Blackbourne rears back. “Rykard, the mad one?”
“If it makes one mad to fight against the Anarki who killed his sister, then yes.”
“He’s not Privileged,” Camden argues. “He does not meet the qualifications.”
“I propose a change to the Social Order, then. How can we effectively govern all when only one class is represented among us? If Mr. d’Arc is correct, and the Deprived are planning an uprising, might we not quell their anger by nominating one of their own?”
“This is quite abrupt,” Spencer argues.
“So is replacing a Councilman who’s been brutally murdered in his own home.” Bram sends him a tight smile.
“Eh…indeed.” Spencer’s shoulders sag.
“Honestly, I see no reason to refuse. It would be bad press during these difficult times if word reached the Deprived that we refused to consider a change in the Social Order to possibly include one of their own. Imagine the fervor to rise up then.”
The old Bram—the master politician who could charm or manipulate anyone—takes charge. Thank fuck the darkness Mathias left behind hasn’t destroyed his political instincts.
“I assure you,” Mathias speaks suddenly. “I can quiet them.”
“The way you have the ‘rogue’ elements of the Anarki?”
Bram’s question is perfectly pointed. And with it, he takes his life in his hands. Neatly, Bram has boxed Blackbourne and Spencer into a corner.
“Clearly not,” Tynan adds. “Or my grandfather would be with us.”
With that, Bram calls for a vote. Given that they have no logical argument, as they are suddenly espousing change though they’ve eschewed it for centuries, the Council elders all agree, some clearly more reluctant than others, to change the Social Order to allow Deprived Council representation.
“Any other objections to Rykard’s nomination?” Bram challenges.
Dead silence.
I swallow a lump of nerves. A blast of amazement whooshes over me. The nomination to the Council seat that should have been mine two hundred years ago is now in my grasp. It should be sweet victory that the very man responsible for my defeat is now my unwilling champion, but I can’t spare a thought for petty irony now. Revenge isn’t sweet—or even my motive. Gailene’s memory and Sabelle’s love…nothing else matters. Putting the past to rest. Getting my future on track.
One step closer…
“Shall we schedule the official vote for, say, three days hence at my estate?” Blackbourne queries. “That will give each of us time to carefully consider our votes.”
And give Mathias a time and location where he can devise a plan to kill every Council member and instantly rule all magickind? Give everyone a glimpse of my magical signature that will display to all the fact that I Called to Sabelle?
I gape across the table from Bram, ready to stand and protest. The other three wizards at the table beat me to it.
“I think times may be too critical to wait,” Bram argues. “Everyone is present, and I see little reason for the delay.”
Heart stuttering, I listen as the others grumble their agreement. Then suddenly, they’re voting.
“I vote Mathias d’Arc,” Blackbourne, the eldest, says, not surprisingly.
“As do I,” Spencer chimes in.
My jaw clenches. I held out some hope, no matter how little, that Spencer was swayed to vote with Bram. But clearly not.
“I vote Rykard,” Sterling MacTavish tells the others.
“Become Rion’s lapdog, have you?” Spencer taunts.
“It’s better than being Blackbourne’s bitch.”
Despite the tension in the room, I laugh. I don’t know the MacTavish clan well. I always avoided them because of their association with the Rions. But now, I somewhat like the outspoken wizards.
