Drystan smiled, and Alistair hid a chuckle. The way the new oracle conducted herself had thoroughly impressed him, and he looked forward to having her marry the four of them. “That is correct,” Drystan said as they took their seats at the table. “The dragon god has ordered that we have both the coronation and the wedding ceremony soon, well before Lady Dareena gives birth.”
They spent the next thirty minutes arguing with the council about this. Even knowing that Rofana was legitimately the oracle, and hearing the dragon god’s wishes in this matter, they were still having trouble wrapping their heads around the idea of having three kings. And what of Dareena herself? Would they really be crowning her queen? It was one thing for her to be the Dragon’s Gift, but she was still only a commoner. What right did she have to rule?
“This matter is not up for debate,” Alistair finally said, cutting through all the noise. “The dragon god has made his wishes very clear. If the law does not allow for such a union, then we must rewrite it.”
“It is not our duty to make the dragon god change his rulings to suit our human traditions,” Rofana added. “If we must change our rules to carry out his commands, then so be it.”
“Remember,” Drystan reminded them, “if we should ignore them, there is a very good chance that Shalia’s Curse will remain unbroken. We have been crippled by this terrible spell for far too long. It is high time that dragons roamed these skies once more, and not merely from the royal family. Your own lines may one day birth dragons,” he said, meeting the eyes of the nobles, many of whom were dragon born. “Would you really work to stop that from happening, merely because of your sensibilities?”
There was some grumbling about that, but ultimately, the council agreed. “We will come up with new legislation to cover this arrangement,” Lord Renflaw said. “Since all of this must be done in short order, I think we should do both the wedding and the coronation within the same week. Two months’ time should be sufficient to make the announcements and ensure everyone of import is invited.”
“Excellent,” Dareena said. “Preparations are already underway.” She beamed at the council, as if they hadn’t just collectively insulted her by acting as if her commoner status made her unworthy of the crown. “You’ll be pleased to know that I met with a delegation from Elvenhame yesterday. They have agreed to a truce while we negotiate the peace treaty between us. So long as we return their prince and princess safely to them, they are willing to sign the agreement.”
“We have also agreed to give them limited reparations,” Lord Renflaw said. Some of the nobles grumbled about this, and Alistair briefly wondered if Lord Renflaw was about to pit them against Dareena. But he was pleased when the councilmen merely said that they were waiting for the elves to draw up a list of damages before they made any decision, and that while they might not pay all of them, in light of recovering the treasure, they could afford to make a gesture of goodwill toward the elves.
“And what of the warlocks?” one of the lords asked. “I heard the recent strike force raid was a success. Will we be able to defeat them without engaging in open warfare?”
“It is too early in the game to say,” Alistair said. “We have carried out a second raid that was also successful, and have recovered quite a few important devices and artifacts the warlocks would have otherwise used against us. But King Wulorian will eventually guess what we are about. Right now, it is merely a waiting game, until Prince Lucyan returns and tells us what he has learned. He has infiltrated the warlock king’s castle.”
The council murmured at this. “I am still not certain it was wise to send one of our princes into enemy territory,” Lord Renflaw said, “but now that he is already there, I do hope we will have something to show for it.”
“Are we certain the warlocks truly are engaging in secret warfare against both Elvenhame and Dragonfell?” one of the lords at the far end of the table asked. “It seems like a lot for one kingdom to take on.”
“We already know it to be true from questioning the imposter oracle,” Drystan reminded him. “He was a warlock, and he confessed to murdering the previous Dragon’s Gift on King Wulorian’s orders.” More gasps of shock filled the room. “We also caught the warlocks trying to steal the treasure our father had hidden in the mountains.”
“There must be some mistake,” the man protested. “The warlocks are peaceful people. Perhaps this imposter was merely acting alone.”
Dareena’s eyes flashed. “Are you daft?” she asked, leaning forward. “He not only escaped, but kidnapped Princess Basilla as well. Why would he do that and yet leave no ransom note?”
“Lord Pharlis,” Rofana said in a calm voice, rising from the table. A ripple of nervous energy went through the room as all eyes went to her. “Stand up and take off your clothes.”
The man’s face colored. “I will do no such thing!” he sputtered. “What kind of woman would ask a man to remove his clothes in front of the others? Are you some kind of harlot?”
“Take off your clothes,” she said again, her voice rippling with power. Alistair stared in shock as the man immediately jumped out of his chair and began removing his clothing. Sweat ran down his brow, and his hands shook, as though he were trying to resist.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Renflaw cried, turning to face the oracle.
Rofana ignored him, keeping her gaze trained on the other man. “This man is an imposter,” she said calmly as he stripped down to his underwear. “Take it all off,” she commanded when he tried to stop. “And your jewelry as well.”
Lord Pharlis complied, though his skin had flushed so deep a red, Alistair thought he might explode. When he removed the pendant hanging from around his neck, his features changed. Suddenly, he went from a short, rotund man to a tall, lean one, his thick head of hair replaced by a shaven crown. His blue eyes widened with fear, and he lifted his hands, magic crackling at his fingertips.
“Oh no you don’t!” Dareena cried, summoning her whip to her fingertips. She lashed out and wrapped it around his wrists, binding them together. The warlock screamed as the burning whip cut off the blood flow to his hands, and Alistair’s nose wrinkled at the scent of burning flesh. Leaping across the table, he drew his knife and stabbed the side of the warlock’s neck, blood spraying over the woman seated to his left. She fainted in her chair as the dead warlock slumped sideways, his head mere inches from her skirts.
“Good riddance,” Alistair muttered, yanking the dagger from the dead man’s neck. He turned to face the rest of the council, who had been rendered mute with shock. “Is there anyone else who would like to contest the warlocks’ intentions?”
His challenge was met with deathly silence.
“Good,” Drystan said, standing up. “Now, let’s have everyone else strip-searched as well. I know it’s indecent,” he said before anyone could protest, “but we cannot continue this meeting until we are certain there are no more spies in our midst.”