“And the funds?” Symeon asked.

“Gone, sire. I know not where.”

The Kingpriest’s rosebud lips whitened, as did his knuckles as he gripped the arms of the throne. The courtiers looked at one another uneasily. Ilista watched Symeon carefully, looking for signs. His fury could be terrifying, but she had learned it was usually short-lived and could be tempered by reason. That was her job and the other advisers’. Today would be difficult, however, for Kurnos was every bit as upset as the Kingpriest. She exchanged glances with Loralon, who nodded. The next few moments would be crucial.

Kurnos stepped forward before either of them could speak. “Majesty, if I might offer counsel?”

Symeon nodded. “Of course, Aulforo. We value your wisdom, as always.”

The First Son wasn’t looking very wise. His hands trembled, and his face had tightened into a fearsome scowl. When he spoke, his voice was like a drawn bowstring.

“These bandits have gone too far,” said Kurnos. “Tax collectors are one thing, but to attack a member of the clergy…” He trailed off, shaking his head, then took a deep breath. “Sire, I believe we should strike back, with force.”

Gasps rang out across the audience hall, followed by hushed whispers. Ilista stepped forward, her mouth opening, but Symeon stopped her with a look and turned back to Kurnos.

“Go on.”

“It would only take a part of the imperial army,” the First Son explained. “Perhaps a legion or two. They would make short work of these brigands.”

Ilista could contain herself no longer. “These brigands are the folk of Taol,” she interjected. “You recommend a military attack on our own people?”

Around the court, folk nodded in agreement or shook their heads dismissively. Ilista paid no mind to them, however. Her gaze was on the Kingpriest. He stared back at her, his black eyes glinting.

“You don’t agree these villains must be punished, then?” Symeon asked.

“No, not in this fashion, sire,” she replied. “You are right when you say this cannot stand, but to send in the army… if we do, we risk inciting open revolt. None of us want another Trosedil.”

A flicker of anger crossed Symeon’s face, and for a moment Ilista feared she had gone too far by invoking the Three Thrones’ War. After a moment, though, he turned to Loralon. “And you, Emissary? What is your mind?”

Loralon raised his eyebrows. “Majesty, it is not my place to put my hand on the empire’s tiller… but if you would hear me, I agree with Lady Ilista. Sending forth the army is a drastic choice and could make matters worse. I suggest we negotiate instead.”

“Negotiate?” Kurnos snapped. “These are robbers, not diplomats!”

“Your counsel is known already, First Son,” Symeon said curtly, and Ilista relaxed a little. He would come around. The Kingpriest sat in silence for a time, his fingers steepled in thought, then nodded. “You are right, Loralon-and you as well, Ilista. This is no time to be rash. I shall weigh what I have heard, and render judgment after midday prayer. This court is adjourned until then.” He rose from his seat, signing the triangle. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo.”

In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might.

The audience hall quickly dissolved into excited noise as the courtiers fell to arguing with one another. Some withdrew to anterooms, where food and watered wine awaited. Others hurried toward the dais, seeking to offer their own advice. Symeon waved them off and strode toward the door to his private sanctum. An acolyte hurried ahead to hold open the door.

Ilista watched the Kingpriest leave then started toward Kurnos, who gone over to Lord Holger. The two were speaking together in hushed tones, along with several other hierarchs. As she approached, the First Son looked up, his gaze meeting hers. His blue eyes smoldered with anger: she and Loralon had quelled Symeon’s fire, but not his. She faltered, flushing beneath his baleful glare, then turned and hurried out of the room.

Ilista’s private chambers were dim and silent as she finished her evening prayer. Wetting her fingers, she pinched out the violet candles that flickered on the golden shrine, then kissed her medallion and pushed herself up from the padded kneeling-bench.

The room was richly done, as befit one of her station- not as fine as the Kingpriest’s golden halls and certainly much less vast, but there was nothing meager about the great, sprawling bed draped in shimmering samite or the walls of teak inlaid with lavender jade. A tall, silver harp stood in the corner. She didn’t play but Farenne, one of her attendants, did, and often came to soothe Ilista into sleep with sweet strings. Tonight, though, Ilista had dismissed Farenne early, preferring to be alone. Now she moved about the chamber, dousing the lamps that glowed softly here and there, until only a single taper remained by her bedside.

That done, she turned to the window, whose silken curtains fluttered in the breeze. The scent of jasmine blew in from the gardens. The breeze was chilly, though, so she pulled the window shut, then went over to her bed to climb up onto it. Kissing her medallion again, she doused the taper and laid her head down on satin pillows.

Sleep didn’t come right away; that was not her way. It had always been Ilista’s nature to dwell on matters while she lay abed. Tonight, her musings drifted to the First Son.

She had long ago accepted that she and Kurnos would seldom agree. He was obviously a capable cleric-one didn’t rise so high in the church without priestly gifts-but he was also a hot-blooded man, quick to act and slow to forget a slight. They had argued often enough in the past, but she’d never seen him as outraged as he’d been today. What was it, she wondered? Had the attack on Revered Son Blavian truly affected him so terribly? He had spoken in the past of the need to put down the bandits in Taol, but today was different. Sweet Paladine, he had been ready to send in the Scatas! If he had been on the throne today, she was sure Lord Holger and his troops would have ridden out tomorrow morning, with orders to fight. She and Loralon could manage Symeon’s ill humors. What would Kurnos do, though, if she opposed him once he wore the sapphire crown?

Her mind drifted to the man who still sat the throne. It had been more than a season since that strange, snowy night when Symeon foretold his own death, and still he was healthy. Stefara of Mishakal examined him every Godsday, looking for signs of illness, but he hadn’t even had so much as a cold all winter long. Morbidly, and not for the first time, she wondered how the god would take him. Accident? Assassination? She signed the triangle at the thought, whispering a prayer to forgive her dark thoughts.

The Kingpriest had, in the end, elected to follow her and Loralon’s advice-Lord Holger would alert the army but give no orders to march. One day soon, however, Kurnos would reign, and war might be swift. Ilista wished-again, not for the first time-that His Holiness had chosen one more temperate to succeed him. She thought of Loralon, whose wisdom ran deeper than any she knew. What a Kingpriest he would make!

Then she chuckled, her eyes fluttering drowsily shut. An elf on the golden throne! Istar would sink beneath the sea before such a thing happened. No, the decision was made- when the time came, Kurnos would rule, and she would serve him. There was no other choice.

Cold wind caressed Ilista’s cheek, rousing her from slumber. She brushed at her face, annoyed. She’d told herself to close the window. Throwing off her blankets, she got up and glanced across the room. Sure enough, the curtains were wafting in the breeze, aglow with Solinari’s shimmering light.