Sonia to announce her before stepping into the council chambers.
“I hate to think,” Quindor said, turning from his appraisal of the table, “what your father would say if he learned you were gallivanting about the countryside in these troubled times, Your Highness.”
“I wished to see the spread of the blight, Grand Master.” Malahi circled the large table, taking her father’s seat, the scorpion of House Rowenes glittering above her head. “It was easier for me to do so in disguise.”
“Surely others could’ve been sent to assess the problem.” Quindor seemed to briefly consider sitting in one of the High Lord’s chairs, then clearly thought better of it, choosing instead to hover near the table. Killian sat between them in his brother’s chair, not caring whether it was his place to do so or not.
“My kingdom,” Malahi said, resting her elbows on the arms of her chair. “My problem.”
Quindor inclined his head. “I didn’t realize that you’d taken such an interest in rule, my lady. Perhaps you might address the state of the crown shelters. They’ve become quite the source of illness.”
“Better than a night with the deimos.”
“It’s just a slower way to die, my lady. We haven’t the resources to treat them all.”
Malahi’s jaw flexed. “I’ll address the issue. But I don’t think that is the reason for this visit, so perhaps you might get to it. I’ve had a trying day.”
“Of course, my lady. It’s a matter of finances.”
Malahi huffed out a breath. “Why am I not surprised? What do you need the gold for?”
“As you know, Highness, the Marked are typically brought to Mudaire for their training,” Quindor said. “Due to the city’s current predicament, we’ve chosen to keep them in Serlania until they are ready to join the King’s army. But the cost of passage has become … prohibitive.”
“What else? You know full well the Crown will bear that expense.”
The Grand Master hesitated, and Killian knew that whatever subject he intended to broach would not be well received.
“Well?” There was an edge to Malahi’s voice that suggested she was of the same mind-set.
“There is a matter of the cost of procurement.”
Silence.
“The temple bears the cost of compensating families,” Malahi said. “It’s not a crown expense.”
“Desperate times make the people less generous, Highness. The coffers grow thin.”
“We’re at war, Grand Master. Everyone’s coffers are thin.”
“Indeed.” Quindor sighed. “However, what I’m referring to is the external sourcing of marked healers.”
Malahi shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“Your father asked me to make arrangements to procure Marked from other kingdoms, and agreed to fund the cost.”
“What do you mean, procure?” The Princess’s voice was acidic.
Quindor was silent, but Killian knew. And it took every ounce of control he possessed to keep his mouth shut.
“Explain yourself.”
“We’ve had a long-standing agreement with King Urcon of Arinoquia,” the healer said.
“Arinoquia has no king,” Malahi interrupted. “Urcon is a clan lord, and a corrupt one at that.”
“Even so”—Quindor’s tone was delicate—“he’s been facilitating arrangements in which Arinoquian families are compensated for allowing their marked children to come to Mudamora for training.”
Spots of color appeared on Malahi’s cheeks. “You mean Urcon’s been selling marked children. And you’ve been purchasing them!”
“Highness, you twist my words.”
“I don’t think I do.” Malahi was on her feet. “You’re talking about buying children. About slavery. And if you think I’m going to provide the funds for such a venture, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Highness, the King approved the transactions. You are in no position to flaunt his—”
“My father won’t be king forever,” she said. “And he isn’t here. If I hear even a whisper that you’ve flaunted my orders in this, I’ll have you kneeling before the headsman, and whatever punishment the Crown might visit upon me won’t be enough to reattach your head.”
Quindor blanched. “That’s sacrilege.”
“Maybe,” spit Malahi. “But so is what you’re doing.”
She turned to walk out, and Quindor reached for her, quick as a viper.
Killian was faster. He knocked the slender man back. “Don’t give me a reason, Quindor.”
“Fools! Don’t you see that there is no other choice? Without healers, Mudamora will lose this war. The Seventh will triumph.”
“And you think he does not triumph when we engage in such behavior?” the Princess demanded.
“They’ve been marked for this fate—to withhold them from it would be blasphemy.”
“I’m not listening to this.” Malahi stormed out of the room.
Killian moved to follow, but Quindor caught his wrist, his grip painfully tight. “Hegeria marked them for a reason. It is the will of the gods that they use their