Page 98 of While the Dark Remains
“I would defend the peninsula from the Aeronan Empire.”
“Aelia won’t likethat.”
“What do I care what Aelia likes?”
“She certainly didn’t mind seeing you in your bathrobe.”
Vil scowls at me. “I’d keep Skaanda safe, and keep the Iljaria at bay.”
“Keep them at bay, or conquer them?”
We walk in silence a few moments, our shoes thudding on cold stone.
“I suppose it depends,” he says.
“On what?”
He takes a breath, eyes locking hard on mine. “On what the weapon can do. On how powerful it is.”
I have no time to answer; we reach the great hall and step in through the double doors, and it is both a relief and a horror.
Kallias lounges on his ivory throne, which has been centered against the glass wall. All the sky and stars are at his back, as if they, too, are under his control. Ballast stands beside his father, dressed in blue and gray, a gold circlet pressed onto his white-and-black hair. My heart stutters at the sight of him, and I hate that I have not yet taught it to be quiet.
Aelia must have arrived just ahead of us; she’s taking her place beside Kallias and Ballast, her white-and-rose skirt pooling on the marble floor like confectioner’s cream. Vil and I cross the room in her wake. We bow before the king and Kallias smiles at me, slick and cruel.
“Just in time,” he says.
I turn to face the doors as the Iljaria envoys sweep into the hall like great birds of prey. Their leader is jarringly, eerily familiar, and Vil curses under his breath at the sight of him—it’s the arrogant young Iljaria man whose company we passed on the road. His hair is still bound in long white braids, crimped at the end with intricately carved metal beads. Hewears a shirt of thin silver silk, with loose trousers and jeweled sandals, as though he walks the southern shores of the world, where it’s said snow has never once fallen. A jewel bound to his forehead glints every color, and yet none, all at once.
Heis the Prism Master, and his magic is even stronger than I remember from our previous encounter. It writhes round him in tangles of violet and orange, silver and green. It twists and twists, never still. He could tell the universe to heel, I think, and it would have to obey him.
Four other Iljaria follow him, different from his companions on the road. They are dressed in green, white, red, and gray, respectively, and like the Prism Master’s, their robes are made of thin silk. Jewels are bound to their foreheads, each the color of their robes, their magic, and tattoos swirl up their arms. Their presence and their power suffocate me.
Kallias rises lazily from his throne as the Prism Master and his entourage stop a handful of paces away, but gives no word of greeting.
I bow without meaning to, sinking low, low to the floor, and I realize we all are, even Ballast, even Kallias. Because the Prism Master has compelled us with his magic.
I rise again, trying to think around my anger and the mad pulse of my heart. I am so, so tired, of being controlled.
The Prism Master makes no bow in return, his eyes flicking impassively across all our faces. Surely he remembers Vil and me from the road.
His magic chokes me; I have to fight for breath.
“Welcome to my mountain, High Master,” says Kallias. “Welcome to Tenebris.” His tone is casual, but I can see the rage in him, and I want to laugh. He is not used to being in someone else’s control.
“Tenebris does not belong to you,” says the Prism Master. His voice is cool. Dismissive. “It has come to my attention that a truce is being negotiated between Daeros and Skaanda. That concerns Iljaria. I am here to preside over these negotiations.”
“We did not ask you to come,” says Vil.
The Prism Master’s gaze fixes on him. “I never did catch your name, Forsaken one.”
Vil grinds his jaw. “I am Vilhjalmur Stjörnu, crown prince of Skaanda. I thoughtyouwere going to the shrine in the mountains. Since when does anything of actual importance on this peninsula concern the Iljaria,Prism Master?”
One side of the Prism Master’s mouth turns up. “We do not dirty our hands with your wars, Vilhjalmur Stjörnu, but that does not mean we are not watching.” He turns to Kallias. “Is this your welcome of me, little king?”
I think Kallias might implode. He gives the Iljaria man a thin smile. “I met the Prism Master nigh on a decade ago now, here inmy mountain. You are not him, or you have lost all sense of courtesy since then. Can you change your shape by magic, too, when you grow tired of it?”
A muscle jumps in the Prism Master’s face—Kallias has scored a point. “It was my father, Hinrik Eldingar, who you met before.”
