Ella saw the long-nosed Lord Osker sitting across the hall with the other Tingarans. Osker’s head turned when he heard her name, and as their eyes met across the room, Ella fixed her best scowl on him.
“I didn’t just meet Sentar Scythran,” Miro said in a voice filled with emotion. “He held me captive. He . . . tortured me.” Miro paused and then looked up, his gaze sweeping the hall from one side to the other. The resolve in his eyes was frightening. “This enemy thinks nothing of us. Nothing!” Miro almost spat. “He thinks himself a god and slaughters men, women, and children like cattle to feed his war machine. When we take an army to war, we must do everything we can to risk as few of our sons and daughters as possible. The self-styled Lord of the Night can throw away as many of his revenants as he likes. He doesn’t care how many we grind into the dust, just as he doesn’t care about his own followers, those who see that their own best chance of survival is to join with him.”
Ella felt Amber’s grip on her hand tighten and returned the clasp. Across the hall, some of the Tingarans had the decency to look down rather than meet Miro’s eyes.
“He cares about one thing, and that is to restore the place of the Evermen at the top of the chain. The last time this happened, the Evermen made us their slaves. Long ago, we, the nations of the Empire, banded together and pooled our resources to throw off the shackles and be free. This time, the Evermen won’t treat us as their slaves. The only humans walking Merralya will be the dead.”
Ella let out a breath. Miro’s depiction of the future was terrifying, and all the more so because she knew how likely it was. Sentar Scythran possessed incredible powers, and even with Evrin’s training, Killian was young and inexperienced. Sentar possessed a ruthless determination and would by now have turned his revenant army to building ships as well as seizing vessels from the lands he’d conquered. Ella believed Miro when he said Sentar would come for Altura first.
Miro finished by saying that if anyone required further explanation on the reflectors and their use, to please speak with an enchanter at the Alturan market house. He again vowed to come if an ally called. This time his unspoken request for the other houses to make the same promise hung in the air as he stood down.
A Tingaran lord rose to the podium to speak. He expressed doubts about Miro’s story and questioned the wisdom of the Imperial Legion answering the call of the Alturan devices, when the Alturan high lord himself stated that the Sentinel was the enemy’s final goal.
After several more speeches, the Chorum was over.
As the horde of delegates dispersed out the various exits, Ella found herself outside the hall in the more spacious gallery, feeling the need for air. She saw a familiar face, someone who could help her, and called out.
“Rogan!”
Rogan Jarvish turned and smiled at Ella, though his smile was strained and didn’t reach his eyes. His hair was entirely gray, the last vestiges of black vanished. The responsibilities of his time as lord regent and now as adviser to the emperor had aged Rogan where the strains of combat never had. He touched his lips and then his forehead in greeting—it would be inappropriate to do more—but his eyes were warm as he walked forward.
“Enchantress,” Rogan said.
“Please, Rogan. I need to see Killian. He must convince the other houses to do more for Altura. The Legion is strong here in Seranthia, but Altura can’t hold out alone. Halaran will help us, but Petrya and Vezna must do more.”
Rogan paused and then nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. This could be a good time; for once the Tingarans don’t have him boxed up in the palace.”
“Tell him I’ll be up in the gallery.” Ella pointed up at the second level. She could see a wide-open window, and there were no people around.
Rogan nodded and walked away. Taller than the men around him, he still cut a daunting figure. Miro said that even the Tingarans found it difficult to argue with Rogan’s scarred face.
Ella walked up the steps and leaned out the window, inhaling slowly, a deep breath that filled her chest. From here she looked out on an expanse of manicured gardens, one of many between the palace’s various subsections.
She heard a throat clear behind her, and even as she rehearsed the words she would say, Ella smoothed her expression and turned with a smile on her face. She drew back in surprise when she saw the man who stood facing her.
Ilathor Shanti, kalif of House Hazara, wore a costume both exotic and regal. His loose robe of black and yellow fell away at both sides, revealing a ceremonial dagger stuck into a golden belt. His hair was shorter than Ella remembered, and his sculpted beard was longer. He smiled at Ella, teeth white against his dark skin, but his burning eyes displayed emotion.
“Ella,” Ilathor said, “I need to speak with you. Away from your brother, and away from all these other people.”
“Please, not now,” Ella said.
“Then when?” His brow furrowed, and his voice became firm. “When, Ella?”