Tasia located the speaker. He was a dark-skinned lord wearing a cream-colored head wrap, with a single long, black braid emerging from the wrap and draping over one shoulder. Oiled and flawless, the shiny braid hung almost to his lap.
Lord M’Tongliss of Terinto. Tasia had met him once at a state dinner. He was a man who seemed perpetually on the brink of amusement, just as he did now, even while addressing the Emperor. As if the war, the council meeting, and everything else was a festival play he watched for the sake of entertainment.
“Due to the proximity of Terinto to the front, we receive a fair number of the army’s deserters,” Lord M’Tongliss said.
This statement sent a wave of low mutters of surprise through the council room.
“Deserters!” someone exclaimed.
“Most of those running from their duties are found dead in the dunes, of course,” the Lord said, continuing as if he had not heard the whispered conversations around him. “Tribesmen bring me the few who survive. They tell stories of an Imperial Army half-starved, half-frozen, and of troops so disheartened that they can hardly be cajoled into picking up their swords.”
“I’m sure that is not true,” Norix said quickly. “The soldiers of the Imperial Army are highly trained and well-supplied. They are brave defenders of the Empire.”
Lord M’Tongliss stroked his short, pointed black beard with one hand. “Perhaps,” he said. “But the flame-ringed demons who fight alongside the barbarians would certainly be enough to frighten any man.”
There was a moment of stunned confusion around him, but then the low laughter began.
The Terintan carried on as if nothing he said had been particularly remarkable. “Even I, who wear this turban of leadership — ” he tapped the cream-colored head wrap “ — and am known as the fiercest warrior of my tribe. I would never desert my people, but I know I would quake with fear if confronted with a demon.”
Words mingled with chuckles, spreading out from Lord M’Tongliss the way rings in a lake spread once a pebble is dropped. One of the lords sitting at the side of the room laughed so hard that the tea he had been sipping spewed out from his mouth and onto the ambassador sitting across from him.
Tasia had an urge to glance behind her at Joslyn, to see how the guard had reacted to the words of this Lord of Terinto, but it would be inappropriate to appear distracted. And besides that, she knew that the stoic Joslyn would not so much as blink while focused on her guard duties.
“Did you really say demons?” asked an ambassador once he finished laughing. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. “Flame-ringed?” He seemed about to say something else, but another fit of giggles overtook him, and he doubled over, slapping his palm hard against his thigh as he laughed.
“Enough,” the Emperor boomed, and the laughter and conversations tapered off. “I care nothing for the nonsense of these so-called demons,” he said, “but General Remington has informed me of recent reports suggesting high numbers of desertions and low troop morale. General Remington has been in communication with General Telek at the front and I assure you that the matter will be resolved.” He paused a moment, his eyes roaming the council room. “You lords and ambassadors are concerned that this war has carried on for far too long. I am concerned as well. That’s why we intend to make this year’s spring offensive the largest offensive to date. We will crush the barbarians once and for all, and generations will go by before anyone dares to challenge our border again.”
The remainder of the council meeting went by swiftly, with General Remington reading off his parchment how many men and what kinds of supplies the Empire required each Great and Minor House to give. This induced many unhappy grumbles, but all the lords and ambassadors accepted the Empire’s requests in the end. What choice did they have but to accept, really?
Unless they wanted to oust the Emperor and seize the crown for themselves. Tasia found her eyes roaming from face to face, wondering once more which of these lords was unhappy enough with her father that they would try to kill her, wondering if they might be conspiring even now to overthrow the House of Dorsa, the only royal family the Empire had ever known.
11
Tasia grunted, her bare feet sliding in the sand as she struggled to lift the rock to the top of the heap. When she at last managed to get it there, she bent forward, panting, hands on her hips as she struggled to catch her breath.
Her hands ached, red and tender from the task of carrying one rock after another to the pile. At least last week’s blisters had healed.
“Don’t stop yet, Princess,” said Joslyn from somewhere behind her. “There are still three more stones to go.”
Mylla must’ve heard the guard from her spot on the blanket a few paces away. Shading her eyes from the sun, she called out to Tasia, “Only three left? You’re getting faster, thank the gods. Hurry up, I’m hungry.”
Tasia straightened, brushing her sandy hands on the back of the baggy men’s trousers she’d rolled up to her knees. She looked longingly at Mylla, clean and dry in a new spring dress and sunhat, buttering fresh bread.
“Princess — ” Joslyn started.
“Yes, yes, I know. Three more.”
Tasia turned away from Mylla, towards the pile of stones that seemed impossibly far away at the other end of the beach. She took off for them at a jog, angling towards the wet sand closer to the surf so that the dry sand would stop scorching her feet.
Gods was the sun hot today.
Joslyn seemed completely unaffected by the heat; she stood in the black leathers of the palace guard as always, arms crossed against her chest as the breeze from the ocean blew her shoulder-length hair sideways behind her. How could she possibly be comfortable in this heat? Then again, she was from the desert.
Tasia wanted to shout at the woman as she passed, ask the guard how moving boulders up and down the beach could be considered self-defense training, but Tasia didn’t have enough breath to waste it on words. It was work enough to run to the stones without collapsing.
Self-defense, she thought bitterly as she half-ran, half-stumbled through the sand.
But the maddeningly practical guard had already explained her reasoning to Tasia. She’d calmly explained that Tasia needed to build a basic level of strength and endurance first if anything else she taught the Princess was to have any value.
Three days after that, when the blisters were at their worst, Tasia had marched into her father’s chambers to complain, the guard trailing behind at her heels.
She showed the Emperor her blisters.
“Her idea of teaching me to defend myself is to have me run up and down the beach, carrying stones so heavy I can barely lift them!” Tasia had said, jabbing an accusatory finger at Joslyn.
Tasia’s father was silent for a moment, stroking his beard as he sat behind his heavy desk. Then he chuckled — smiling not at Tasia, but at the guard.
“Well done,” he said, addressing Joslyn.
Tasia hadn’t tried to get her father to intercede again after that. It was clear that she was on her own when it came to the spiteful guard’s agenda.
She reached the three stones still left in the pile and bent to pick up the one on top. It wouldn’t budge. She tried again.