The horses' hooves crunched through the hardened snow as Tris, Gabriel, and Mikhail made their way across the rolling foothills of Principality by moonlight. Even with his heavy cloak, the bitter wind chilled Tris; neither of his companions was affected by the cold. His horse snickered and fidgeted in protest against the wind and the nearness of the vayash moru. Ice glinted on the road, forcing them to ride slowly. Tris pulled his cloak closer around himself.
They left the plank road just beyond the city gates. For a time, the road was wide, hard-packed dirt well worn by wagons and travelers to the palace. Gabriel turned from the main road, and the forest seemed to close in around them, blotting out the moonlight and the distant silhouette of the high, sharp mountains. This was an ancient forest. Tiis could sense the stirrings of primal magic, old and powerful, in its shadowed depths. Nearby, a wolf howled. Another answered. Tris shivered, though Gabriel and Mikhail were more than a match for any wolf. More likely, he thought, the wolves were known to the vayash moru, and announced their coming.
"Who formed the Blood Council? How did it come to exist?" Tris asked Gabriel as they rode, their shadows sharp on the snow in the moonlight. "I meant to ask you earlier, but we got a bit busy."
"Four hundred years ago, there was no Council, and no truce." Tris noticed that his guide's breath did not steam in the bitter cold. "I was newly brought across. I ran from the hunters, the mortals who broke into our day resting places, seeking to destroy us. I saw my kind burned and dismembered. Many mortals used that fear for their own purposes, and not all of the victims were vayasb moru.
"In time, my kind retaliated, and many mortals were killed. Others of my kind sought to stop the killings by taking control, ruling behind the throne as Arontala seeks to do. It couldn't go on. So the King of Eastmark brought together the rulers of the Winter Kingdoms and made an offer to the vayasb moru.
"In exchange for an end to the mortals' attacks, we agreed to stop trying to control mortal kingdoms. He gave us Dark Haven, in the disputed lands between Margolan, Eastmark, and Dhasson, as our sanctuary. Principality was not yet a kingdom in its own right. In return, we formed the Blood Council, a ruling body among ourselves, to punish those of our kind who broke the truce, and to enforce the truce with honor.
"Then the unexpected happened. The Dark Lady appeared to the King of Eastmark in a dream. She told him that Dark Haven must have a mortal lord, one She would choose herself, lest we grow to think ourselves as gods. Many of the elders of my kind also dreamed that dream. The Dark Lady is our patroness. So the King of Eastmark named the first Lord of Dark Haven, and Dark Haven has had a mortal lord ever since."
Tris rode in silence for a moment, thinking through the implications of Gabriel's story. "You knew of Jonmarc even before I met you. And now he's the new Lord of Dark Haven. How do you know him?"
"On the eve of the Feast of the Departed, the Dark Lady appeared to me in a dream. She asked me to guide Her chosen. I am Her most humble servant."
"And Jonmarc is the Dark Lady's chosen?" Tris asked. "Does he know this?"
Gabriel chuckled. "My Mistress warned me that Jonmarc could be difficult. He will sleep better if some things are revealed when the time is right." He sobered. "But I fear that I may have failed in my duty. I didn't anticipate what happened this evening."
"Jonmarc is rather difficult to keep safe," Tris observed wryly. "What does the Council require of me?"
"We go to the Council tonight to seek their approval—or at least their neutrality—to strike against Arontala."
"Why do we need their approval? And why should they withhold it? Arontala is killing as many vayash moru as he is mortals."
"That's true. Yet there is a strict code of conduct among my kind, and infractions are severely punished. Vayash moru are forbidden to wage war against each other."
"Arontala's already declared war on the vayash moru of Margolan."
"True again. But there's a difference between having him found guilty by the Council and executed as a traitor to our kind, and permitting vayash moru to join with mortals to overthrow both Arontala and a mortal king. Such rules are necessary to keep my kind from meddling overmuch in the affairs of mortals. You can, no doubt, understand the need for that."
"So what does the Council's ruling mean? If they decline, will you change your mind about traveling with me to Margolan?"
Gabriel was silent for a moment. "I've committed myself to seeing you on Margolan's throne, my prince. And for that, I'll pay the necessary price. But we will be more successful if we can gain the Council's approval for vayash moru to strike with impunity against Jared's men. They destroy not only our kind, but make Margolan a place of misery for mortals as well."
"Very well. Now what of the Council themselves?"
"There are five on the Council," Gabriel said. "Rafe is even older in the dark gift than I. He comes from a noble family in Eastmark. In his mortal life, he managed his holdings well. Rafe may prove to be an ally. He is swayed only by reason, and he is given to logic.
"Riqua is also of great age in the dark gift, though younger in it than Rafe. She was the wife of a wealthy trader; even now, she drives a hard—but fair—bargain. She also may be an ally. Then there is Astasia." His tone became carefully neutral. "Astasia was the daughter of a wealthy landholder. She was brought across against her will by a poorly chosen lover. Astasia is wild, and she listens to her heart as often as she does to her head. She can be more astute than one might guess, and she can be treacherous. But there are times when she will choose wisely and stand by her choice. She must be handled carefully.
"Finally, there is Uri," said Gabriel. "In life he was a thief and a highwayman, brought across as the penalty for a deal gone wrong. He found the dark gift to be an asset to his pursuits, and his fortunes have been amassed by questionable means. He. is dangerous. He alone among the Council is skeptical of the truce. He questions why we, with greater speed and strength, should not rule over mortals, as he believes our gift intends. When the truce is broken, it will be most likely at the hands of one of Uri's brood."
Tris looked at Gabriel. "You said there were five on the Council. You've only named four." Gabriel turned toward Tris, his blue eyes unreadable. "I'm the fifth member of the Council. I seek to preserve the truce."
Tris digested that last piece of information slowly as they rode through the bitter night. How much wealth could one accumulate, over several lifetimes? And when, in the accumulating, would material goods cease to matter? Yet even as he asked the question, Tris could guess the answer. Wealth bought security, not just baubles. Great wealth could assure privacy, buy off authorities, bend problematic rules. Yes, the privileges of wealth might be very attractive to the vayash moru, even though they were beyond partaking of many of its indulgences.
He chanced a look at Gabriel. The flaxen-haired vayash moru was handsome, appearing to be in his third decade. Only his blue eyes disclosed his true age. Gabriel, who never made any reference to his own lands, position or wealth, who seemed to show up at the most opportune times, and who pledged his personal support to overthrowing Jared. Just when I get some answers, I find out I wasn't asking the right questions. He knew he would be thinking about the Blood Council long after this evening was over. Assuming that he lived through the night.
Gabriel and Mikhail turned their horses between the wrought-iron gates of an estate. Dark, bare trees loomed over the long carriage road that led to an elegant stone home. A sense of foreboding nagged at Tris, although the windows of the estate glowed brightly with candlelight. From the shadows, grooms appeared without a sound to take their horses. Tris's mount whinnied nervously. Tris shared the horse's uneasiness.
The three men dismounted and headed up the sweeping, grand stairway. Gabriel led the way. Mikhail followed Tris, who had the strong sense that the group had been watched from the time their horses became visible in the carriage drive. He stretched out his mage sense, searching for signs of danger, but felt only the odd emptiness that signaled the presence of vayash moru. That sense of emptiness was more encompassing than he had ever felt it—broken neither by the warm tingle of a living soul, nor the resonance of departed spirits. Tris assumed that meant that the grand chateau teemed with vayash moru, and that the few he might meet in the council chamber were not the only undead present.
It took all of Tris's willpower to keep his mortal fear at bay. Although they encountered no one as they walked down the long, dimly-lit hallway, something deep and primal within Tris urged him to flee.
"We have arrived." Gabriel swung open two wide, double doors. Inside, torches lit a formal dining room decorated in the most current style. Rich brocade curtains hung from the tall windows, completely covering the openings. A fireplace the height and length of a tall man sat empty and unlit along one wall. Along the walls, candles glittered in recesses. In the center of the room, a heavy mahogany table with rich, Noorish inlay was circled by velvet-upholstered chairs. The inlay was cunningly designed. For a mage, such complex patterns could serve as the focal point for a working, or a way to calm the mind in order to open oneself to power. It was said that some pieces could take a single master craftsman a lifetime to complete. The oldest and most convoluted of such pieces were prized by powerful mages for their help in producing trance and focusing magic.
"My fellows of the Blood Council," Gabriel said, making a low, formal bow. "I present to you Prince Martris Drayke, son of Bricen of Margolan, Summoner and mage-heir of Bava K'aa."
Tris stepped forward at the introduction and made a ceremonial bow. "Most honored members of the Blood Council, I bid you greetings."
Tris knew the vayasb moru, with their sharp senses, could hear and smell the blood that pounded in his chest. In the silences of their ride, Tris had searched for the right phrases for this meeting. So many mortal pleasantries would not do. He could hardly wish them continued good health and long life, he thought wryly, and he hoped fervently Gabriel had not lied about the vayasb moru's ability to read minds.
"We have been awaiting you, Prince Drayke." The speaker was an angular man with finely-chiseled features and precisely cropped sandy-colored hair. He had a short, perfectly manicured beard and dark eyes that glittered with intelligence. "I am Lord Rafe, speaker of the Council. We bid you enter." Rafe gestured to the young man who stood behind him to close the chamber doors, and Tris stifled a shudder at the sound of the latch.
Gabriel took a seat to the right of Rafe, and Mikhail went to stand behind him. Tris noted that the Council sat on the opposing side of the table. Tellingly, there were no empty seats. It was clear that he had been invited to be seen, interviewed, and possibly heard, but the offering of a seat at the table—both literally and figuratively—was being withheld, at least for now.
I've had mortals trying to kill me for half of the last year, Tris thought, drawing a deep breath and remembering all of his court protocol. As long as I leave alive, it's a win. He looked down the table from Rafe, trying to match the Council's members to Gabriel's description. A woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, with elaborate, upswept dark blonde hair sat to Gabriel's right. Riqua, Tris guessed, noting that the woman's gown was one that his mother, Queen Serae, would have found quite acceptable for court. The design of the fabric and the cut of the dress were of the most fashionable style. The rich brocade bodice was daringly low, with a narrow waist and a full skirt that would accentuate the vayash moru's preternatural gliding walk. Dark burgundy satin heightened Riqua's pallor. The effect was beautiful and unsettling.
Behind Riqua stood a younger woman with long blonde hair, dressed in a simple but elegant gown, as if she had stopped by on her way to a court party. Tris noticed that each of the Council members had a second with them, and wondered what service, beyond errands, these attaches provided.
To Rafe's left was a beautiful, dark-haired woman with chestnut-colored hair. She looked to be no older than her mid-twenties, though her eyes told of centuries of experience.
Astasia, Tris guessed. She met his eyes, simultaneously taking his measure. While her figure was provocative and her face was coquettish, her eyes were shrewd and calculating. She's used to getting what she wants, Tris thought, unable to completely ignore her plunging decolletage, and the full breasts it barely hid. A handsome young man with red hair stood behind Astasia. While he had a pleasant face and a fit form, he looked barely out of his teens. Consort? Tris wondered. Plaything? There was a coldness to the young man's eyes when he met Tris's gaze that made him wonder even further about what relationships vayash moru formed—or continued—after death.
Next to Astasia sat a man with hair as black as coal, and the dark eyes of a Nargi native. Unlike the others there was no sign of fine breeding in his features. He was good-looking in an unsavory way, and had an air about him of a man who spent too much time in card parlors. His wine-colored doublet accentuated his broad shoulders and stocky build, with an extravagantly cuffed white silk shirt that spilled from beneath its sleeves. Gold glittered in the candlelight, on his fingers, at his throat, and in the lobe of one ear. His dark eyes regarded Tris with unabashed contempt. Uri, Tris thought, daring to meet the vayash moru's gaze and not look away.
Behind Uri was a young man whose beauty might even have surpassed Carroway's, marred only by a cruel upturn of his full lips. Sinewy, clad in a form-fitting black velvet coat and brocade pants, with a full frilled white lace collar and foppish, costly lace cuffs, Uri's assistant reminded Tris of a poisonous lizard waiting to strike.
"To what do I attribute the honor of the Council's invitation?" Tris asked, deciding to cut through the pleasantries.
Rafe inclined his head slightly, as if he recognized and appreciated directness. "We have heard much of you, Prince Drayke, both from Lord Gabriel, and from... others. Already, your power as a Summoner is becoming legendary. They say you dispelled the revenants from the Ruune Videya."
"My companions and I had been captured by slavers. It was necessary to survive."
"Living is vastly overrated," Uri commented with affected boredom, eliciting a cold half-smile from the young man behind him and no response at all from the rest of the Council.
"We have also heard of your Court of Spirits," Rafe went on. "And while this Council would question your authority to settle matters between vayash moru, it is clear that your power is as formidable as it appears."
"I'm a Summoner, heir to the power of my grandmother, Bava K'aa."
"Several of the Council knew Bava K'aa," Gabriel said. "We remember her battle against the Obsidian King, and the binding of the orb, Soulcatcher, in the foundation of Dark Haven."
"That worked well, didn't it?" Uri remarked.
"We have convened at the request of Lord Gabriel," Rafe continued, ignoring Uri's jibes. "The Blood Council determines what is law among the vayash moru of the Winter Kingdoms. And it is we who punish transgressors, even noble ones," he said, with a glance toward Gabriel, whose expression gave no clue as to his thoughts.
"We are aware of the usurpation of the crown of Margolan by Jared the Tyrant," Rafe went on. "We know he and his mage, Arontala, have broken the truce, hunting down vayash moru."
"If you know those things," Tris said, "then you understand why Jared must be unseated and Arontala must be stopped."
"For four hundred years," Rafe replied, "we of the Blood Council have stood apart from mortal kingmaking. This was desired by the mortals, who feared we might reign over them, and by the oldest and wisest among our own kind, who knew the danger and the truth of that fear."
"If that is the case," Tris challenged, "then look no further than Arontala. Ten years ago, he tried— and failed—to gain power in Eastmark. Arontala pinned my father, King Bricen, with his magic while Jared stabbed him. It was on Jared's order that my family was murdered. Now, at Arontala's behest, Margolan troops terrorize both vayash moru and mortals alike, destroying any who dare to object."
"Yet you don't come here tonight asking us to discipline one of our own, do you, Prince Drayke?" It was Uri, whose mellifluous voice had a knife-edge just below the surface. "You come requesting aid for your revolution, an endeavor that will, in the end, be of greatest benefit to Margolan's mortal residents."
"There is precedent," Gabriel responded with irritation. "Two hundred years ago, when your own people of Nargi tried to drive our kind from cover and kill them all, this Council gave its permission for vayash moru to defend themselves and aid their mortal defenders."
"Nargi hardly remains a welcoming place to our kind," Uri rejoined.
"The mass burnings stopped in Nargi and have not resumed," Gabriel replied, leaning forward. "There will always be unfortunate incidents, driven by mortal fear and those who use that fear for their own greed. But what Jared of Margolan is doing goes beyond 'incidents.' I have traveled Margolan, and so has Mikhail. We've seen whole villages burned at the stake, people's heads severed from their bodies, left on a pile with a warning sign that said, 'Thus so to all blood stealers.'"
Out of the corner of his eye, Tris saw in Riqua's expression a shadow of remembered fear.
Tris felt his gorge rise at the description, nauseated at Jared's cruelty, shamed by the stain it brought on the memory of his father and the honor of his family name. Unbidden, the images of the dark sending—and the fate it threatened for Gabriel and Mikhail—rushed to mind and he forced the nightmare vision away.
"What do you seek, Prince Drayke?" Astasia purred, and Tris sensed the danger in her voice. "Do you wish to recruit vayash moru as killing machines for your army? Send us by night to make Jared's soldiers vanish in the darkness?" She paused, shifting slightly in her seat, a move Tris was sure was calculated to better display her figure. "What would become of our kind, after you take the throne—assuming that you can? Will you protect us, you—a boy-king and newly minted mage?"
She was being deliberately provocative, both in manner and in words. He struggled with his emotions to avoid giving her the victory she sought. "I'm the only surviving direct heir of King Bricen, other than Jared the traitor," Tris said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "I realize that I'm young— both in years and in mage training. But my power is strong. Even the Sisterhood couldn't dispel the wraiths of the Ruune Videya. But I did. As for my age—what is the alternative? Should I live in exile for a decade or two while those in Margolan—both living and undead—are slaughtered and oppressed by Jared and his mage?"
He looked at each Council member in turn. "At the Hawthorn Moon, Arontala will awaken the Obsidian King from his exile in Soulcatcher, and free him from his prison. The Sisterhood believes he's powerful enough to do this.
"When that happens, the Obsidian King will possess Arontala's body, infusing him with his power. Think of it. A dark Summoner of immense power, combined with the power of a Fire Clan mage in an immortal's body. Who'll stop him then? Who will dare to stand against him?"
Uri leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering. "Perhaps it's as it should be," he baited, watching Tris closely. "Perhaps the age of mortals is at an end. Perhaps the Obsidian King's rising is an omen, that the age of Those Who Walk the Night is come at last. After all, I've been told that the new Lord of Dark Haven may not even live to see his holdings. Perhaps that's an omen, too."
Tris felt his temper rise, and he thought he saw a glint of anger in Gabriel's eyes as well. Mikhail's posture made his anger clear, though he said nothing.
"You speak rubbish," denounced Riqua sharply, targeting Uri with her ire. "I remember before the truce. We all remember what it was to be hunted, to live off the blood of rats because we dared not venture out to find livestock or human criminals to feed our hunger. I don't want to go back to those days."
"No one wishes to survive such a purge again," replied Rafe carefully. "But we have yet to hear from Prince Drayke what he proposes." Rafe turned his attention to Tris. "Forgive my stating the obvious, but your cause—however noble—seems unlikely to succeed. What do you offer to offset the risk of our backing should you fail?"
"If I fail, I'll be in no position to offer anything, as I'll be food for the Obsidian King," Tris replied, a morbid smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I know my challenge to Jared's throne—and Arontala's power—is up against steep odds. But there's no one else to raise a challenge, no one else who can legitimately take the throne, no one else with a Summoner's power to challenge Arontala and the Obsidian King. I'm the only chance you've got." Tris hoped he appeared as coolly confident as Vahanian in this high stakes bluff.
"I don't ask for your help en masse; I ask only that the Council permit the vayash moru of Margolan—as individuals—to follow their hearts. Let them act against Jared and his followers without fear of the Council's judgment. Let them protect themselves and their kin."
"A mortal, asking us to loose the vengeance of our kind against other mortals?" Rafe asked, watching Tris closely. "Is that what you really want? Do you think you can stop that force once it's turned loose?"
"I don't know. But as it is the truce will shatter one day. The vayash moru will take their vengeance against all mortals, innocent and guilty, and the bloodshed won't end at Margolan's borders. Reprisal will follow reprisal. You'll see your precious truce dissolve, and all hope of peace with it. x\nd behind it all will be the Obsidian King, growing bloated on the blood, increasing his power in an immortal body with no one to challenge him—perhaps for generations."
"I've already made my choice," said Gabriel, rising from his seat. "I am resolved to see Martris Drayke on the throne of Margolan, or be destroyed in the attempt."
Mikhail stepped forward. "And I, likewise," he said, raising his head to meet the gaze of the Council. "I served King Hotten two centuries ago. Now, my kingdom and my people require my service once again. I stand with Lord Gabriel and Prince Drayke."
Rafe looked at the three men in silence for a moment. "You realize that you are in defiance of the Council's truce, for which the penalty is destruction?"
Gabriel returned his stare. "We're within Council chambers, within the borders of my lands, surrounded by my brood. Neither you nor the Council can act against us here. To do so would trigger reprisals, both from my family and from the King of Principality. Either way, the truce ends. Prince Drayke has spoken truly. The only way to preserve our freedom to move safely among mortals is to give our support to Martris Drayke, and trust the Dark Lady that She will give her blessing in our endeavor."
Rafe stood. "The Council will adjourn to deliberate. Lord Gabriel, you will join us," he said. Mikhail moved to stand beside Tris. The Council filed from the room, leaving their seconds behind. Tris was immeasurably glad for Mikhail's company.
"So it's really true what they say, that you can speak with the spirits?" asked the blonde woman who stood behind Riqua. "I'm Elana. She held out out a fine-boned, ice-cold hand in greeting.
"Yes, it's true," Tris said, taken aback at the jarring incongruity between the formality of the Council meeting and this casual small talk.
"I remember Bava K'aa," said Rafe's second. He had the look of a scholar or a priest, with eyes tired from too much reading in dim light. Tris guessed that even in life, the young man had been pale from time spent indoors. "My name is Tamaq. I fought against the Obsidian King in his first rising,"
"Then the Council permitted intervention before?" Tris asked.
Tamaq shook his head. "I was mortal at the time," he said sadly. "I would have died on the battlefield, had not Rafe found me and brought me across."
There's more that's not being said, Tris thought. The Council maintains its neutrality, but what, then, was Rafe doing harvesting the battlefield on the side opposed to the Obsidian King?
More to the point, Tris wondered, does any of this matter once you're no longer afraid of death? When you're able to outlive kings and petty mortal politics, wealthy enough to buy your safety, superior in abilities to outmaneuver all but the luckiest or most concerted efforts against you, why should you care?
The real question, Tris realized, was not whether he could sway the Council to support his quest for the throne. The true question was why they should care at all.
"I'm more interested in this new Lord of Dark Haven." The speaker was the beautiful young man who stood behind Uri. "Is it really the smuggler Vahanian—the one with the royal death warrant in Eastmark?"
"Leave it alone, Malesh." The warning came from Astasia's second.
Malesh regarded the challenge with a smirk. "Go back to bed, Cailan. Stay out of the discussion, and I won't feel obliged to damage anything your mistress plays with."
"I'll let Jonmarc make his own introductions," Tris said, feeling distaste for Malesh. "My business tonight is with the Council."
Elana smiled at him and licked her lips. A shudder ran down Tris's spine. Elana was quite beautiful, even by mortal standards. "I'm told you announced your betrothal tonight," she said in a coquettish voice that, together with her posture, gave Tris to understand she considered him fair game. "Congratulations, Prince Drayke." She slid a half step closer.
"You're the Lord of the Dead and Undead," she said teasingly. "And while a mortal bride may be necessary for heirs, do consider the alternatives once that obligation has been fulfilled." She gave a look that left nothing to his imagination.
Tris blushed, seeing in Elana's eyes a spark of triumph. Even dead, she was a damnably attractive woman, and while her offer had no appeal to him, it was impossible to completely ignore her sensuality. He made a courteous bow.
"I'm flattered, m'lady, but this betrothal is an affair of the heart. I'm spoken for."
Elana gave him a knowing smile. "In fifty years, or in one hundred, my offer will remain the same, and my gifts to match. Can your mortal lover say the same?"
"That's enough, Elana," Mikhail said firmly.
Tris met Elana's eyes. "I know how transient this mortal body is, and how brightly the spirit glows within. It's true that our bodies fade and die, but a Summoner can extend that union beyond death. On the spirit plain, there is no fading, and no dying. Even vayash moru are not eternal."
Something in his words touched a nerve, Tris thought with satisfaction, or perhaps, Elana was unused to being spurned. Pouting, she withdrew to the edge of the group, turning her conversation to Cailan instead.
Malesh took the opening. "It will be most interesting to have a lord once again in Dark Haven," he said, with a dangerously smooth tone. "Though it is said that the Dark Lady Herself chooses, we have had some... turnover... in the lords of late. I hope the hand of the Lady rests on Lord Vahanian." Malesh's voice only thinly veiled his malice. "It sounds like he'll be a breath of fresh air," he added, watching Tris closely.
He knows about the poisoning, Tris thought, forcing down his anger at Malesh's baiting. And if the knife hadn't been meant for me, I'd wonder if he or his master had a hand in it.
"I'll pass along your sentiments to Lord Vahanian," Tris replied carefully.
The doors opened and the Council filed back in. Mikhail and the others returned to their places. Tris felt as if he had just run a very dangerous gauntlet.
He looked at Gabriel, but he could read nothing in the vayash moru's face.
"The Council has reached its decision," Rafe said, when the others took their seats. Tris glanced at the Council members. Gabriel appeared as tense as Tris had ever seen him. Riqua looked angry. Uri was positively furious, with a barely controlled rage that roiled behind his dark eyes as he looked away from the others. Astasia seemed annoyed, her beautiful features clouded by a dark mood. Rafe betrayed little, but Tris thought the Council spokesman looked tired.
"After much discussion, it is the will of,, the Council that we rule in favor of Prince Drayke, permitting the participation by individual vayash moru in the matter of the Usurper on the basis of conscience," Rafe declared.
"One more example of why the truce is a flawed, idealistic mirage," muttered Uri.
Rafe ignored Uri's interruption. "Prince Drayke, do not regard this as an endorsement by the Blood Council. We agree that Foor Arontala must be removed, and that your efforts may present the best hope of doing so. But be clear on this point—it is to preserve our freedom that we act, not out of interest in any mortal kingdom."
Tris gave a shallow bow. "I'm grateful to the Council for your ruling. I give you my pledge that should I live to take the throne of Margolan, I will restore the truce and bring to justice those mortals who have broken it in malice."
"If you live to take the throne," Uri repeated quietly. The very stillness of his voice chilled Tris. "Right now, Prince Drayke, that is a very large 'if.'"