And what of justice? the lawman asked the Mistress of Serpents.
Justice is a beautiful woman, who when courted by numerous suitors, chooses whom to wed by having the men draw straws.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
The memory of Jasminda’s touch still shivered across Jack’s skin. He could have sworn her scent suffused the air. He breathed deeply, fortifying himself as the Council Room filled with grumbling men.
“What is the meaning of this?” the Minister of Finance asked as he stalked in sulkily. “How dare you summon us so early?”
Jack bristled at the man’s tone but held his tongue. Years of commanding the army had accustomed him to a certain amount of respect. Who would have thought that being the Prince Regent would afford him less? But in the eyes of these men he was a less than suitable alternative to his brother, Alariq.
A Council meeting had been on the schedule for the afternoon, yet as soon as Jack had entered his office, still riding on the bubble of elation after leaving Jasminda’s room, he had been brought swiftly back down to earth. He’d asked his secretary to move the meeting to first thing in the morning. “We will begin once everyone arrives,” he said curtly. No trace was evident of the good humor he’d had only an hour before.
When the last minister appeared, Jack took a deep breath. He opened the folder before him and pulled out a curling sheet of paper.
“I received this early this morning. It appeared in my offices. And when I say appeared, I mean it popped into existence in midair right over my desk.”
Gasps came from around the table. Jack cringed recalling how he’d plucked the page from the air, feeling the residual vibrations of Earthsong on the single sheet.
“It pertains to the True Father’s terms for peace.”
Another round of gasps and murmurs resonated.
Jack ran his fingers across the letter. He had read it over and over again and could almost recite it by heart. He peered at every shocked face around the table, then repeated each word.
“It has come to the attention of the beloved leadership of the Republic of Lagrimar that preparations for war are being made by the Principality of Elsira. While We assert Our right to pursue the protection of Our people against the ambition and reckless dominance of all outsiders, We acknowledge that a peaceful and permanent solution to the many years of strife between our lands would be advantageous.
“Our offer is peace in exchange for the immediate return of every Lagrimari within the borders of the Elsiran principality. Our people are Our greatest resource, and it is within Our right to negotiate for their safe return to home soil.
“The entire power of Our crown is united behind this generous offer of peace. If Our people are returned within three days, a guarantee will be made to honor all current borders in perpetuity for the length of Our reign and to immediately cease and desist any actions that may be deemed by the Principality of Elsira as acts of war.
“In witness whereof We have hereto set Our hand the eighth day of the tenth month this five hundred and twelfth year of Our reign.”
Silence descended. Jack released the paper and let it fall back onto the table.
“The refugees,” Minister Nirall, Lizvette’s father, said under his breath.
“Yes,” Jack replied. “He’s promising to abandon whatever scheme he has for destroying the Mantle if we return them.”
Zavros Calladeen, Minister of Foreign Affairs, leaned forward, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “But why all of a sudden? Of what military value are they?”
Nirall shook his head. “Women, children, old men. Some of the children may have powerful witchcraft, but would that prompt the offer of permanent peace?”
“Perhaps this is a blessing from the Sovereign. After all, these refugees”—Pugeros, the Minister of Finance, spat the word out like he would a rotten bite of food—“are already straining the Principality’s coffers. With this year’s abominable harvest and the increase on import tariffs out of Yaly, we are already facing difficult financial waters. The latest debacle with the King of Raun means an even more dire situation for our economy. We simply cannot afford to provide food and care for the refugees for too long. At most we could support them for a few weeks.”
Jack was incredulous. “Then we take out a loan.” Guffaws sounded from around the room. He raised his voice. “And we work to educate the people on why ejecting political refugees is not only a callous move but is fundamentally un-Elsiran. We would send these women, children, and elders back into the grip of a madman?”
“Your Grace is surely not suggesting that we destroy what’s left of our economy and plunge ourselves further into debt for a handful of savages?” Pugeros asked.
Jack slammed his hand on the table. “What of our honor?”
Calladeen’s voice was low and measured. “Honor is not about doing what is right in a vacuum of consequences. Honor is doing the hard thing and letting history determine your legacy.” He quoted words Alariq had said many times. Jack wanted to punch him in the face.
“There is international precedent,” Stevenot said. “We are under no obligation to burden ourselves with their care.”
“This is not a financial question, gentlemen, but a moral one,” said Nirall. A former professor and the Minister of Education and Innovation, he was most often the voice of compassion and reason. “They are fleeing a brutal dictator. We must treat them the same way we’d treat our own women and children. There must be a way to find enough resources to care for them all.”
“Minister Nirall.” The timbre of Calladeen’s voice resonated as he addressed his uncle formally. Calladeen, the youngest on the Council save Jack, owed his position as Minister of Foreign Affairs not to his uncle’s influence but to his own keen intelligence, politicking, and ruthless ambition. “I visited this camp the Sisterhood has erected, and much as I would like to feel sorry for these refugees, I am moved by something less like pity and more like suspicion to see them crossing our borders in such increasing numbers.”
“Surely, you do not suppose that those miserable creatures could be spies? I’m told they practically kiss Elsiran soil when they arrive,” Nirall replied.
“Never forget their witchcraft,” said Calladeen. “This Earthsong they possess is dangerous. What is to stop them from bringing down a violent storm or a rockslide or a fire?”
Jack simmered just below a full boil. He’d never understood what Alariq saw in Calladeen. “Earthsong saved my life. On more than one occasion. Like anything else, its bearer determines whether it’s a weapon or a blessing. Now is there a chance there are spies among them? Certainly. But does that mean we turn our backs on all those seeking aid?” Jack shook his head. “A Lagrimari man is the only reason the coming war is not a surprise, unlike every other breach. Instead of treating them as enemy agents, we should be trying to learn from them, gaining additional intelligence, and working together to find a way to stop the True Father.”
“That is a naive way of looking at things, Your Grace,” Calladeen said haughtily. “The Lagrimari are not tacticians. Additional intelligence has never defeated them. Superior force, training, and discipline have done that for nearly five hundred years.”
Jack bit his tongue, recalling the Fifth Breach veterans’ story. Intelligence and tactics had indeed won the day fifty years ago. Not even the Council knew the truth of what really ended that war. Nor were they likely to believe him if he told them. “Things are changing, Minister Calladeen. My time embedded with the enemy showed me that. We cannot be so arrogant.”
Calladeen seethed. If he thought he could intimidate Jack with a stare down, he was wrong. While these men might have been superior politicians, Jack was no stranger to conflict. And he would not back down from a battle.
He ground his teeth together. “And what makes you think the True Father would keep this promise of peace? What confidence do we have in his word?”
“We have negotiated peace treaties before,” Pugeros said.
“And they have all been broken. Whether in five years, fifty, or one hundred, there is always another breach!” Jack stood suddenly, his heavy chair sliding against the floor with a groan. “He wants out of that Sovereign-forsaken desert he’s been stuck in. That hasn’t changed. What happens when we return the refugees and the Mantle falls anyway? He will be that much more powerful before he comes to invade us. We have no leverage here.”
“It is a risk,” Stevenot said thoughtfully.
“A great one,” said Nirall, adjusting his spectacles. “We will need time to consider the ramifications. We have three days to decide. Let us table this for the moment to give it the proper reflection.” He looked to Jack for confirmation. But Jack shook his head.
“There is nothing to consider. We are honorable Elsirans. Let’s start behaving as such. I want the latest budget audit on my desk this afternoon.” Pugeros visibly paled. “We will find the funds to care for those seeking refuge in our land. No excuses.”
Jack’s pronouncement was met with withering gazes from almost every seat at the table. He didn’t care what they thought, he just wanted it done.
He moved toward the door, needing to get out of the airless room and all of the closed-minded intolerance. Perhaps Alariq would have dealt with the situation more diplomatically, but Jack was a soldier. He gave orders, and they were followed. Couldn’t these men see that if they gave in to the True Father’s demands, they would not be so unlike him? Jack couldn’t—he wouldn’t allow Elsira to sink into unfeeling barbarism. He’d thought the war was against a foreign enemy, when really he just might have to save his land from itself.