look?”
“Like trampled rubbish,” she answered with a smile, her teeth serrated bands of white between blue-tinted lips.
“Then why ask?”
“Making conversation.” Shar looked about the chamber. “This isn’t going to be good, is it? What’s happening?”
“No idea. Have you seen Hayden or Omen?” Indris asked. Shar shook her head in response. He swore quietly. “We should’ve left Amnon when we knew which way the wind was blowing. We could’ve avoided this cursed shambles. It wouldn’t have been the first time I abducted a noble for their own good.”
“Which always led to good times.” She grinned. “But it’s not your way, Indris. You’ve a penchant for lost causes, though more often than not they’re the right ones.”
Indris jerked his chin at the crowd around them. “They’d happily argue.”
“Far-ad-din was innocent of—”
“They’re the victors. They’ll write the history. Inconvenient truths will be forgotten soon enough. We survived, though.”
“Again,” she murmured. “Many of my people weren’t so fortunate.”
“They’re my people, too, Shar.” She smiled at him. “Well, half my people, at any rate.”
“Which half would that be?” She looked Indris up and down in his stained browns and blacks, which had known a long count of days. “The shabby half?”
“I prefer to think of it as comfortable.” Indris grinned.
“Of course you do. You know, having been married to one of us isn’t the same as being one of us. You look nothing like a Seethe. A pure-blood Avān, perhaps, though you’re too young by thousands of years.”
Indris fought down the pain of his headache. He wished Ariskander could have removed his shackles. Judging from the looks in the eyes of the upper-caste people in the chamber, Indris wondered whether he was any safer here than with Corajidin.
A woman broke away from the throng. Roshana, Nehrun’s younger sister, a handsome woman with squared jaws and shoulders. She was one of Ariskander’s chief strategists and a soldier of some renown. With her long stride, she quickly covered the distance to Indris and Shar. Nehrun strolled in her wake, his expression dark.
Nehrun gave Indris a condescending sneer. “Welcome back, cousin. Isn’t it enough to disgrace yourself, you have to tarnish our family name, too? Maladûr gaol will be too good a place for the likes of you.”
“I hear it’s nice there.” Indris smiled. Roshana gave a good-natured chuckle. “Can I get a room overlooking the Marble Sea?”
Nehrun stepped forward to within centimeters of Indris’s face. “You deserve to die!”
“You’re a brave little man when your father’s not in earshot, aren’t you? You didn’t have the fire to speak like that to me when Ariskander was around earlier.” Indris leaned toward his cousin, closing what little distance there was between them. He stared into Nehrun’s eyes. The rahn-elect backed away, averting his gaze. “So…been well, Nehrun?”
Nehrun curled his lip in disdain.
“I’d heard you were in the battle,” Roshana said without preamble, her voice surprisingly deep. “It’s true what they’re saying?”
“If it’s bad, probably.”
“They say you”—she also looked at Shar—“the both of you, were fighting for Far-ad-din. Surely you weren’t so foolish? Did you seriously think you’d win?”
“You know what they say. It’s less about winning than being able to walk away afterward. Besides, it was never meant to get so far.” Indris glanced around nervously. Many of those gathered in the room were looking in their direction. Their expressions were neither amused nor friendly. “Rosha, you shouldn’t be—”
“Here we go,” Shar muttered as Feyassin spilled into the room. Conversations stuttered to silence.
Vashne entered, flanked by his white-armored bodyguards, their ornate hexagonal shields held at their waists. The elected ruler of the Avān had the gentle bearing of a man who spent his hours tending flowers and reading books. He did not wear armor or carry a weapon. A simple circlet of black leather, knotted with steel ingots, encircled his high, care-furrowed brow.
As Vashne approached, the gathered nobles of Shrīan took to their knees. Foreheads were pressed to the cold, hard floor, hands extended palms upward. Indris and Shar followed suit. At a gentle word they all sat back on their heels.
The only person who did not take to her knees was Femensetri, Scholar Marshal and Sēq Master. Called the Stormbringer by some, she was the Asrahn’s adviser and confidante. Femensetri’s tall, sickle-topped stave, like the crook of some militant shepherd, rested in the fold of her arms. Shrouded in her hooded over-robe and black cassock, with its row of onyx buttons from throat to groin, the torso bound by fraying strips of leather and iron buckles, she reminded