“And Rolan has his daughter—Elliot’s sister,” Tristan said, stunned.
“I fear it goes beyond letting a few hundred soldiers pass undocumented,” Beryk added. “The office also has several seats on the Grand Council; Rolan will try to guarantee at least one vote in his favor.”
“Elliot’s father doesn’t currently have a seat,” the commander corrected, “but no doubt Rolan hopes to make use of his connections there all the same.”
“So what can we do?” Tristan asked the room at large.
His father got to his feet, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he paced the room. “We cannot properly defend the border,” he said, and Tristan immediately opened his mouth to object. The commander silenced him with a hand. “But we can establish a perimeter deeper into Pyra. If we can hold that position, we should be able to keep the majority of the people in Pyra safe—”
“But not all of them,” Tristan interjected. His father spoke over him.
“—while ensuring we don’t play directly into Rolan’s hands. He wants Phoenix Riders seen ‘terrorizing’ the border. We will not give him that.”
“So we let them do what they want? Run unchecked while we watch from a safe distance?”
“What would you have me do, Tristan? Line up our seventeen Master Riders opposite the empire’s hundreds? Or would you have me send the hatchlings as well? Shall we fight battles on multiple fronts, leaving the rest of the province unprotected? We’ll be slaughtered.”
“Better us than the civilians caught in between. Have you seen what happened in Rushlea and Petratec?” Tristan demanded. “Here,” he said, grabbing his report from where he’d left it on the table and flinging it across the surface, where accounts of the damages and the missing or dead were listed plain for all to see. “Look at what happened to Vayle. We can’t leave these people to fend for themselves when it’s because of us that they’re in danger in the first place. We should position Riders in each of the villages at the very least, and some of the stronghold guards too, if we can spare them.”
The commander studied Tristan. “We cannot position Riders in every village—but,” he added, before Tristan could object, “we’ll position some in Vayle. And we’ll garrison Prosperity.”
Prosperity was an ancient outpost updated and heavily expanded by Queen Ellody during her Reign of Prosperity. It actually wasn’t far from Veronyka’s cabin or from Vayle. Tristan could already see the rough line his father was drawing across Pyra and expected they’d also send patrols along the Sekveia, giving them a foothold centrally as well as west and east.
“And what about the Grand Council?” Tristan asked.
“If Rolan intends to argue his case at the Grand Council, then I will argue ours.”
Tristan glanced around at the others. While they still did not appear surprised by the news, they definitely seemed uneasy about it.
“You mean to go into the empire to represent us? But… they’ll kill you on sight!” This time, when Tristan looked at the others, they avoided his gaze entirely. “You were banished, weren’t you? Never allowed to return. You can’t just fly down there. You’d be playing right into their hands.”
“You forget I was once one of these politicians. I know how they think, and I’m certain I can sway enough votes to give us a chance.”
Tristan clenched his hands into fists. His father’s arrogance was so absolute it was impossible to penetrate—like trying to see through a brick wall.
“They do not want a war, despite appearances,” the commander continued. “If there’s one thing the council hates to lose—besides a battle—it’s gold, and there is nothing more costly than war.”
“You trusted these people before!” Tristan shouted, lurching to his feet and causing his chair to scrape loudly against the floor. “You turned yourself in after the Blood War, and look what happened! You lost your position and your wife.”
Tense silence descended over the room, thick and stifling.
His father’s jaw worked. “Your mother made her own choices, Tristan. I would not presume to take credit for them.”
Or blame, Tristan thought darkly. “Who’s going to be stationed at Prosperity?” he asked. “I’d like to volunteer my patrol.”
“Absolutely not,” the commander said. “Prosperity will be the main hub of our defense. I cannot put our greenest patrol on the front lines. And besides,” he continued, his tone one of grim victory, “you’ve forgotten a crucial detail. Your patrol is a Master Rider short. It would be irresponsible of me to send you out undermanned and underprepared.”