“And what new information has reached your casters?” Solange’s lips are pressed flat.
“For starters, that King Zander has been exiled, and his brother, Atticus, has claimed the throne for himself.”
“Their politics are not our concern,” Lorel dismisses. “The queen will not negotiate with either.”
“Yes, my Prime, but there are more concerning issues, about the poison that floats through the lands, infecting the mortals and killing the immortals when they feed.”
“The poison is not new. We’ve already heard about this. If you recall, it is how Queen Esma and King Eachann died.”
“Yes, but it is now believed that the source of that poison is Princess Romeria’s own blood.”
The room grows dead silent.
Lorel blinks several times. “Obviously a fable the Islorians are spinning to place blame on Ybaris for whatever new problems Malachi’s demons face.”
Barra takes a deep, calming breath. A master losing their temper and snapping at the Prime has grave consequences. At minimum, it’s a demotion. At worse, a sword through their throat. Master Horticulturist Maeve seated across from us can attest to that. This is only her second council session, having replaced the previous master after an untimely death for erupting at the Prime. “Perhaps, but I have received the same message from several sources—”
“It is impossible.”
“I wouldn’t say impossible,” Allegra speaks up. “There is a way.”
“Something of that magnitude would require a summons to the fates, a treasonous act that our elemental sisters are incapable of while collared and Queen Neilina herself forbade centuries ago.” Lorel’s voice rises with each word.
In the growing tension that fills the room, I feel the sudden, inexplicable urge to speak up and confirm that it is exactly what happened.
Allegra’s cutting glare of warning stalls my words.
Lorel leans in closer. “Are you suggesting that, Allegra? That Queen Neilina removed a collar and bade one of our sisters to summon a fate?”
Yes! I do not have to suggest it. I know for a fact she did. Ianca admitted to it.
But speaking the words out loud would mean admitting to all the secrets the scribes have kept over the years, and that would earn many of us a death sentence.
Allegra’s features are unreadable. “I would never suggest something so traitorous.”
“I should hope not.” Lorel taps the table with her fist, as if that topic is laid to rest. “Speaking of elementals, Her Highness expects two new ones to replace Caster Gesine and Caster Ianca now rather than later.”
“But our oldest are too young. They have not completed their training yet,” Allegra says. As supervisor of elemental studies, she would know.
“I’ve relayed your concerns to the queen, and she is adamant we send them right away.”
I duck before my sneer is caught. Of course the queen is adamant. Beatrix and Cressida are seventeen and fifteen, respectively. Young and fearful, and easier to persuade should the queen decide she need to tempt the fates again. That was Ianca’s folly and the queen’s triumph the last time.
Though prophecy always finds a way, I need remind myself, and if Malachi’s end goal is to have the nymphs’ full power grace these lands again, then I suspect he has been scheming for far longer than any of us suspect.
“The training our elementals have received will have to suffice. The rest, they can learn from their elder sisters in Argon. After all, there are nineteen of them,” Lorel declares. Another matter worthy of debate but already decided.
No one makes mention of the two elementals who ran, or why. No one voices questions about how they escaped in the first place. To do so would mean admitting that one—or more—of those nineteen elementals left in Argon’s jeweled castle likely aided in their escape.
“We are adjourned for today.”
Chair legs scrape against stone as council members abandon their seats in a rush, many wringing their hands over the news that Mordain has been conscripted into Queen Neilina’s war.
Allegra’s head is held high as she strolls toward the door. “You were late today, Master Scribe.” Reprimand hangs in her voice. “Walk with me so I may hear your inadequate excuses.”
I scuttle out the door next to her, struggling to keep her fast pace while remembering that I once whipped her bare behind for eating her classmate’s lunch. Along the parapet we march, down the stairs, and into the courtyard. The bronzed statue of Caster Yason draws a shadow over a group of stone casters as they take their lesson on the building’s spelled doors.