Everyone’s feelings weighed on Felitïa: terror, revulsion, disbelief. The throne room was packed. Every noble who had been at the banquet was here, it seemed, lined up in haphazard rows along the side walls, the front wall, and behind the Bear Throne. Some of them wept openly; others proclaimed defiantly that they would not believe until they had seen with their own eyes; still others called for the bearing of arms to fight the menace. Many invoked the gods in some pointless hope that they would actually show up to intervene; many others cried that the gods had abandoned them. Even the guards spaced about the room looked uneasy. Their hands fingered the hilts of their swords, adjusted their bear sigil tabards, or fixed the positions of their helmets.

Through it all, Felitïa tried desperately to concentrate on her own feelings, on her own sense of identity. But there were so many other feelings invading her mind. Tears ran down her face from the exertion. This was a terrible time for her telepathic abilities to flare. Luckily, the tears would only make her fit in with so many others here.

At last, she found the focus she needed, and in her head, set the Room’s walls spinning, knocking away all the feelings she wanted kept out. Despite the actual noise in the throne room, it was like a blissful silence. For a brief moment, she felt calm. Then the weight of her own feelings came upon her. But at least those she could deal with.

Her sisters Annai and Sinitïa stood to her left, and a short distance past them, her father sat in the Bear Throne. He was slouched so low that the bear on the back of his throne towered above him. His hands clutched the armrests shaped to mimic the forelegs of the bear, while he shifted the weight of the rest of his body back and forth to different spots on the throne’s blue velvet cushions. Sweat trickled down his face and glistened on his beard. To his left sat the Queen, who was leaning over and patting her husband’s arms and whispering to him, apparently trying to comfort him. Felitïa had never thought her mother could be the comforting type.

On the other side of the thrones stood three of her brothers. Huge, muscular Thilin, whom she could hardly believe was the same tiny little boy she’d left behind fifteen years ago, was shifting about uncomfortably. Short and skinny Pastrin with his trend-setting shoulder-length hair alternated between licking his lips and biting the lower one. Malef ran his fingers through his thick bushel of dark hair.

Cerus stood in front of the two thrones, staring thoughtfully at the great double doors at the back of the room. He was the calmest-looking person there, though his fingers occasionally twitched at his side, and every now and then he shifted which leg he was putting the most weight on.

Garet, in contrast, paced back and forth in front of Cerus, grumbling and doing nothing that could be described as calm. He was one of the ones calling for taking up arms against the Volgs. As part of his show, he had his sword drawn and held out in front of him. “We mustn’t believe their lies of diplomacy! But we mustn’t show fear either! Forget the stories of their strengths and powers! Those are just stories! I’ve faced them before! They’re not unbeatable!”

The doors at the back of the room opened. A train of Royal Guardsmen marched in surrounding three Volgs. At the sight of them, the servants holding the doors backed away in fear. Several people in the room fainted away. Sinitïa was one of them, landing at Felitïa’s feet. Annai stared in abject terror. Felitïa bent down to help Sinitïa back to her feet.

Some people in the room drew their swords, and at a nod from Garet, they started forward. The Royal Guard raised their shields and linked them side by side, forming a wall of bear sigils that completely encircled the three Volgs.

Garet lowered his sword. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It would be really quite pointless to bring them all the way here just to kill them,” Cerus said. “We could have done that at the gates. They are unarmed.”

“Only because we disarmed them,” Garet said. “I say put them to the sword!” Several other people in the room responded with cries of “To the sword!”

Cerus raised a hand for silence. “My lords and ladies, please! If we truly believe that we are more civilised than they, then let us show our civility by treating them with respect until they do something to warrant otherwise.”

“Folly!” Garet responded.

“Garet, enough,” the King said. “Put away your sword.”

Garet grumbled, but did as he was told.

Throughout this, the Volgs had remained stationary. Two of them scanned the room with their eyes, watching everything. Guards. They were big, bigger even than most of the other Volgs Felitïa had seen. Their horns were thick and curled, their fur dark. Black eyes added to their menacing nature.

The third one was smaller than the other two, probably the smallest Volg she’d seen yet—although still easily as large as Rudiger. He had grey fur and his beard was white. Dressed in voluminous black and gold robes that dipped down low at the back to allow for the wings, he stood there with his head lowered, gazing at the blue carpet and scratching the back of his left horn.

The nobles were starting to quiet down. At a motion from Cerus, the Royal Guardsmen unlinked their shields and parted. “Please approach,” Cerus said.

The small Volg looked up and strode forward, his robes flowing about him. The other two Volgs followed behind, still watching the crowd for signs of trouble. When he reached the image of the bear on the carpet, the small Volg knelt and bowed his head. “Your Majesties, your Royal Highness, your Highnesses, my lords and ladies.” His voice was smooth and soft, yet the sound carried easily across the room. “I am Sidlove, son of Medrove of the Worker Caste. I come to you offering my services as ambassador to the Volganth people.” He paused, just long enough for the gasps of surprise to subside. “I also bring a request from my King, Festroff, the seventy-sixth of his name.”

The room fell quiet, a few whispers being passed back and forth by nobles the only sounds. Cerus looked to the King, who looked to his wife. She smiled at him. “You may rise,” the King said.

Sidlove stood up. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Ambassador Sidlove,” Cerus began, “how can we—”

“How can we be certain of your good intentions?” the Queen interrupted him. Cerus frowned, but regained his composure.

“Your Majesty,” Sidlove answered, “I understand your misgivings. However, there are only three of us, and as his Royal Highness so eloquently said before, we are unarmed. We would be most foolish if we bore you any ill will.”

“Liar,” Garet said. “I know only too well the tricks you can pull.”

“Garet, enough!” the Queen snapped.

“I am not offended by his words, your Majesty,” Sidlove said. He turned to face Garet. “Your Highness, it has been more than twenty-three hundred years since there was last regular contact between our peoples, and then it was in a state of war. It is only natural that there is fear on both sides.”

“I do not fear you,” Garet grumbled.

Sidlove went on, unperturbed. “You have your stories about us, which I have no doubt make us out to be terrible monsters. Cruel, vicious, and evil. Likewise, we have the same such stories about you. It is these stories, however, which are our true enemies. We must learn to put aside the fears of the past and to work together for a better future for us all.”

“Fuck you.”

Gasps shot about the room at the intensity of Garet’s words. “Garet, I will not tolerate such language in this room!” the Queen screeched.

Then Garet was on Sidlove, grabbing a horn and pulling back his head. He raised a dagger to the Volg’s neck. In a heartbeat, one of Sidlove’s guards grabbed his wrist and wrenched the dagger from his grasp. Royal Guardsmen moved forward, swords pointed at both Garet and at the Volg who now held the dagger. The Volg flipped the dagger around to hold it by the blade and then offered the hilt to Cerus, who, looking surprised, took it.

“Your people kidnapped my fiancée!” Garet yelled. “Your people tortured her! And you come in here speaking of trust and a better future. Your trust be damned!”

“Escort Prince Garet from the throne room,” the Queen said.

Garet raged, but allowed two Royal Guards to show him out. As they left, Captain DeSeloön and his men slipped into the room. Rudiger was with them. She wondered where Zandrue, Jorvan, and Meleng were.

“Our apologies,” Cerus said to the Volg ambassador, who was rubbing his neck.

Sidlove nodded and scratched the base of the horn that Garet had grabbed. “My thanks, your Royal Highness.”

Cerus gazed at Garet’s dagger. “Did your people do such a thing to my brother’s fiancée?”

“No, your Royal Highness.” Sidlove scratched the base of his horn again. “At least, not as far as I know. If such a thing did happen, it was not under the sanction of our king. However, as much as we are loathe to admit it, we have a criminal element to our society just as you do. It embarrasses me no end to learn that such a thing might have happened at an inconvenient time as this.”

“I cannot imagine that there would be any time that could be called convenient,” the Queen said. She leaned forward in her throne. “Ambassador Sidlove, twenty-three hundred years ago, the gods banished your people to Vast, in the centre of the Great Ocean. There you were to stay. How can you expect us to open a relationship with you if you now tell us you have been allowing criminals to come here? This gives us little faith in your competence to control your own people. We have not allowed our criminals to go to Vast.”

“Your Majesty,” Sidlove said, “there is no proof at this time that is what has happened. I was merely postulating a possibility. However, for all we know, Prince Garet is mistaken.”

“That is not an easy thing to be mistaken about,” the Queen replied. “Few people are likely to mistake a human for a Volg. You must admit, we don’t look much alike.”

Sidlove nodded. “Perhaps, your Majesty. But perhaps the perpetrators were goblins or trolls.”

The Queen waved her hand in dismissal of the idea and shifted back in her throne. “Everyone knows what a goblin looks like, and there are no trolls in Arnor.”

Sidlove shrugged in a very human-like manner. “Then perhaps the prince’s fiancée is delusional. I am merely offering alternatives, your Majesty. I do not pretend to know the real answers.”

“Might I say something, your Majesties?” Ardon strode into the room, past the Royal Guard and straight up beside Sidlove. He bowed.

The King smiled. “Of course, your Grace. Your wisdom is always valued here.”

“Quilla Steranovist is not the only one to run afoul of Volgs recently,” the Patriarch said. “Your daughter, Princess Felitïa has also been harassed by them, which I’m sure she will attest to. Captain DeSeloön and all the others with her can vouch that she is not delusional.”

Felitïa stared at Ardon, but he didn’t even glance in her direction. They had agreed to keep that information from the court. Even DeSeloön had agreed that, for the time being, it was best to say that Stavan had died in an attack by goblins. Of course, the arrival of Volgs at the palace changed the situation quite a bit. People were far less likely to ridicule her with the truth standing right in front of them. Still, she would have preferred if Ardon had said something to her first.

“Captain, is this true?” the Queen asked.

DeSeloön came forward and bowed. “It is, your Majesty. One day out of Quorge, our group was attacked by a large mass of Volgs. We never got a clear count. Two of them were wizards. We dealt with most of them, but the wizards escaped. They kidnapped a young boy who was under her Highness’s protection, and inflicted terrible injuries on most of the rest of us. My man, Stavan Orcan, perished several days later from those injuries.”

“Ambassador?” the Queen said.

Sidlove scratched behind a horn with one hand while pulling on his tuft of a white beard with the other. He struggled for words. “I am speechless, your Majesty.”

The Queen stood up and looked down the steps of the dais at the Volg ambassador. Her face was one of grim determination and her stance rigid. Felitïa had to admit she could look commanding when she wanted to. “Ambassador, your people have committed two acts of aggression against us. We will have to discuss the situation amongst ourselves to determine how to respond. Guards, escort the ambassador and his companions to a holding cell. Keep them there until I or the King summons them.”

Sidlove bowed. “As you wish, your Majesty. However, please allow me to deliver the message from my king first.” He pulled a rolled, sealed scroll from his robes, and looked at the Queen.

The Queen nodded, and Cerus took the scroll from the Volg. After that, Sidlove bowed again and allowed himself and his two guards to be escorted from the room.

As soon as they were gone, the room erupted in a roar as nobles yelled out various suggestions for how to respond, mostly involving ways to kill them, from beheading to hanging to boiling in oil. Someone even called for a crucifixion in the same vain as the Volgs were said to have done to humans during the Great War.

The Queen had to motion repeatedly for quiet. Eventually Cerus yelled out, “My lords and ladies, please! Let us be calm and rational!” Slowly, the roar died down to a dull murmur.

“The King and I must discuss this in private,” the Queen said, looking to her husband.

King Wavon scratched his beard, then nodded and stood up from the Bear Throne. “We will adjourn to my study. Cerus, your Grace, Felitïa, join us please.”

“Not Felitïa,” the Queen said. “She does not need to be there.”

“Your Majesty,” Ardon said, “your daughter has had first-hand experience of the Volgs. I think her counsel would be invaluable.”

“Captain DeSeloön was there as well,” the Queen replied. “He may join us.”

“Excellent idea, your Majesty!” Ardon said. “It would be invaluable to have both of them there!”

“I meant only DeSeloön,” the Queen said, but Ardon looked to the King.

After a moment, Felitïa’s father nodded. “Both may attend us.”

“Then I wish Annai there,” the Queen said. “And Barnol Friaz.”

“My dear,” the King said, “if we bring too many, it will hardly be a private meeting.”

“I want them there.”

“But if we bring one provincial voice, we can hardly exclude the others.”

“We can and will,” the Queen said, descending the steps. The King followed after her, still protesting. As they followed the carpet to the doors, the ones named to go with them fell into line behind them.

“Why does Friaz get special attention?” a woman cried. “Rivalle demands the right to speak!”

“Forget Rivalle!” a man called. “What about the South? We’re always ignored. Let Lothal and Southal have a voice!”

“This is bound to get messy,” Cerus said to Felitïa as they left the room. Felitïa didn’t doubt him.

Felitïa had never been allowed in the King’s Study. It was a room used for private meetings between the monarch and various nobles or courtiers. When she had last been in the palace, she had been far too young to be allowed to participate in such meetings.

Although smaller than the throne room, it was still expansive, able to hold a lot of people when necessary. Its walls and floor were of fine walnut panelling, which gave it a darker, cosier feel, despite the fact that it was well lit by a large chandelier, the light from which was reflected in the large mirrors that graced the centre of each wall. Beneath each mirror stood a table, on three of which were books. On the fourth sat a small clock, its face held by two gold nymphs. The King’s desk stood in one corner of the room at an angle in front of two alcoves. On the desk was an assortment of papers, a vial of ink, and several pens. Behind the desk, in the corner between the two alcoves was a cabinet on top of which was a bust of Queen Felitïa. In the corner opposite the desk, a fire burned lazily in a small fireplace.

Upon entering the room, most of them found places to sit in the various red-cushioned chairs placed about the room. Felitïa’s mother sat behind the desk, while her father wandered over to the clock, picked it up, and started lazily winding it. Apart from the King, only Ardon remained standing.

“Your Majesties, perhaps we should begin with the message,” Ardon suggested.

The King put the clock back down on the table and turned to face the others in the room. “Agreed.”

Cerus stood up and came forward with the scroll. He was about to hand it to the King when the Queen said, “Cerus, hand me the message.” Cerus scowled briefly before turning to face the Queen with a smile. Taking the scroll from him, she broke the seal and unrolled it on the desk. A moment later, she frowned. “It’s written in Folithan.”

“Curious,” Ardon said before walking forward and snatching the scroll.

As he read it over, his eyes widening, Felitïa took a moment to stop the walls spinning in her head. Now she was away from the crowds in the throne room, it was probably safe to allow things in. Alas, the flare she’d been experiencing had died, so she only got the barest hint of anyone’s feelings.

“What does it say, your Grace?” Barnol Friaz asked. He was a big man, barely able to fit in his chair. His round face was barely noticeable behind his bushy grey beard and sideburns. The folds of his doublet sleeves and his hose added to his width. He bore little resemblance to his daughter, Tianna.

“Troubling.” Ardon held out the scroll to Felitïa. She took it from him and tried to read it. She was so out of practice with Folithan that much of it was incomprehensible, but she recognised enough for it to shock her.

“Well?” The Queen stood and planted her fists on the desk. “Enlighten us!”

“It seems the Volgs want a meeting on Scovese.” The Patriarch found a seat and sat down.

“Outrageous!” Barnol Friaz said.

“Impossible!” the Queen said, throwing her hands wide and knocking over the vial of ink on the desk, spilling its contents over the papers there. She scrambled to try to rescue papers before they were spoilt, and for a moment, the scene was almost funny. Both the King and Cerus rushed forward to help her, Cerus first retrieving a cloth from one of the alcoves behind the desk.

“But Scovese is just a legend,” Annai said.

“The Volgs certainly believe it’s real,” Ardon said. “They’ve even provided navigational coordinates to help us get there.”

That would explain the numbers at the end of the message. Felitïa had no familiarity with the coordinate system used.

“Let me see that,” Annai said, reaching for the scroll.

“Of course.” Felitïa held the scroll out so her sister could reach it. “I didn’t realise you could read Folithan.”

Annai stopped just short of taking the scroll and scowled. “That’s quite all right. I’m sure that’s what it says. But how can we trust the Volgs? There might be nothing at the location they give. They could be laying a trap for us.”

“That, unfortunately, is a distinct possibility,” Cerus said, wiping his fingers off with the now darkened cloth.

“A great deal more than a possibility,” Barnol Friaz said, the Friazan lilt sounding odd on his deep voice. “We don’t even need to look to the stories of their treachery; they’ve already proven it with their actions, both against Princess Felitïa, and against Prince Garet’s fiancée.”

“Your Highness,” Captain DeSeloön said to Felitïa, “perhaps you could read us the message. With a translation, of course, for those of us not versed in Folithan.”

“Allow me,” Ardon said, taking the scroll back from Felitïa. “‘My dearest brother, Many centuries ago, our two peoples were able to stand side by side with all the other peoples of the world in friendship and harmony. We were as one people, working together for mutual benefit and prosperity. In those days, neither of our peoples feared or reviled the other. In most things, we agreed. However, for those occasions when we disagreed, our ancient forebears built a great city on the neutral island of Scovese, where delegates from all the different nations and peoples could meet to discuss and solve their differences. So brilliant and successful was this idea that the gods themselves blessed it and decreed that whenever any one nation or people should desire a meeting there, all others should oblige them. Such was the way our ancestors kept the peace.’”

“Nonsense,” Barnol interrupted. “Volgs and humans living in harmony? They are creatures of Night. The point of Scovese was to keep them in line.”

“I do not need a lecture on theology, my lord,” Ardon said. “I am merely reading what is written.”

“My apologies, your Grace,” Barnol said.

Ardon cleared his throat and continued, “‘Alas, no peace is everlasting. There came a time when our differences were so great, that even discussion at the meeting place on Scovese could not solve them. A terrible war broke out between our peoples and Scovese was abandoned. For over two millennia, it has remained unused. For many, it has become a place of legend.

“‘It is my firm belief that the time is long past for us to renew the friendships of long ago, and dearly hope that you, too, will share this belief. I hereby invoke the ancient law placed down by the gods themselves and call for a meeting on the island of Scovese between all the peoples of the world to take place as soon as all involved are reasonably able to make their journeys there. I look forward to meeting you, my brother, and rekindling the prosperity our two peoples once enjoyed. May our descendants reap forever more the benefits of the legacy we will create there.

“‘In the names of the Holy Triumvirate: the Father, the Keeper, and the Spirit of Nature.’ Then it’s signed with a name written in a different script. That’s followed with ‘seventy-sixth of my name, son of,’ and then another name written in the other script. Finally, in a post-script, he provides co-ordinates for the location of Scovese.”

“His little ending there about the the Holy Tri-whatsits,” Barnol said, scratching his beard. “That gives his lie away quite clearly. Everyone knows Volgs are Darkness Worshippers, all of them.”

“I agree,” the Queen said. “It’s been over two millennia since a meeting was called there. Why call one now? It must be a trick.”

“Can we afford to take that risk?” Cerus asked. “Your Grace, what about the Law of the Gods?”

Ardon rubbed his chin. “A difficult question to answer. If the Volgs are sincere, then we are obligated to go. The question is, how do we know if they are sincere?”

“They must be lying,” Annai said.

“Must they?” the Patriarch responded. “Why?”

“Well, they’re…evil.”

Ardon smiled at her. “Even evil beings tell the truth sometimes when it suits their purposes, my dear. Think of it, your Majesties. What better ploy! They arrange for us to be suspicious of them by making attacks on members of the Royal Family and their friends. Then they call for a meeting on Scovese, going so far as to actually be prepared for one. However we, in our suspicions, believe them to be treacherous, so do not go. But because they were prepared to hold a meeting—perhaps even actually hold one with those of other races who do show up—we are the ones who have broken the law. We are the ones who must pay in the afterlife.”

“Bah!” Barnol Friaz spat. “Surely the gods would see through such subterfuge. They would know us innocent of any crimes.”

Ardon gave a half nod—more a tilt of his head. “That is a valid interpretation.”

“So, you believe we should make the journey, your Grace?” DeSeloön asked.

“It is not an easy decision, my son. However, yes, I think it is probably the best course of action, as undesirable as it might be.”

“I disagree,” the Queen said. “We will not be played for fools by these creatures. And I am willing to justify my decision in the afterlife to the gods if necessary. They will be my judge. All that’s left to be decided then is what to do with the Volg ambassador.”

“I agree with his Grace,” Cerus said. “I believe we should make the journey.”

“I don’t,” the Queen snapped. “You’re overruled, Cerus.”

So much for discussion, Felitïa thought. Personally, she wasn’t certain what her own opinion was. Everything had happened so quickly. If the Volgs were sincere, though, it might be a chance to learn about Corvinian. But if they weren’t sincere...

“Father, this is your decision,” Cerus said. “However, at the very least, I believe it deserves further discussion.”

“It’s not a decision to be taken lightly, is it?” the King said. He fiddled with some of the spoiled papers on the desk, frowning at them.

“You’ve heard my opinion, Wavon,” the Queen said. “You would be a fool to disregard it. If the doubtful sincerity of the Volgs is not enough to convince you, think of the logistics of such a voyage. It would take ages to reach there. The Great Ocean is aptly named. Even with the coordinates, finding the island would be like searching for a needle in a haystack!”

“I suppose either decision will require a lot of discussion about how to handle it,” the King said with a sigh, heading over to the bust of Queen Felitïa. “Bound to take all night. And I was so looking forward to the ball following the banquet. I suppose we’ll have to reschedule.”

“Perhaps we should take a vote,” Cerus suggested. “Just to know for certain where everyone stands. It could be the basis of further discussion.”

“I vote no,” Annai said.

“Thank you, my dear,” the King said, “but I don’t think that will be necessary. Votes just produce deadlocks around here, anyway.” He ran his hand over the bust of Queen Felitïa, almost lovingly brushing the stone cheeks. “It was so much easier when you made all the decisions,” he whispered.

“Wavon, your mother has been dead for many years,” the Queen said. “She cannot make the decision for you. Either make it yourself or let me.”

The King sighed and put the bust back on the cabinet. He turned around and placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders, gently massaging them. “Oh, I have made my decision, my love. I have.”

“Then do tell us, Wavon,” the Queen said.

After he told them, the real debate began.

* * * * *

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Felitïa asked.

“Last I checked, no only has one meaning,” Zandrue replied.

“You know what I mean,” Felitïa said. “Why?”

Zandrue leaned on the desk. “Please don’t ask me to explain. Just accept that I can’t go. Okay?”

They were in the study cabinet at the top of the small spiral stairs in her apartments. Cabinet! There had been a time when she wouldn’t have thought anything odd of calling it a cabinet, but fifteen years living as a commoner had made her realise that a room that was as big as a small home did not deserve to be called a cabinet.

But what to call the room was not really a concern at the moment. Zandrue was. “Zandrue, do you have any idea how long I had to argue to get them to agree to let you come? We were up all night.” At first, her mother had refused to even let Felitïa come along. Her father had agreed, but it had taken ages of arguing to get her mother’s agreement, and ages more to get an agreement for any of her friends to come with her. In the end, they had decided that only one of them could come. She wanted Zandrue.

Zandrue took a deep breath before continuing. “I understand that, Felitïa. Really, I do. And I appreciate it. But you should have asked me first if I even wanted to go.”

“But I thought—”

“You thought wrong. You’re just going to have to accept that there is no way in hell that I am going to Scovese.”

Felitïa sighed. She should have considered this. The fear coming from Zandrue was the same fear that always came with anything related to her secret past—which Felitïa now knew had something to do with Volgs. But she had thought that since Zandrue had stood up to Volgs for the sake of Corvinian and wanted to help find and rescue him, she would be willing to go to Scovese and face the Volgs there.

“Zandrue, I don’t suppose maybe you’d be willing to tell me about...well, whatever your connection to the Volgs is?”

“You said I didn’t have to, that you understood.”

Felitïa nodded. “You’re right. I did.”

“Then stop fucking asking me about it!” Zandrue swung her arm across the desk, scattering papers and pens on it. A vial of ink landed with a smack on the hardwood floor, shattering and splashing its contents about. With a vicious kick, she sent the chair flying across the room. It landed precariously at the top of the stairs, teetered for a moment, and then toppled over. A moment later, it crashed into the floor of the salon below.

Felitïa wiped a splotch of ink from beneath her eye and backed away from Zandrue—and the anger spewing from her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have. Just like you shouldn’t have assumed I’d go anywhere you want without even discussing it with me first.”

“Your Highness?” The voice came from below. “Is everything all right?”

Felitïa hurried to the top of the stairs and looked down. It was Stela. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

“But the chair?”

“Just a little accident. Nothing to worry about. I’ll get it in a minute.”

“Of course, your Highness. Prince Garet and his fiancée are here to see you.”

“Oh. Show them in. I’ll be down in a minute. Better move the chair aside, I guess.”

“Of course, your Highness.”

Felitïa turned away from the stairs. She could guess why Garet was here.

Zandrue was leaning on the desk, taking deep breaths. The anger from her was subsiding, replaced by guilt—though less intense. “Sorry for the ruckus. I got a little carried away. I just...uh...I can’t go to Scovese, okay?”

Felitïa nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. I know how Volgs affect you, and I should have—”

“It’s not the Volgs,” Zandrue said.

“What?”

“I’m not worried about Volgs being there. It’s got nothing to do with that. I just can’t risk...that is, I mean, things might be a lot worse if I go than if I don’t. That doesn’t make any sense, I know, but trust me, okay?”

“Always,” Felitïa said. “But I do need to go.”

“Oh, I agree. You definitely need to go.”

“What will you do?”

Zandrue smiled. “I’ve got a few ideas. I’ll take Rudiger and Jorvan with me. Meleng should go with you.”

“Hey, Brains! Get down here! We need to talk!”

Felitïa groaned. “I better—”

“Go on,” Zandrue said. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Felitïa gave Zandrue a quick hug and hurried down the stairs into the salon.

Garet was pacing back and forth. He had changed out of his banquet finery from last night, and was now wearing a plain cream doublet without a jerkin and simple, knee-breeches. His sword was still belted at his side. “There you are. No doubt you’ve heard this nonsense about Scovese.”

“I just spent all night arguing the details with Mother and Father,” she replied.

Stela came over to offer a glass of wine, but Felitïa shook her head.

“Arguing the details?” Garet said. “You should have been arguing against it. You’ve had experience with Volgs. You know they can’t be trusted. Besides, when have you ever agreed with anything that woman does?”

Quilla was sitting in a chair opposite the fireplace. Like Garet, she had changed out of her banquet clothing and was now wearing a simple green kirtle, belted at the waist with a soft leather girdle. A small red purse hung from the girdle. She still wore the same heart-shaped locket she was wearing yesterday.

Felitïa smiled at her, and Quilla smiled back.

“Well? Say something!” Garet was practically breathing down her neck now.

“It wasn’t Mother’s decision. It was Father’s.” She moved away from him and pulled up a chair beside Quilla.

“Father’s decision?” Garet said. He looked unsure what to say next.

Felitïa nodded. “He made it pretty quickly, too. Mother was completely against the idea. The majority of the time was just working out the details, including who’s going and who’s not.”

“Well...” Garet began, “then...whosever decision it was doesn’t matter. We have to fight it!”

“Why?” Felitïa asked.

“What do you mean, why?” Garet stomped across to the other side of the room, then turned around and stomped back again. “Come on, Brains! You think you’re so smart. Surely you can figure out that this is a trick.”

“Garet’s right,” Quilla said. “You can’t possibly trust them.”

“I don’t,” Felitïa said. “But I still think we should make the journey.”

“What? So they can ambush us on the way, sink our ship and kill half the Royal Family with it?” Garet banged his fist against the wall. “I thought you, of all people, would understand, Brains. You’re smart. You’ve met them before. You’ve always gone out of your way to oppose everything this family does. Why the sudden desire to fit in?”

“My decision has nothing to do with fitting in,” Felitïa said. “I think we should go because it will give us the opportunity the learn what the Volgs are up to.”

“Fat chance we’ll have of that if they sink us on the way.”

“We’re taking naval vessels along with us in case they try something like that.”

Garet raised his hands in mock defeat. “Oh, that’ll solve all our problems.”

He pulled up a chair in front of her and Quilla, sat in it, and leaned forward. “Look Brains, you may be smart, but you obviously don’t know much about naval tactics. We wouldn’t stand a chance in a sea battle against the Volgs. They can fly, damn it! They won’t even need to get close to board us. The battle will be over before it’s begun.”

He had a valid point there, Felitïa realised. She hadn’t thought of that. “There’s the Law of the Gods to consider.”

“Ha!” He pushed his chair back and stood up again. He paced over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle. “Those laws mean nothing now. The gods abandoned us centuries ago.”

“They did that to protect us from Night,” Felitïa responded. Despite her religious training, she had never been particularly religious, so she was surprised to find herself defending this situation now, when at any other time, she would probably be agreeing with Garet. “If they hadn’t, we’d all be living under Night’s yoke.”

Garet banged his fists against the mantle, causing the candles on it, and even the portrait of Queen Felitïa above to shake. “She would never have fallen for this.”

Felitïa sighed. “Father seemed to think she’d go. That’s why he made the decision he did.”

Garet turned back around to face her. “Yeah, well, Father’s never been particularly good at knowing what other people will do.”

“Please,” Quilla said, “do we have to argue about this? Garet, why don’t you sit back down and let’s discuss this rationally?”

“I am discussing this rationally!” Garet pointed at Felitïa. “She’s just not being reasonable.”

“Garet!” Quilla snapped. “Sit down and calm yourself. I don’t like the idea of going to Scovese any more than you do, but give Felitïa a chance to explain her reasons. Maybe she has a point.”

“A point?”

“Garet!”

Garet grabbed another chair and sat down in front of them. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and proceeded to scowl at Felitïa.

“I think we should go because it will help us find Corvinian,” Felitïa said.

“Oh, you think he’s going to be on Scovese? Get real, Brains.”

“No, I don’t think he’s going to be on Scovese, but I think maybe someone who knows something will be. The timing between his kidnapping and now this meeting can’t be coincidence.”

“Maybe,” Garet grumbled.

“And maybe we can find that person and find out where Corvinian is being held.”

“You really think there’s a chance of that?” Quilla asked. Felitïa could sense a great deal of fear coming from her, but there was a hint of hope too.

“I do.”

“But how can you be sure he’ll still be alive?” Quilla said. “It’s a long way there, isn’t it?”

“A couple months, at least,” Felitïa said.

Garet jumped to his feet again. “Which is exactly why this a stupid plan. Every day we waste is another day they could kill him. We can’t afford to wait a couple more months.”

“I want to trust you, Felitïa,” Quilla said, “but Garet’s right. How can you be sure the Volgs won’t kill him?”

“I can’t,” Felitïa said, “but I know he’s alive now, and there has to be a reason for that. If they wanted him dead, they’d have killed him already.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” Garet said.

“That’s where I come in.” Zandrue had descended the stairs and was coming over to them. She grabbed a glass of wine from Stela on the way. “My friends and I aren’t going to Scovese. We’re going to explore other options.”

“Such as?” Garet said.

“For a start, I’m going to check out that cave you found Quilla in. There might be some clues left behind.”

“Will you be able to find it?” Felitïa asked.

“With some directions from Garet and Quilla here, it should be possible.”

“I don’t really know the region well,” Quilla said. “The Volgs took me there. I’m not sure I could give precise enough directions. I didn’t really pay attention. Garet?”

Garet crossed and uncrossed his legs. “About two days north of the city, past the Royal Hunting Grounds, a few miles outside the village of Elbeth. It’s along the coast, in a low cliff. I could show you if I didn’t have to go on this gods-damned journey.”

“It’s all right,” Zandrue said. “I’ll find it. What can you tell me about the Volgs who captured you, Quilla? Did Garet kill them all? Did any escape?”

“There was a priest or something, wasn’t there?” Garet asked Quilla.

Quilla nodded. “He was called Nibdenoff. He’s the one I saw most.”

“Describe him.”

Quilla shrugged. “He was big—huge—but they all are. Horns.”

“Long horns without a curve?” Zandrue asked. “Seven and a half feet tall? Grey and brown fur?”

“I think so. Maybe. Honestly, they all look the same to me. Though he had long black fingernails. And they were sharp. He scratched my face with them more than once.”

Zandrue nodded and looked to Felitïa. “Sounds like the one I fought. The one that killed Stavan.”

“He called me Catalyst,” Quilla said. “Any idea what that means?”

Zandrue shrugged and looked to Felitïa again.

“A catalyst,” Felitïa said, “is something that starts or boosts something else. I don’t have any idea why they’d call Quilla that. Unless she can boost Corvinian’s powers somehow. Or someone else’s. We need to get Jorvan to have a look at you, Quilla. Find out if you have magical talent.”

“There was another one called Castroff,” Quilla said. “I think he was in charge, but he wasn’t there often. Nibdenoff was in charge the rest of the time.”

“This Castroff,” Zandrue said, “was he a wizard?”

Quilla shrugged. “He never did anything magical that I saw. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t, though.”

“Castroff wasn’t there when I got there,” Garet added, “so I never saw him.”

“Could be the one who took Corvinian,” Felitïa suggested.

“Seems possible,” Zandrue said.

Garet sighed. “All right then, Brains. Looks like I’m trusting your friends to do this right while we go to gods-damned Scovese. This better work.”

“Don’t worry,” Zandrue said.

But Felitïa could sense that all of them, Zandrue included, were still very worried.

* * * * *

“Another truffle?” Barnol Friaz asked, holding out the tray to him.

Dyle shook his head, and Barnol offered it to the others. Sam also passed it up, but Vellon grabbed a handful. Barnol actually looked displeased by that as it left fewer for himself. Their other companion didn’t even bother to decline. He just sat there, unmoving.

“They’re good,” Vellon said, stuffing his disgusting face full of the truffles. “Give your cook my compliments.” He sprayed bits of the food around him as he spoke.

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Barnol said, wiping bits of the sprayed food off his jerkin before popping a truffle into his own fat face.

“So, who exactly is going on this trip?” Dyle asked. Nothing could have been more ill-timed and inconvenient than this sudden move by the Volgs. Damn them! What were they playing at? Someone should have warned him. Someone was going to pay.

“The King and Queen, of course,” Barnol answered once he’d finished his next truffle. “Prince Cerus as well.”

Dyle raised his eyebrows. “The King and his heir?”

Barnol nodded. “Oh yes, his Royal Highness was quite insistent on it. It was debated for quite a while, but eventually it was agreed to let him go. With Cerus going, that meant they had to decide to take Garet along as well. He’s far too emotional to be left here in charge.”

“And Quilla?”

“Naturally, she’ll be going, too. Garet doesn’t go anywhere without her.”

Dyle nodded. That was perhaps for the best. He was far too tempted to pay a visit to Quilla and her husband-to-be, but he’d worked too long and too hard to throw it all away with a stupid move like that. With them gone, so was the temptation. The joy of killing Prince Garet could wait for another time. “How about Felitïa?”

“Oh, she’s going, to be sure.”

“Damn!” Dyle said. “This ruins everything.” He looked over at their silent companion, lounged out in the chaise longue. “So much for your plan.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” their companion said, speaking for the first time since they’d arrived. “Hear out your friend first.”

Dyle looked back at Barnol, who continued, “Princess Felitïa argued quite vehemently that she and her companions should be allowed on the journey. The Queen, you might guess, was opposed.”

“You, of course, argued that she should not go, as well,” Sam said.

“Oh, naturally,” Barnol told the bald man. He popped another truffle in his mouth. Dyle rolled his eyes. No wonder he was so fat.

“But you weren’t convincing enough, I take it?” Sam said.

“Alas, no,” Barnol said. “The King has a soft spot for his daughters, especially Felitïa. In the end, he agreed to let her and one of her companions go. The others have to stay behind.”

Dyle leaned forward, intrigued. “Which ones?”

“Initially, that woman Cerus has been flirting with was to go, but oddly, the next morning Felitïa announced that the Eloorin fellow was going with her instead. The others remain behind.”

Dyle sighed with relief. “Then not all is lost.”

There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Barnol yelled.

A guard wearing the trout sigil of House Friaz entered. A brown-haired boy of about sixteen stood behind him.

Barnol smiled. “Calvan! Do come in!”

The boy passed the guard and entered the room. Once he was in, the guard stepped back out and closed the door. “Hello cousin,” the boy said. “I came as quickly as I could. What’s the matter?”

Barnol patted the seat beside him. “Please, have a seat, my boy. Truffle?”

“Thank you.” Calvan took one from the tray and sat beside his cousin. “Who are these people?”

“Oh, these are just some friends of mine.”

“But they’re Eloorin. The Queen will not be happy to have them in the palace.”

Definitely his father’s son, Dyle thought.

“Oh, now now,” Barnol said. “You know the Queen and I are on the best of terms. I’m her most trusted confidante. You don’t think I’d do something without her sanction, do you?”

“I suppose not,” Calvan said. “What did you want?”

Barnol pointed across the room to Dyle. “This is Dyle Aderman. He has something he’d like to say to you.”

“Mister Aderman,” Calvan said.

“I know we haven’t met, Calvan,” Dyle began, “but your father and I are associates of a sort.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Calvan replied.

“So did your father apparently. You see, several months ago, we reached a little agreement, he and I. However, just as I’d left Tyl, your father saw fit to breach that agreement by sending his cronies to kill me. Now, normally, I’d respond by having your father killed. Unfortunately, I still need him. However, he does need to be taught a lesson.”

The boy recoiled. “How dare you threaten me! Cousin, how can you let him speak to me like that? I’m a Folith! When my father finds out—”

“I fully intend for your father to find out, boy,” Dyle said.

The boy never saw it coming. He opened his mouth to spew more drivel, but all that came out was blood. He looked down in shock at the dagger sticking out of his chest and then at his cousin’s hand still holding the hilt. “Cousin, why?” he gurgled, and died.

“Oh dear, dear,” Barnol complained. “You’ve gone and got blood all over my nice, clean doublet.” Grumbling, he let go of the dagger and grabbed for the tray of truffles. “Damn! It’s all over my tray of treats, too.” In disgust, he tossed the tray and its contents onto the floor and looked accusingly at Dyle.

“Don’t blame me. Blame Mitchal Plavin.”

“You’ve certainly made an enemy of him today,” Barnol said.

Dyle shrugged. “Send him the boy’s head. Dump the body in the sea.”

Barnol nodded. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The door opened and the guard from before entered. “Get rid of this thing, will you? Save me the head, but dump the body.”

The guard bowed, and picked up Calvan Plavin.

“Oh, and make sure you’re not seen,” Barnol added.

“Of course, my lord,” the guard said, then left the room carrying the boy’s body.

“Now then,” Dyle said, “I believe you were telling me who was going on the trip to Scovese.”

Barnol dabbed at the blood on his clothes with a kerchief. “Oh yes. Princesses Annai and Sinitïa will also be going. The rest of the Royal Family is staying here. With Gabriella still in Dorg, that leaves Malef in charge.”

“How malleable is Malef?” Sam asked.

“A damn sight more so than the Queen, I’ll tell you that! We could use this to our advantage. Alternatively, this might be the time to make a bigger move. I’m sure you’ve heard how much Malef loves to hunt. I’m sure I could arrange for something to happen to him. Hunting accidents are known to happen. No one is likely to question it.”

It was tempting. “No,” Dyle said. “It’s too early for that. Just see to it that Prince Malef doesn’t do anything that might…bother us.”

“As you wish,” Barnol said.

“What of Felitïa’s latest cronies?” Sam asked. “That army captain and his three men.”

“They’re Kingsguard now,” Barnol replied. “They go where the King goes.”

“Which means they won’t be with the Isyar and the others who stay behind,” Dyle said. “Good.”

“Just what are you planning to do?” Barnol asked.

Vellon laughed, showing those horrid, filed-to-a-point teeth of his. “Should we tell him?”

Dyle shook his head. “Let’s just say I intend to give them something they’ll never expect. You don’t need to know any more. Just inform me the moment Zandrue, Rudiger, and Jorvan leave.”

“Of course,” Barnol said. “Anything else?”

Dyle shook his head. “That will be all. We should be going now.”

“One last thing,” their quiet companion said, standing up from the chaise longue. He walked over to Barnol Friaz, patting Sam’s bald head as he went by. The huge Eloorin did not look impressed.

“What would you like?” Barnol asked cheerfully.

The man dropped a small velvet pouch on the fat Folith’s lap. Barnol looked at it with interest, picked it up and went to draw the string. “Ah ah!” the man said, stroking his moustache. “Wait until after we’re gone to look at it. Just know that it’s to be kept safe until I return for it.”

“Of course!” Barnol said. “Anything you say!”

“What are you up to?” Dyle asked.

“Just preparing for eventualities. You don’t need to know anything else,” the man said, mimicking Dyle’s words the same way he had done in Tyl with Lidda Plavin’s.

Dyle scowled and the scar on his cheek began to itch again. This was another man he was growing impatient to kill.