“What can she possibly hope to accomplish? I’d assumed the alliance was a ploy, a step in some long-term plan for political union. But to actually invade?” She shook her head. “Perhaps Ferny Cove pushed her over the edge.”
“Perhaps it started as a ploy,” Cyncaidh suggested, “and got out of control. At any rate she’s playing into my hands. And Quaie’s as well.”
Quaie. The Rude Lands alliance had already increased his influence. The man frightened her. The only time she’d met him, at a palace banquet, his eyes had done more than undress her. If she ever fell into his hands, it seemed to her her fate would be worse than the captured Sisters’ at Ferny Cove; he’d keep her alive longer. For she was not only one of what he referred to in his circulars as “Sarkia’s brood of witches”; she was Cyncaidh’s wife.
Don’t think like that! she told herself sharply. It’s not the sort of situation to create in your subjective world. It might start solidifying!
Quaie’s hatreds were extravagant and beyond understanding. He scorned humans; seemingly hated any of them not subject to ylvin authority. But most conspicuously he hated Sisters; they were his most cherished hatred, particularly since Ferny Cove. And he hated anyone who opposed him, notably her husband. Like most hatreds, Quaie’s were no doubt rooted in fear, though of what, even A’duaill hadn’t discerned.
In a sense, he seemed to disdain even the talent that marked his own race. A large majority of ylver lit fires without tinder or flint, protected themselves from insects by weaving repellent fields, speeded their own healing. Like strength, intelligence and beauty, talent varied between individuals; that was understood. But some, a small percentage, disapproved of or distrusted those whose talent went beyond their own. Which included most who ruled. These disapprovers weren’t a political faction, but they saw in Quaie a kindred soul, and supported him.
Varia wondered what A’duaill might find if he were free to interrogate Quaie as he had her the summer before.
Her reverie was interrupted by a serving girl with their cart, and she became aware that her husband had been watching her. He smiled ruefully. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned Quaie,” he said, and spread jam on a toasted muffin.
She smiled back, also ruefully. “It’s odd,” she said, “to think of you two having any common ground at all. I suppose Murdoth will be there this morning.”
“He’s sure to be.”
“He’s as bad as Quaie.”
Cyncaidh chuckled. “Not really. But he’s often thorny where Quaie would be oily.”
Varia made a face. “Oily and venomous.”
As she spread her toast, she deliberately turned her thoughts to Curtis. He’d no doubt left Illinois for Washington County, where his life would be ruled largely by weather and the other straightforward realities of farming. She’d cleared him for the long ylvin youth. What ill effects might that have on him now, without her? He’d probably remarry, then watch his wife and children age. No doubt he’d have to leave them eventually. Washington County had no place for a man forever twenty-five years old.
If it hadn’t been for Idri . . . If it hadn’t been for Idri, she wouldn’t be here with Raien.
Cyncaidh didn’t break in on her reveries again that morning. By her face as much as her aura, it was best to leave her with them.
The emperor’s council room had one large oval table, around which sat the council’s dozen members, none of whom looked older than twenty-five, though at least one or two besides the Emperor had passed eighty. There were also two recording secretaries armed with piles of slender graphite crayons, and two consultants, one of them Varia, for her knowledge of the Sisterhood.
The other was a Captain Docheri from Morghild’s command, who’d worn out a series of post horses in four eighteen-hour days of hard riding, to report. Since arriving last night, he’d slept seven hours, then been wakened gray-faced and groggy, to wash, dress, and eat before the meeting.
Cyncaidh read the report aloud to the Council. It was sobering, though it had less information than he’d expected. The southern commander’s strategy was described—the unexpectedly early crossing, the landing at Parnston instead of Curryville, and the forced march of units to Inderstown to complete the crossing more quickly. It also described the smashing foray of the Kormehri cavalry, identified with certainty by their uniforms and by questioning wounded prisoners. And by their war cry, “Ferny Cove.”