Chapter 1 #2
Julan bowed and entered the suite to turn down the bed, as if he was certain Syla wouldn’t be able to resist sleeping there that night.
Tibby made the same privacy-requesting motion to Fel. He crossed his arms and didn’t move. Since he’d been with them on their journey and helped push and shove the two-hundred-pound Harvest Island sky shielder to the coast for transport, he was already deeply in the know.
“He’s fine,” Syla said. “Go ahead, please.”
Tibby sent Fel a peeved look. Her objection to him probably had more to do with the magical tractor he’d destroyed—one of her creations. Apparently, she hadn’t forgiven him for that.
Fel turned toward the wall and stuck a leg out to stretch one of his calves. He did have a lot of old injuries that vexed him, but the gesture seemed more about pointing his butt at Tibby than a genuine need for limbering his muscles at that particular moment.
Tibby lifted her chin and turned her back on him while facing Syla.
“I’ve copied and gone over all the scrolls I brought back.
Some were in the old Temple Script, so I had to spend hours and hours in the basement of the castle library—thank the moon god that wasn’t completely destroyed in the attack—to translate them.
I’d like to consult with your archaeology-studying cousin Teyla on the contents, but I’ve got the gist. I don’t believe it’s possible to repair a sky shielder, not unless you’re a god yourself and can will magical parts into existence, especially one that was intentionally sabotaged—no, completely obliterated—by those stormer animals.
” The glare Tibby directed at Syla suggested she had Vorik in mind again, though he hadn’t been the one responsible for the destruction.
“However, one of the scrolls, one of the most wondrous and detailed and beautifully written scrolls…” Tibby clasped her hand to her chest, adoration gleaming in her eyes.
“It lists all the materials necessary to rebuild—or even build from scratch—a divine core.”
“And that’s… a key part?”
“It’s what lies deep within the orb shell and powers a shielder. We may not be able to fix the broken shell itself, but that’s not crucial for its operation. It’s just protection. The divine core is what creates the translucent barrier that extends for dozens of miles to shield an island.”
“The shield.”
Tibby nodded. “The shield.”
“That’s good news, then. Assuming the materials are accessible.”
Tibby issued another grimace. Ah, this was going to be the sticking point.
“According to the scroll and what I’ve found in the texts—” Tibby lifted the heavy tome, its pages yellowed with age, “—there are three key magical components, and they can be found in the world, but they are either exceedingly rare or in dangerous places. Or both. A crystalline structure that’s used as the main power source grows once every ten years out of a magical substrate in one of the storm god’s abandoned laboratories. ”
Before Syla could ask for details, two men in military uniforms came around a corner in the wide hallway.
General Dolok of the Royal Fleet and Colonel Mosworth of the Royal Protectors strode toward them with determination, their gazes locked on Syla.
The officers had been in and out of the castle for as long as she could remember, but they’d reported to Mother and Father and rarely interacted with her.
Syla braced herself and glanced at Fel. He’d been the one to suggest she use her healing magic on General Dolok, not only because he’d received grave wounds during the invasion but because her magic had a tendency to, at least for a time, instill within the subject a desire to obey her wishes.
That didn’t always happen, with effects differing from patient to patient.
Some felt nothing but the normal amount of gratitude toward one who healed their pain.
Others… Well, she’d had more than one man—and two or three women—fall madly in love with her.
Fortunately, the effects faded within a few weeks to a couple of months at the most. But now…
she could use some loyalty from these military men.
Too bad the white-haired and mustached general with intense hawk-like eyes hadn’t been noticeably affected.
“Your Highness.” General Dolok saluted her curtly.
He hadn’t suggested he was interested in calling her Your Majesty.
“A stormer ship has sailed through the barrier and into the harbor. It carries stormer military officers and riders as well as two of their chiefs. They claim to be here under invitation for diplomatic negotiations.” There went another set of eyebrows climbing a forehead.
Was it strange that Syla was prompting that facial gesture among so many people today?
“I did send a letter to several stormer tribes with known locations.” Nerves assaulted Syla’s belly. She hadn’t expected much, if anything, to come of those letters and certainly not so soon.
Dolok and Mosworth exchanged dear-departed-gods-we’re-in-trouble looks.
“You didn’t think you should tell one of us?” Dolok flattened a hand to his chest to indicate she should have told him specifically.
Doubting it would build their confidence in her if she admitted, I didn’t think any of them would actually show up, Syla said, “I should have, yes. That was my mistake. I apologize.”
Dolok harrumphed.
The colonel lifted his blue uniform cap and scraped his fingers through his short gray hair. “Since you invited them, I assume you want us to let them off their ship?”
Dolok shook his head. “That’s a bad idea.”
“Just let the chiefs off—or whoever is here to negotiate. Though I suppose they’ll insist on guards too since they will be entering enemy territory.
” Syla hesitated. “Were you able to identify the riders?” Realizing she should be more interested in the tribal leaders, she added, “Or the chiefs and which tribes they’re from? ”
Vorik’s face formed in her mind. And his shirtless chest.
She hurried to push the imagery away. He wouldn’t have been sent on a mission like this.
For all she knew, he was in trouble. When last she’d seen him, his dragon, Agrevlari, had been attacking the black dragon of his superior officer.
That hadn’t been Vorik’s fault—the smitten Agrevlari had been protecting the wild female dragon, Wreylith—but General Jhiton had appeared to be a humorless sort who wouldn’t appreciate insubordination, whether from an officer or an officer’s dragon.
“Tenilor, chief of the Moonhunt Tribe,” Dolok said, “and Shi, chieftess of the Wingborn Tribe.”
“With a whole snarl of stormer troops and four riders in their fingerless gloves and black leathers. Their dragons are soaring around above the barrier.” Expression sour, Mosworth pointed toward the ceiling.
“Fortunately, thanks to the hard work and dangerous mission that Princess Syla, Sergeant Fel, and I engaged in,” Aunt Tibby said, “the barrier will keep those dragons out.”
The officers’ dour expressions didn’t change. If anything, they gave her dark why-is-this-civilian-here-and-intruding-upon-our-conversation looks.
Dolok glanced at the moon-mark on the back of Tibby’s hand and didn’t voice such a thought, saying only, “General Jhiton and Captain Vorik are with them.”
The glare that the officers pinned on Syla kept her from smiling, but her heartbeat sped up with exhilaration at the thought of seeing Vorik again. Even if it shouldn’t. He was, she reminded herself firmly, the enemy.
“Why are they here?” Fel snarled.
Mosworth nodded at him, approving of what was the appropriate response to the announcement of those names.
Dolok shrugged. “They’re both from the Wingborn Tribe.
It’s likely Shi wanted them as protection.
” His eyes narrowed. “But this could all be a ruse, a chance for them to enact an odious plan.” He looked at Mosworth.
“Our princess may have given them the invitation they needed to come personally to try to finish what they started two weeks ago. Killing the rest of the Moonmarks and eliminating the shield around Castle Island.”
Syla shook her head bleakly. No, her healing of General Dolok had done nothing to endear her to the man.
“Show the tribal leaders to the throne room, please, General,” she said. “I’ll meet with them, find out if there’s a way to get them to leave our people be, and then I’ll send them on their way before they can enact any odious plans.”
His salute was even curter than the earlier one, and he and Mosworth pivoted on their heels and strode away, boots clacking on the marble floor.
Still bleak, Syla tried not to feel like she was completely inept and incapable of ruling a kingdom, but it was hard. What if she’d made a huge mistake?