Chapter 6
Gareth didn’t push his luck; once we finished our dance, instead of trying to charm me into another one, he gallantly fetched me a glass of water. I had just taken my first sip when a young freckle-faced page found us with a summons from Farrin and murmured, “If you’ll please follow me.”
He brought us to a chamber close enough to the ballroom that even with the door closed, I could still hear the orchestra’s cheery waltz.
There were several people in the room—council members, I supposed, few of whom I recognized—but I had eyes only for Farrin.
My Order training prompted me to scan her for signs of injury, illness, or undue stress.
Was she haggard? Had she been eating and sleeping enough?
She sat behind a table piled high with papers, her golden-brown hair in its usual braid. Her dress was simple but elegant, and its sumptuous dark blue shade warmed my heart, for I took it as a sign of her new devotion to the House of Bask—or at least to its son.
Ryder stood behind her, wearing a fine gray tunic with rolled-up sleeves and charcoal-black trousers. He was reading over her shoulder with a frown on his bearded face, his dark hair pulled back in a tidy knot.
I liked the sight of them together—Farrin sitting straight and tall in her chair, Ryder looming beside her like a great bird of prey, watchful and alert.
When we entered the room, they both looked to me at once, and Farrin’s brown eyes lit up in a way that made my stomach hurt.
She said my name and stood, and I went straight to her and pulled her into my arms.
For a moment we were children again, the carefree ones who’d spent our days romping about the grounds of Ivyhill.
I didn’t allow myself to think of home as often as I once had, but in Farrin’s arms I couldn’t help it.
She even smelled the same as the girl I remembered: the same soft hint of lavender, the same warm Farrin smell in her hair.
And I was gratified to realize how strong she felt in my arms, nothing like the harried wisp I feared I might see.
Ryder must have continued her training. When she started to pull away, my instinct was to draw her even closer, but somehow I managed to let her go.
“Oh, Mara, it’s so good to see you,” she said, holding me by the arms. “You look wonderful. I’m so relieved. The reports we’ve received…” Then she glanced behind me and smiled. “Oh, and you’ll never guess who’s here—”
Something slammed into me from behind, the air suddenly flush with a familiar floral scent. Arms wound tightly around me and squeezed.
“You might find returning to Rosewarren rather difficult,” said Talan, coming forward, his smooth voice rich with amusement, “what with that wild Gemma attached to your back.”
Grinning, I gently dislodged my baby sister’s vise grip and turned around to return her fierce embrace.
I couldn’t believe it: both my sisters, here in the same room.
It had been only a few weeks since we’d last seen each other—at Ivyhill, after the destruction of Mhorghast and the death of Ankaret—but it felt like years.
I wanted to grab them both and hold on forever.
I wanted to hide them away with me, somewhere no one could find us unless we desired it.
Fiercely I wished for this. I prayed for it.
“You’re lucky I didn’t spin around and deck you for that,” I said with a smile. “Haven’t I told you to never sneak up on a Rose?”
“You’re not a Rose,” Gemma said, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “You’re Mara.”
It wasn’t the first time she had said those words to me, but it was the first time they’d hurt me.
I bristled in her arms, but before I could decipher the feeling, she stepped back to inspect me, a beaming smile on her face.
I took her in greedily. There were the golden curls I’d known since I was two years old; there were her sparkling blue eyes.
Our mother’s eyes, but softer, sweeter. She wore a plain gray dress that I assumed she’d borrowed from someone.
Even in a drab, ill-fitting gown, she was resplendent.
“That color,” she declared, “is marvelous on you. You should wear purple more often.” She glanced at Gareth, then back at me. Questions danced in her eyes. Part of me was curious about what she saw on Gareth’s face, but the better part of me won.
“You’re too thin,” I observed, eager to stop talking about what colors suited me as soon as possible. I looked over at Talan. “You are too.”
Gemma reached out to Talan, who took her hand gently.
Even travel-weary and in borrowed plainclothes, he cut an extraordinary figure in the firelight: pale as ever, his dark eyes soft and tired, his hair falling in dark brown waves to his chin.
But I didn’t like the exhaustion I saw on his face or the new gauntness of his cheeks.
“Well,” Talan said somberly, “we have much to tell you.” He looked around at all of us and at the council members seated at several round tables scattered throughout the room. “I suppose now that we’re all here, we should begin.”
“The sooner we begin, the sooner we can adjourn and all of you can have some time alone,” said the man seated nearest Farrin’s table.
I watched him as we took our seats. He had deep brown skin and cropped white hair, and he looked tired.
I recognized the great sadness in his dark eyes.
He kept it tightly under control, but I was too well versed in loss to miss it.
He wore the black-and-gold robes and tasseled cap that marked him as a member of the Royal Conclave—the late queen’s most intimate council of advisors.
Thirsk, it must have been. Farrin wrote of him often.
He’d been one of her closest allies in the capital since Yvaine’s death. The queen had been dear to him.
“I’ll keep this brief,” he began. “Those of you who are interested in looking at the details of these reports may do so after we’ve finished here.
But the long and short of it is that we are running out of time, both to find and apprehend the being known as Kilraith and to protect our people against an invasion from the Old Country. Lady Goff?”
One of the other black-robed advisers looked down at her notes.
“As of yesterday, we have accepted ten thousand refugees into the capital and its immediate surroundings, and hundreds more arrive every day. Our food stores are adequate for now, but we’ll need to recruit new elementals—or those with earth-leaning affinities of any kind—if we are to increase the underground hothouse yield and survive the winter months. ”
A man seated to my left, decked out in the crisp blue dress uniform of the Upper Army—comprising both Anointed and low magicians—grunted softly. “I cannot spare any more soldiers, Thirsk, no matter what sort of magic they possess. You’ll have to find help somewhere else.”
“With all due respect, General Haldrin,” said Ryder, “if the people you and your soldiers are fighting to protect end up starving, then what is the point of protecting them?”
“Your tone doesn’t sound very respectful to me, Lord Ryder.”
The woman nearest him, wearing a dress uniform of her own, put her hand on the general’s arm. Her jacket was the rich chocolate brown that marked her as an officer of the Lower Army, which had only humans in its ranks.
“His point is valid, Haldrin,” she said.
“But Lord Ryder, as I’m sure you’ve heard, the state of the Mist is deteriorating rapidly.
Every week another village falls. Every day new storms, earthquakes, and floods ravage the land.
The Mist has flooded the Mistlands and will come for the heartlands next.
The coastlines are shattered, and most of the main roads are ruined or clogged with refugees fleeing south. ”
General Haldrin grunted in agreement. “And General Pallien hasn’t even mentioned the invaders.
The cascading effects of the falling Mist means that the very fabric between the worlds is thinning.
More and more Oldens are worming their way through.
Every day the old magic keeping them where they belong grows weaker.
We are fighting a war on many fronts, the likes of which we’ve never fought before. ”
I stiffened. Of course I knew all of this already, but to hear it said so bluntly put me instantly on the defensive.
The general’s words landed like an accusation: The Order isn’t working hard enough.
If it was, things wouldn’t be as dreadful as they are.
The world would be safer, the monsters fewer.
The woman—General Pallien—glanced at me, as if she sensed what I was thinking, and then looked at Farrin. “When we tell you we cannot spare anyone, we do not exaggerate. Perhaps if we send word to Vauzanne—”
Farrin shook her head. “They can’t spare resources any more than we can, nor can Aidurra. The Knotwood and the Crescent of Storms are also in disarray, though not as drastically as the Middlemist.”
“All the more reason for them to send us additional supplies,” said General Haldrin.
“They couldn’t even if they wanted to,” Ryder pointed out. “Both the Gloaming Sea and the Sea of the Dawn are death traps now, riddled with storms and Olden hostiles, both of which surface unpredictably.”
Talan nodded in agreement. “The falling Mist, the growing Knotwood, the spreading storms in the Crescent—all of it combined is wreaking havoc on the entire world, not just Gallinor.”
General Pallien sighed. “Nobody can take advantage of supplies if they’re rotting at the bottom of the sea.”