High Lord Grigori himself brooded at the far end of the table, several places away, where it was difficult for Amber to meet his eyes. He was short and stocky, with wide-spaced eyes and extremely short, close-cropped dark hair. Grigori Orlov had so far been a man of few words.
Amber put her fingers to her temples as she felt the approach of another headache. She now regularly dreamt of three-legged towers and triangular prisms of quartz. She’d sent the other enchanters and her guards onward, north to Lake Vor, where they would build the final station and ensure the Akari would keep watch. Amber was alone in Rosarva.
And now she had the most difficult task of all. She had to convince the Veznans to promise support, to come to the aid of whoever called, in the event of a bright light shining from the city’s tower.
This wasn’t her first meeting, and she could tell she wasn’t making much progress. She’d told the story of her and Miro’s voyage to the land across the Great Western Ocean. Her descriptions had been vivid and compelling; she’d worked on her speech ever since she’d left Miro in Ralanast. Grigori Orlov had only shown mild interest. It was none of his concern.
Amber looked at Grigori, and he frowned.
“The enemy’s main strength isn’t just the power of the revenants we will be facing,” Amber said. “It’s in the way Sentar Scythran’s army feeds on humans like a plague. When he destroys a town, or an army, or a city like Rosarva,” she stressed the name of the living city, “he leaves none alive, for he wants corpses in the way other conquerors might lust after gold. He takes those who were strongest in life, particularly warriors, for revenants still possess much of their skill-memories and can follow complex instructions. The strongest he brings back, adding their numbers to his army, which swells in size as a result.”
Amber took a deep breath, wondering if she was getting through to Grigori.
“The children and the weak, the elderly and the infirm, are slaughtered out of hand. Sentar’s necromancers make them line up, and at the end of the line lies death. There’s nothing complex about it; it’s slaughter.” Amber bit the words off.
“Hmm,” High Lord Grigori said.
“The bodies of the weak are then thrown into the vats to distill essence from their life force. The essence is used to make more revenants. Do you understand, High Lord, what I am saying? An army of a thousand can swiftly become two thousand. Soon it is four thousand. The growth only stops when Sentar runs out of bodies. As we grow weaker and our numbers thin, he grows stronger.”
Grigori tapped his fingers on the table.
Amber struggled to hold down her frustration. She had to win him with logic, not emotion. She needed him to see that Vezna’s safety was also at risk.
“He won’t be coming with an army of a thousand,” Amber said. “Across the sea is a continent as big as all the lands of the Empire put together. When we left, he’d conquered Emirald, the capital of Veldria, but much of the surrounding land was unconquered. Entire populations would have been added to his army since we left, and harbors would have been taken, their ships added to his armada. It’s a long journey across the sea, but we expect him to arrive at any moment. He has had the time he needs since the destruction of the ships at Emirald. The free cities, Castlemere and Schalberg, and Altura itself, are the closest lands. Once he makes a foothold, he will sweep the Empire clean, and he won’t stop until he’s at Seranthia.”
“But he may land at Seranthia itself ?”
“Yes, he may—which is why the signaling system isn’t biased to any one house. We’ve pledged to come to the aid of whoever calls. We’re asking that House Vezna make the same pledge.”
“If Sentar conquers Altura, or Tingara, or both, why would he then come to Vezna?”
“Would you really sit back and allow the rest of the Empire to fall into darkness?” Amber countered. “Is that a beneficial outcome, do you think?” She couldn’t keep the tone of accusation from her voice. She breathed slowly in and then out to calm herself.
“Leave me for a moment,” High Lord Grigori said. Sergei met Amber’s eyes and indicated the terrace doors with his chin.
“Lady Amber, if you’d like to join me on the terrace? Perhaps you would like some fresh air?” Sergei inquired.
Amber nodded; she craved the open air. In contrast to the rest of Rosarva, she found the Borlag an oppressive place.
“Of course, Lord Marshal,” she said, noting to herself that only Sergei had the courtesy to use her name or title.
As Amber rose from her seat, the door burst open, and a small girl raced into the room, her sparkling eyes on the high lord. The girl wore a thick white tunic with orange trim, the material supple and expensive. At her neck she wore the Veznan raj hada on a pendant, the silver sprouting seed at her neck matching the green seedling she held in her cupped palms.
“Look, Father!” the girl cried.