All through the balance of the night and through the day, Killian had been out in the streets directing the migration of people away from the western quarter of the city where all the wells were, or soon would be, contaminated by blight. Malahi had ordered the doors to the houses of the High Lords be opened, and hundreds of terrified civilians were escorted into those polished manors. Finn’s army of children had been relocated to the Calorian manor, which Hacken had already arranged to have emptied of anything irreplaceable.
But the blight spread swiftly, and with every passing hour the city lost another source of water as the rot crept toward the ocean. And with the skies devoid of clouds, the loss of the city’s well water would soon prove to be catastrophic.
The ships carrying the High Lords and Ladies had been packed to the brims with soldiers and supplies. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough when there were close to a hundred thousand civilians crammed within Mudaire’s walls.
Not enough food.
Not enough water.
And only enough room for two thousand souls aboard the High Lords’ ships when they sailed south. Two thousand, out of a hundred thousand. As for the rest—
“Thank you all for coming.” Malahi’s voice pulled Killian back into the moment, his eyes focusing on the men seated around the table, who were all watching the Princess with interest.
Calorian. Torrington. Hernhold. Trian. Cavinbern. Pitolt. Nivin. The seven High Lords Malahi had set her eyes on as supporters, both Falorn and Serchel having declined the invitation, Damashere and Keshmorn out of her reach given they rode at her father’s side.
“Congratulations on your coming-of-age, Your Highness,” High Lord Pitolt said, the old man’s ruddy jowls shaking. “Seems just yesterday you were a wee bit of a thing. Still are, really. Short stock, the Rowenes clan. Could use a bit of height added to the bloodline, if I do say so myself. My son Rodern—”
“Thank you for your well-wishes, Your Grace,” Malahi said, inclining her head. “But I think given the gravity of the situation, we should move straight to the purpose of us gathering together, which is not for a party. As you all—”
“With respect, Highness…” Hacken rose, gesturing at Malahi to take a seat. “It pains me to remind you, but your presence here is a courtesy. A nod, if you will, to the important role you have played, and will continue to play, in the coming days and months. As is my brother’s.”
His eyes flicked to Killian, and it was all Killian could do to not lift his hand in a universally insulting gesture. But getting himself kicked out of this meeting would be a mistake.
“Of course.” Malahi’s voice was frigid, but she sat in her father’s chair, smoothing the silk of her skirts.
“Thank you, Highness.” Resting his hands on the table, Hacken looked around the chamber, meeting the gaze of each of his fellows in turn. “Gentlemen. We all know why we’re here. Our Royal Army is being pushed back step by step, and with Serrick in command it won’t be long until Mudaire is lost. Until Mudamora is lost.”
The High Lords all nodded and made noises of agreement.
“And yet he refuses to see reason!” Hacken pounded a fist against the table. “This is no simple war between men. This is a war between the gods, and while the Seventh sends his champions to fight, ours languish. Dareena wasted in the North fighting bushmen and Killian reduced to teaching little girls to swing sticks! It’s no wonder our Royal Army falters—the Six must look at us as fools deserving of our fate!”
Killian glowered at the slight against Malahi’s guard, but there was no sense interrupting. Not when Hacken’s goals ultimately aligned with his own.
“But Serrick is the King.” Hacken paused, surveying the group. “And we have not the power to overturn his decisions. We have not the power to send my brother or the High Lady Falorn to take command. And in fairness, it should be said that the High Lady’s absence today demonstrates that she’s washed her hands of responsibility.”
Next to him, Malahi shifted in her chair, but when Killian glanced down, her face was smooth. Serene. Seemingly as entranced in his brother’s performance as the others.
“The only power we have, gentlemen, is to decide whether to keep Mudamora’s crown on Serrick Rowenes’s head or whether we tear it from his brow! And yet…,”—Hacken lowered his voice, scanning the table with