Princess,”
Priestess Febe explained into the gap. “And long, very sharp claws.
They served as a solution to several problems.”
“Most of which are not relevant at the
moment,” Folcwita Lapo inserted with a quelling glance at the
priestess.
“I imagine I have no time to learn about
them with the enemy literally at our gates.” Oria’s eyes throbbed,
focus blurring in and out, and she pressed her fingertips to them.
“But I will want to hear about them in detail later. Your advice,
Captain?” she managed to say.
“Open the gates, Princess.”
“What? Are you mad?” Folcwita Lapo roared,
slamming his hand on the table.
The literal and emotional impact drove
through Oria’s temples with knifelike intensity. Green fire rolled
across the table, sending the folcwita reeling backwards,
frantically batting at the silk sash of office that had caught
flame. Everyone stared in astonishment at Oria. No—at Chuffta on
her shoulder.
“ I will protect you.” His mind-voice
came through with grim certainty.
“Watch your volume, Folcwita. The princess
is fragile.” Priestess Febe said, with sgath that nevertheless
reverberated. It spread through the room like a cooling balm,
easing Oria’s pain considerably.
“That…that creature ,” the folcwita
sputtered, his fear palpable.
Oria understood his reaction, though she
judiciously hid that thought from Chuffta. The derkesthai Familiar
had never shown aggression like that, typically saving his fire for
roasting bits of meat and vegetables. But then, they’d both been
pressed far that day.
“So far as we know, Princess Oria is the
only functioning member of the royal family we have left,”
Priestess Febe continued. “Let’s do our best not to sacrifice her
this bloody day also. If her Familiar even allows it.”
“Apologies, Princess,” the folcwita
gritted.
Oria nodded at him, saving her energy.
“Explain your reasoning, Captain Ercole.”
He spread his hands, palm up. “We’ve lost.
The gate will be opened. If we fight, every man who does will die
and the gate will still be opened. As long as the gate is closed,
our people outside are trapped away from shelter and succor. They
will be killed and the gate will still open. We might as well offer
our surrender.”
Folcwita Lapo choked out a sound, but
subsided with a wary glance at Chuffta. “I disagree,” he said
softly enough, though his emotions raged. “King Tavlor would never
surrender, Princess. Think of your father, out there battling for
us. Bára cannot simply throw open her gates to the Destrye and
offer her tender belly to the enemy for them to rend and tear. We
must fight with all we have. What would he say upon entering Bára
only to hear you already gave it away?”
“My father is dead.” Oria hadn’t meant to
state it so baldly, but she lacked resources to cushion the words.
As it was, they echoed with hollow finality in the salon, the
morning sunlight pouring in with ironic cheer, a playful breeze
fluttering the sheer curtains framing the windows, hung there to be
drawn on hot afternoons.
“You can’t mean it, Princess,” whispered
Priest Vico. “Queen Rhianna yet lives, I’m told, and she wouldn’t
if…”
“My mother felt him die and, yes, it nearly
killed her, too. I don’t know about my brothers and the other
priests, but we must prepare for the worst news there also. Captain
Ercole is correct. We’ve already lost. Now we must decide what to
do about it. I say we offer surrender.”
“There is another alternative,” the folcwita
said. “We can invite the Trom.”
“That’s hardly a viable option,” Priest Vico
retorted. “We might as well throw ourselves in the chasms.”
“The Trom?” Oria groped for the information,
her mind stupid with overload. Captain Ercole looked similarly
baffled. She recalled the word vaguely from some long-ago tale.
Some sort of mythical elder race?
“These teachings are sacred to the temple
and those who’ve taken the
Priestess Febe explained into the gap. “And long, very sharp claws.
They served as a solution to several problems.”
“Most of which are not relevant at the
moment,” Folcwita Lapo inserted with a quelling glance at the
priestess.
“I imagine I have no time to learn about
them with the enemy literally at our gates.” Oria’s eyes throbbed,
focus blurring in and out, and she pressed her fingertips to them.
“But I will want to hear about them in detail later. Your advice,
Captain?” she managed to say.
“Open the gates, Princess.”
“What? Are you mad?” Folcwita Lapo roared,
slamming his hand on the table.
The literal and emotional impact drove
through Oria’s temples with knifelike intensity. Green fire rolled
across the table, sending the folcwita reeling backwards,
frantically batting at the silk sash of office that had caught
flame. Everyone stared in astonishment at Oria. No—at Chuffta on
her shoulder.
“ I will protect you.” His mind-voice
came through with grim certainty.
“Watch your volume, Folcwita. The princess
is fragile.” Priestess Febe said, with sgath that nevertheless
reverberated. It spread through the room like a cooling balm,
easing Oria’s pain considerably.
“That…that creature ,” the folcwita
sputtered, his fear palpable.
Oria understood his reaction, though she
judiciously hid that thought from Chuffta. The derkesthai Familiar
had never shown aggression like that, typically saving his fire for
roasting bits of meat and vegetables. But then, they’d both been
pressed far that day.
“So far as we know, Princess Oria is the
only functioning member of the royal family we have left,”
Priestess Febe continued. “Let’s do our best not to sacrifice her
this bloody day also. If her Familiar even allows it.”
“Apologies, Princess,” the folcwita
gritted.
Oria nodded at him, saving her energy.
“Explain your reasoning, Captain Ercole.”
He spread his hands, palm up. “We’ve lost.
The gate will be opened. If we fight, every man who does will die
and the gate will still be opened. As long as the gate is closed,
our people outside are trapped away from shelter and succor. They
will be killed and the gate will still open. We might as well offer
our surrender.”
Folcwita Lapo choked out a sound, but
subsided with a wary glance at Chuffta. “I disagree,” he said
softly enough, though his emotions raged. “King Tavlor would never
surrender, Princess. Think of your father, out there battling for
us. Bára cannot simply throw open her gates to the Destrye and
offer her tender belly to the enemy for them to rend and tear. We
must fight with all we have. What would he say upon entering Bára
only to hear you already gave it away?”
“My father is dead.” Oria hadn’t meant to
state it so baldly, but she lacked resources to cushion the words.
As it was, they echoed with hollow finality in the salon, the
morning sunlight pouring in with ironic cheer, a playful breeze
fluttering the sheer curtains framing the windows, hung there to be
drawn on hot afternoons.
“You can’t mean it, Princess,” whispered
Priest Vico. “Queen Rhianna yet lives, I’m told, and she wouldn’t
if…”
“My mother felt him die and, yes, it nearly
killed her, too. I don’t know about my brothers and the other
priests, but we must prepare for the worst news there also. Captain
Ercole is correct. We’ve already lost. Now we must decide what to
do about it. I say we offer surrender.”
“There is another alternative,” the folcwita
said. “We can invite the Trom.”
“That’s hardly a viable option,” Priest Vico
retorted. “We might as well throw ourselves in the chasms.”
“The Trom?” Oria groped for the information,
her mind stupid with overload. Captain Ercole looked similarly
baffled. She recalled the word vaguely from some long-ago tale.
Some sort of mythical elder race?
“These teachings are sacred to the temple
and those who’ve taken the
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