Miro glanced up and saw Ella standing beside the white stone table, looking down at him, her face registering concern.
“You don’t look too rested yourself,” Miro said. “I’m glad you’re back safely. How did it go?”
“The kalif has promised to come to our aid if we call. Agira Lahsa and Tlaxor are both connected through Wondhip Pass. The Petryans and Hazarans will see our signal if we call.”
“Thank you, Ella. I mean that. I know it can’t have been easy.”
“Are you getting any sleep?”
“Some.” Miro blinked and wiped at the corners of his eyes before once more looking up at his sister. “What did Shani say about Petrya?”
Ella’s expression turned grim. “She’s trying. Petrya and Altura were never friends. If another house calls, it might be a different story.”
Miro sighed. “So it comes to three houses: Halaran, Altura, and Hazara.”
“Don’t forget the Buchalanti. And Amber will come through with the Veznans, I’m sure of it. Also, I hear the Veldrins are hard at work both here and at the free cities. They know what’s coming. Perhaps the Tingarans are right; we still don’t know if Sentar will pass Altura by altogether. Perhaps it’s we who will find ourselves answering another’s call.”
“He held me captive, Ella. We spoke. He’ll come here, I’m sure of it.”
“I have some good news,” Ella said. She held up a scroll. “This was waiting for me here. It’s from Evrin. He’s leaving Seranthia and coming here to help.”
“I hope he has something up his sleeve,” Miro said. “Sentar . . . our best are no match for him. He took me down with barely an effort. And what will the Imperial Legion do if we call? They’re still the most powerful force we have.”
“We just have to hope. Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Ella took Miro’s hand and pulled him out of his seat. He let her drag him to his feet reluctantly. Still holding his hand, she led him through one of the translucent corridors of the Crystal Palace, along another hall, and to a lucent door. In his fatigued haze, Miro didn’t recognize the door.
“What are you showing . . .?”
“Shh,” Ella said, holding a finger to her lips.
Ella gently pushed the door open and led Miro inside.
A small child was asleep, curled up against a pile of cushions, the three-year-old Tomas barely taking up space on the massive bed. Miro’s son looked carefree and innocent, his tousled locks of hair a perfect match to Amber’s auburn.
“It’s called a bed,” Ella whispered with a smile. “No one will find you here. Everyone’s depending on you, it’s true, but you’re no good to anyone if you’re not thinking clearly. Don’t worry, Miro; you’ll get us through.”
Ella slid Miro’s shirt off his back and pulled off his boots as he sat on the bed. He fell down into the soft mattress, infinitely comfortable, and closed his eyes.
“I have faith in you,” Ella whispered.
Miro didn’t hear her.
He was already asleep.
9
Far away in the north, verdant spring hit the wild forests of Vezna with a spurt of growth unmatched at any other place in Merralya. The burst of new life touched nowhere so much as the living city of Rosarva, a place where every structure, from houses to halls, workshops to temples, to the defensive barrier of thorns surrounding the city, was grown rather than built. Gnarled trunks leaned against each other at odd angles, and twisted branches formed roofs overhead, yet it was all done to a rigid framework, for Veznans were a thorough, methodical people. And more than any of the other houses, they just wanted to be left alone.
In the Lyceum, the spurt of growth was welcome, for the rains and sunlight were needed for the cultivators’ creations to reach their promise. The guardian plants, thornshrubs, highwalls, and nightshades would soon be awakened, and a new generation of plants would fill their creators with a satisfaction that only a Veznan could appreciate.
The most learned of the cultivators carefully pruned back the Juno Bridge, leading to the Borlag, where the high lord made his residence. It wouldn’t do for those poisonous, grasping thorns to accidentally brush the wrong person.
And in the Borlag itself, an island of land surrounded by a weed-filled moat, the only building in the living city made of stone rose to dominate its land mass. The many chambers of the high lord’s palace mostly stayed empty: High Lord Grigori Orlov, the man who’d replaced the deposed Dimitri Corazon, received few visitors from outside.
Amber sat at a table of rose-colored wood in an upper hall of the high lord’s palace. Across from her was Sergei Rugar, lord marshal of Vezna, a slim man who appeared to be Amber’s only friend among his people. Sergei had a cap of light blonde hair, fashionably curled, and a charming smile.