for another time. And besides, we have too much to focus on. If Braylon found soldiers willing to help murder their lord, what will we find in there?” He nods toward the mortal camp.
“The thought has crossed my mind too.” These soldiers chose to join the rift army the day they came of age, knowing they would spend their lives protecting Islor. It is the trade-off for never standing on a stage on Presenting Day. But how many joined not for honor but solely so they never serve as tributaries? How many have lost loved ones to cruel keepers?
And now our neighboring army has offered a weapon and a promise, and perhaps hope to those who have wished for a different way of life for so long.
“I do not understand how these mortals can be so eager to tear apart Islor like this.”
“One can love their realm but still see the weaknesses and beg for change. And they are not the only ones with a hand in Islor’s demise. I would argue their cause is far more noble than what the eastern lords have been scheming, for power.” Romeria’s letter with news about Adley and the others was surprising, but not unexpected.
“You have always looked kindly on the mortal plight.” He sighs. “It does feel like Islor has been brought to its knees to atone for its many sins, though.”
My mind drifts to the past. “There was once a bard who visited the castle, years ago. His name was Phynys. A strong voice, entertaining lyrics. By the time he finished his performance, my mother’s stomach would hurt from laughing so much.” I smile, remembering the sound of it. It wasn’t melodic or demure. The queen laughed as a drunken sailor might—loud and boisterous and with her whole body. “But he was also skilled at card tricks. One day, he dragged out a table and began building a house made from a deck of cards. It was tall and wobbly, and it teetered this way and that, and Phynys kept going and going. We knew that eventually it would fall, that a house of cards can only stand for so long. And it did. One piece tipped and the entire thing collapsed, scattering to the floor.
