“Shouldn’t Nyphron know about that?” Krugen asked.
“And there you have it—not as smart as he thinks,” Raithe concluded with a morbid, self-righteous tone. Persephone knew he was directing his frustration at Nyphron, but she felt it spilling on her. After all, she had been the one who had sanctioned this action. The callousness of his cold judgment stung because he’d been right, and she hadn’t listened.
“Do you think they planned for this?” Alward of the Nadak pleaded as if those gathered on that rock could grant wishes.
“The Galantians?” Tegan said with an incredulous expression. “They don’t plan for anything. Forethought ruins the adventure, I’m told.”
Alward frowned, his mouth still partially open, his shoulders slumping.
Persephone took another step forward. Once more, Raithe grabbed her arm.
The first time was bad enough; twice was uncalled for. Persephone was about to chide him, but then she looked down and saw she was less than a foot from the edge. Sucking in a short breath, she drew back.
“Can’t afford to lose both you and the Galantians in one afternoon,” Raithe said.
Lose them? The idea, so impossible, coalesced for the first time. What if they are killed or taken? What happens to them? What happens to us?
Persephone looked down at the hundreds of her people nearby and out beyond them at the thousands. She turned to reassure herself that Suri was still there. The girl had leveled a mountain, so she ought to be able to protect them from a few hundred Fhrey. That was why she was on the rock, why Persephone had insisted she come. But Persephone had no real clue how magic worked, what Suri was really able to do. And the mystic had embraced Arion’s distaste for killing. A good thing, Persephone often told herself, but just then she wasn’t so certain.
She noticed the black patch on the plain, the village that had once housed forty families, and she wondered if she’d made her first and last mistake as the Keenig of the Ten Clans.
* * *
—
Clutching the rolled-up flag in his right hand, Nyphron led his Galantians across the Grandford Bridge toward the bronze gates. Forty feet above the entrance, the crossed-spears symbol of onetime fane Alon Rhist frowned down. It would have been damn hard to erase, but the fact that Petragar hadn’t tried illustrated the difference between the current ruler of the Rhist and himself—one of the differences. Only Ferrol knew how long that particular list might be if anyone thought to sit and compare. Nyphron imagined that he and Petragar didn’t even chew food the same way. If the situation were reversed, Nyphron’s own symbol would have replaced the mark of Rhist. Nyphron didn’t have a symbol yet, but he would soon—a dragon or perhaps a lion—something fierce, something powerful, something worthy. All great leaders needed to leave their mark on the world, and he would have already chiseled his on that wall.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Sikar said, standing first and foremost among a brace of shields at the far end of the bridge. He wore full armor, as if he expected trouble. He also wore the red-plumed crest on his helm, an indication that the spear commander had risen in rank since the Galantians’ banishment.
“Couldn’t stay away.” Tekchin threw out his arms and puckered kisses at Sikar. “We missed you too much.”
Sikar frowned and shook his head. The captain of the Rhist wasn’t in a joking mood. “You’re an idiot, Tekchin.” His gaze moved to Grygor and paused briefly on the wooden box the giant carried, then it shifted to the flag in Nyphron’s hand. “Surrender or truce flag?”
Elysan, an older Fhrey who had been a close friend and adviser to Nyphron’s father, stood on Sikar’s right and answered first. “Truce. When have you known the Galantians to surrender?”
Sikar kept his eyes on Nyphron. “You know, it’s customary to wave that before approaching. Not that it would do any good. The fane has declared you exiles—no longer protected by Ferrol’s Law.” There was a terrible gravity in his tone and enough remorse in his eyes for Nyphron to make a mental note.
Tekchin chuckled as he folded his arms across his chest. Nyphron had given orders that no one was to touch weapons, and Tekchin was likely going through withdrawal. “So this is your big chance to rid yourself of those gambling debts you owe me, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t a joke!” Sikar shouted. “They’re going to—”
Overhead, horns blared and the gates opened.
“Quiet,” Tekchin said. “Your boss is coming. Don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything.”
Sikar didn’t look irritated; he looked sad. He slowly shook his head as he sighed.
“Relax, Sikar,” Nyphron told him. “I’m back now. I’ll make everything right again.”
“They’re going to execute you—you understand that, right?”