The second she was out of Casser’s sight, Larc began to run. She ran through the icy halls of the Palace, down the steps and across the long King’s Bridge, through quiet streets and the bustling Market. She kept running until she reached the steps of the Council, where she paused to incline her head briefly to Cataya’s statue and nodded a greeting to the Heritage acolyte standing watch. Once inside the building, she walked as briskly as decorum would allow up the wide, imposing halls of the Council Hall. She hadn’t realized she was so late. She could not miss this, the most important Council meeting in years, perhaps of her entire life. She wanted to know if Iskalon would go to war, if the King would assume martial law, if the Guilds would give way, if they would fight it.
The Council Hall was full to bursting, and Larc had to push her way through aggressively. Bodies pressed together to make way for her. A nasal voice droned above the white noise of shuffling people. The benches were full, so she stood just inside the door, behind the blue tiled columns that ringed the room. She had never seen the Council this crowded.
Councilman Wyfus stood in the center of the room, speaking slowly. His robes were made of gleaming lakehide. The Fishing Guildsman was old for a human, his skin hanging in wrinkles over his wiry frame, his thin white hair sticking out haphazardly from a blotchy scalp, but he was far from senile. As Speaker for the Council, Representative of one of the strongest Guilds in Iskalon, he wielded his power with ruthless cunning. He could speak for chime after chime about nothing at all, simply to wear down his opponents. Larc disagreed with the old man often, but she could not help but admire his technique. It appeared doddering; it appeared unintentional and ineffective. But it almost always worked exactly as Wyfus intended. Often when the benches were opened for debate, no one even remembered what topic had been presented at the beginning of his speech. Today, already, yawns and shuffling noises came from the benches.
“ . . . give only three precedents for this sort of thing. The first was two centuries after Her Majesty Queen Cataya's reign, during the Red Raids . . .”
Larc strained on her tiptoes, trying to see who was in attendance. Every one of the thirty-five stone chairs was occupied by a Guild representative, a rare occurrence. The powerful Councilors, like hulking Mowat of the Livestock Guild, and willowy Cygnet of the Gem Guild, sat up front. Zerid of the Weaver Guild whispered to Jold of the Tanning Guild. Mayl of the Heritage, not a true Guild but represented in any case, had a place of honor beside Wyfus’ vacant chair. Further back sat the scribes, water-clock engineers, cooks, miners, fungal farmers.
“ . . . argue that the same division is not present. . .”
Though the Icers were considered a Guild, the King was officially their representative, so no Icer sat with the Councilors. On the opposite side of the room, in the center of a raised dais, King Krevas sat on the most elaborate chair, cushioned with powder ice, wearing the mighty crown of Iskalon, its tall blue diamond spires catching the lights in the room and sparkling like ice. Websilk robes hugged his lithe form. General Zental sat to his left in chirsh armor, Casser’s seat next to him empty, and to his right sat the two elder Princesses, Maudit and Jelina, resplendent in websilk dresses and sparkling tiaras.
Someday, when she had put in her time on the benches and risen in the political ranks, Larc hoped to be an advisor, sitting behind the King and murmuring secrets into his ears so he would know what he faced in the opposition. More than anything, she wanted that role. She wanted to pry out secret dealings, to organize networks of spies within the Guilds, to understand where all the Guilds stood on every issue. She wanted to dwell in the center of Iskalon politics.
“ . . . a question of succession; the previous leader died and the inheritance was unclear. . .”
King Krevas’ attention did not waver from Wyfus, but his advisors were scanning the crowd, looking for reactions and revelations on the faces of the people.
“ . . . I do not think there will be a question of succession here, Majesty. Unless I am mistaken, at least one of your thirteen lovely daughters will be Queen.”
That drew a few chuckles from the council. Krevas' patient face did not change, but Maudit glared at the room. Larc strained to see over the heads in front of her. Had dry, shriveled up old Wyfus actually attempted a joke?
“The last . . .”
A susurration of websilk shuffles announced the crowd parting for Stasia’s arrival, and Larc looked up, distracted, as her friend was escorted to the benches by Casser and Glace. A Lord in lapis-speckled websilk robes stood so Stasia could take his seat. Casser walked behind the council chairs and quietly slipped in beside Zental, and Glace retreated and leaned on a column opposite Larc. Their eyes met briefly and Glace nodded a silent greeting.
Larc looked over the crowd on the benches with the eyes of an advisor. They were a mix of petite Icer Lords and Ladies in their finest websilk, and lesser Guildsmen, in an array of leathers, lakehide, and fine-spun chirsh. The other nine princesses sat beyond Stasia on the first benches, their tiaras distinguishing them from the ordinary Ladies.
Larc did not linger over what gems were worn by whom or which Lord was flirting quietly with which Lady, as another observer might. She was gauging reactions to Wyfus’ monologue. He was actually addressing the topic at hand, martial law, and he seemed to be succeeding in swaying the public opinion. Even his usual opponents were nodding their heads, not out of impatience but agreement. Many of the yawners and shufflers on the benches had decided looks on their faces, as if they knew where they stood already. King Krevas revealed nothing in his solid, kindly face, merely listened attentively and politely, perhaps a little indulgently, as if his grandfather were relating a tale of his youth. Set slightly behind him, his advisors leaned in to whisper to him from time to time. Larc's heart burned with envy. What would she whisper in his ear, if she sat on the dais? Would she tell him to forget about martial law, and, when the time came to make the ruling, accept the apparent wishes of Iskalon? Or should he take control without heeding the people; should he simply act? The second choice might set him up as a tyrant. Tyrants, in Iskalon history, had been dethroned. But if he did not declare martial law, could he garner the support he needed to defend the realm?
It would be hours, perhaps even days, before they would know. Krevas and his advisors must remain silent, other than quiet whispers, until Wyfus and the other councilors had presented their arguments. Then the benches would be opened, and any Guild member allowed to share his or her opinion. That was Larc's favorite time, because it meant she could participate, and her strong voice helped her speak above all the others in the debate. It was a time of chaos, confusion, excitement. Once the issue had been thoroughly debated, the Council would carry the proposal forth to the King for a ruling. Krevas could rule any way he wished, and Iskalon would obey. However, if he ignored the outcome of the debate, if he ruled against the wishes of the majority, he would face increasing resistance and obstinacy from the council. Longer and longer periods would pass without proposals being carried to him, and he would find the political wheels of Iskalon clogged, just like the gears of the waterclock sometimes clogged, stopping time. If he ignored the people too often, he would end up with rebellion. Larc envied his advisors, but she did not envy him in the least bit. She would not have wanted to make the final decisions that could keep the realm together, or rip it asunder.
All too soon, Fifth Chime sounded, and the Council broke for lunch recess. Larc clung to a column as a wave of bodies pressed together, hurrying out to Market to buy lunch from the Cooking Guild stalls. She saw Stasia rise, looking a little bleary. Had she been sleeping? Glace shadowed his charge as the crowd parted for her and the other princesses. The councilors filed neatly out a door in the back of the King's dais, and the King and his advisors stood and stretched as Palace servants brought in covered platters. Larc watched the benches, too excited to leave. As soon as a spot in the front row opened up, she pounced on it, sitting firmly, hoping a princess wouldn't demand it from her. She cared little for sitting, but when the floor was opened to the benches, she could stand on it for extra height, to add strength to her argument. That was well worth missing lunch.
Her stomach grumbled and she focused her mind, preparing herself to argue. Iskalon must be defended, must be united. The King could not wait through endless Council meetings in order to get permission to move troops here, to take prisoners there, to set up barricades in that tunnel. The Flames would not wait on a Council to make their moves. Sitting straight on the hard bench, nearly shaking in anticipation, Larc noticed Krevas watching her from the dais as he picked at a bowl of pickled fish with slender golden chopsticks. She acknowledged his gaze by standing and giving him a neat curtsey. When she sat again she brushed her bangs out of her face. The King set his chopsticks in the dish and returned her gesture with a salute, single fist to his heart. A wave of confidence washed from Larc’s toes all the way to her throat. The King noticed her. He had saluted her like a warrior. He knew she was coming to battle for him.
The King had picked up his lunch again, and Larc looked away politely. She felt invigorated and reassured. The King himself knew she was a warrior. She would fight with her voice.
The hall filled again, and the benches grew crowded. Stasia entered, and gave Larc a smile and a wave before sitting. Larc smiled back and glanced down the benches. All the princesses had their seats; hers was secure.
Wyfus started right where he had left off. Larc listened carefully, arguing his points in her mind. True, martial law could weaken the foundations of Iskalon. But if it was not declared, there might not be an Iskalon left. And it was temporary. Krevas had never acted as a dictator, never overstepped his power. There was no reason to believe he would not return control to the Council once the threat was defeated. She argued so vigorously in her own mind that she nearly spoke out loud.
All at once the crowd behind her shuffled loudly, skirts rustling and jewelry clinking. She glanced back, and saw that someone was pushing through the crowd. Another latecomer? As he passed the benches Larc saw that it was Colonel Kiner, with one of his scouts in tow. Larc liked Kiner; he had an infective laugh and a jolly personality, though he did not have much patience for incompetence. He had started as a scout, and risen quickly to Colonel. Kiner did not stop at the benches, but walked right onto the Council floor, through the seats of astonished, indignant Councilors, pausing to give Wyfus a quick, apologetic salute, and knelt in front of Krevas. Wyfus went silent, too shocked to protest. The King regarded Kiner coldly. Larc shivered. He had better have a good reason for interrupting.
“My King, councilors, Ancestors, please forgive my intrusion.” Kiner stood, still facing the King. “Scout Terean comes from the furthest post in the Spiral Tunnel. Please listen to his report.” He nudged Terean forward. Larc could only see the back of the scout’s head, but she could imagine his fear, at addressing the King in the middle of a full Council.
“The Flame army is mobile, Majesty. They are coming up the tunnel swiftly, and they are—they are on fire, my King.”
“On fire?” Krevas spoke quietly.
“Their bodies burn as they walk, Majesty. I could not get close enough to see more. The heat was great, and they smoked, a choking, hot, black smoke.”
Krevas turned and addressed General Zental. “Send a platoon down the Spiral Tunnel. I want regular reports on the Flame army’s progress. Do not engage unless they see you and attack.”
Before the King had finished speaking, Zental was on his feet. He and Kiner and the scout exited the Council Hall together, through the back. Larc could see them running down the hall before the door banged shut. An invasion. Despite the fact that it was all the council had talked about for the last few sessions, Larc could scarcely believe it. Looking around at the stunned faces, she knew she was not alone. She could almost feel the fear rising from the crowded council. She had never heard this room so silent. She thought she could hear her own heart beating. Across the floor, a scribe’s gold plates clinked, and the sound echoed throughout the hall before the scribe silenced it.
Krevas turned to face the Council again. He was silent, but his expression was clear. His eyes bored into Wyfus. Larc thought she would have collapsed on the floor, under that gaze.
Wyfus did not collapse. He stood his ground. He turned away from the dais, and looked over the Council and the benches. Larc caught a glimpse of his face. Normally dull and unexpressive, a foreign emotion rested there—his face was pinched in terror. He turned again, walked forward and knelt in front of Krevas.
“Majesty, the Council brings forth the proposal that martial law be declared for the duration of the invasion. Let it be noted that this proposal has not received full debate on the floor. The Speaker assumes unanimity. If any wish to withdraw the proposal for debate, let them speak now.”
Only silence met his words.
“The Proposal is set forth.” Wyfus withdrew, returning to his seat, to await the King's ruling. Krevas stood. This was his chance to speak. When he did, his voice was loud, clear, and strong.
“From this day forth, martial law is in effect. We are all part of the Warrior Guild. Go, gather your families, and prepare to fight, to the death if need be, to defend the realm.”
And that was all. Krevas stepped from the dais and hurried from the room, shadowed by his advisors. Larc sat on the bench, watching people file out, looks of numb horror on their faces. Some people were chanting verses about Iskalon's greatness. She had still not adjusted to the idea that Iskalon was actually being invaded. She felt deflated. She had been ready to fight tooth and nail for martial law, and it had happened without her help. She was a Warrior in Council, but in real battle she was useless. Like all Icers, she had served her mandatory year in the Iskalon army. It had been uncomfortable at the best of times, terrifying at the worst. Her talents lay in healing and debating, not fighting.
She glanced down the bench, and saw that Stasia was sitting a few paces away from her, staring at the empty council chairs. She would have expected her friend to take the first chance to leave. Larc slid down the now empty bench and sat next to Stasia.
Stasia looked up and Larc saw a thrill shining in her eyes. “Can you believe it, Larc?” Stasia took her hands, and Larc held her fingers, amazed by her friend's reaction. “A chance to really fight. They will need all the Icers they can muster, to protect the Kingdom. We will send those Flames back to their tunnels with their tails between their legs!”
Larc shook her head at her friend’s innocence. As if the King would allow his own daughter to be endangered by actual fighting. Still, it was hard not to be swayed by the glow in Stasia's yellow-green eyes. Larc glanced up at Glace. His scarred face was hard as the stone column he leaned against. Larc pitied him his task. Stasia would not make it easy for him to protect her.
Already, the princess was standing, ready for action. “Come. Father will be convening a war council. We must be there! I’ll try to sneak you in; everyone will be too distracted to notice.”
Larc allowed herself to be pulled along. She kept her misgivings inside. Stasia did not seem to understand just how dire the situation was. When they left the hall and walked through the crowded Market, the lights on the Palace seemed dim. There was a quietness to the conversations they passed, an oppressiveness hanging in the vast cavern of Iskalon. Larc remembered the one other time she had felt this way—she had been sixteen years old and her mother was lying ill. The same bleakness had hovered in the sickroom before Mother succumbed to the exhaustion sickness that took all Icers once their vaerce were gone.
Larc hummed softly to herself, a simple victory tune, and the darkness seemed to lift a little.