Everyone began speaking at once. Lin Lill launched into a tirade about estate security, Harmon was wondering about the status of the dinner guests, Erol prodded Venick to take a seat, and Artis was asking after Branton—who was right behind Venick, as it happened. Only Ellina was silent as she scanned Venick’s clothes, the skin of his neck, his hands. Unmarked. Uninjured. And yet…Venick had not been gone long, not nearly long enough to conduct a full interrogation. Questioning a captive took time. There was convincing to be done, and mind games to be played, and threats to be made and delivered. It could take days or weeks to wear a prisoner down, like carving a hole in the wall with a rock. So what did it mean that Venick was back already?
“Alright, alright.” Venick held up his hands in surrender. “Everyone, please.”
“Come,” Erol insisted, guiding Venick towards the nearest chair. “You look exhausted.”
“He looksvictorious,” Lin Lill corrected, shouldering forward. “I take it the conjuror had intelligence to share?”
Venick sank gratefully into the offered seat. “Yes.”
“Like how she has been managing to break through every one of my defenses to attack you with zombie-elves?”
Venick shot Lin Lill an apologetic smile. “Actually, she couldn’t answer questions about that. She swore an oath in elvish.”
An elven oath. Ellina had made one of those once. She swore an oath of silence to her sister Miria, promising to never speak of Miria’s escape into the mainlands. Ellina remembered how it felt to make that vow, the strange, gritty taste of the words, the way her skin had tightened, as if with static. An elven oath of secrecy was absolute—once made, the power of their language forever prevented the oath-maker from breaking their promise.
Harmon made a swinging motion with her jug. “So what’s the information, then?”
“The location of her elven encampment,” Venick said. “The captured conjuror’s name is Inra, and she’s been working with a group of five others under Farah’s orders. They’re hiding out in the hills just east of here.”
“Five conjurors.” Artis gave a low whistle. “That’s nearly a quarter of the Dark Queen’s total count.”
“And the perfect opportunity,” Lin Lill agreed, her disappointment already morphing into new zeal. “We will stage an attack.”
“It’ll be dangerous,” Harmon said, “but we have the numbers. We’ll need to send a large force.”
“Actually,” Venick said. “We’ll need just five of us.”
Silence.
“Just five of us?” Lin Lill’s face slackened. “You want to make the fightequal?”
“You’ve lost it.”
“That’s a suicide mission.”
“Did the conjuror put you up to this?”
“Maybe,” Artis said softly, “we should let Venick explain his thinking.”
Erol gave a cheerful laugh. “A man of reason.”
“Artis is an elf,” Lin Lill snapped.
“You know what I mean.”
Venick leaned forward, bracing his elbows against the table. “If we send our full army, the conjurors will see us coming. Even a medium-sized brigade would give us away. The camp will scatter, and we’ll lose our chance. But if it’s just the five of us, we can stage an ambush. We’ll take them by surprise. They aren’t expecting an attack.Theyplanned to attackus.This way, we’ll flip the plot. It’s better.”
“Better for the conjurors,” Harmon mumbled.
“Better for us,” Venick insisted. “It won’t even be a real fight. We’ll finish them before they have a chance to counter.”
“And if they gain the upper hand?” Branton asked.
“We’ll attack at the moment of sunrise. The night will conceal us until the ambush, but if something goes wrong, we’ll have the advantage of the rising sun on our side.” He was looking at Ellina as he spoke. She was the one who had discovered this secret: daylight weakens the conjurors’ power.
“You said the five of us,” Harmon interrupted. “But there are seven in our group. So, which five?”
“Oh.” Venick rubbed the back of his neck. “The five of us who can fight.”
