“We don’t know if this will save anything,” Melanie countered. “It’s a fool’s errand to waste our resources without proof.”
“We could look for the creature before we agree to fund the spell,” one of the Naphtali councilors offered. “Without finding it nothing else can be done. And if we find it, and it is hurt—or dying—it could lend credence.”
Daziel muttered in my ear, “You’d almost think it might have made sense for them to look for the Ziz all along.”
I hushed him.
“There is one way to have enough magic for this spell,” a councilmember said. I looked toward the voice sharply. It came from a very old man swaddled in heavy robes, his face obscured by shadow. “Without wasting our own resources.”
“Oh?” the Chief Judge said. “Go on.”
The man stared at Daziel.
After the moment it took for everyone to comprehend the old councilor’s meaning, a shocked outcry washed through the chamber. “You’re suggesting we bind the demon?” someone asked in scandalized tones.
“Isn’t that right, boy?” the old man asked Daziel. “Isn’t that how the miracles of old happened?”
“We’re not binding anyone.” Aunt Tirtzah sounded furious.
“Why not?” Melanie said. “This was his idea, wasn’t it? Let his magic fund it.”
“It isagainstthetreaty,” a Danite I vaguely recognized said.
Voices rose; councilors thumped their fists for attention. I swallowed a sigh. We’d get nowhere now.
Daziel spoke, low-voiced so only I could hear him. “We should tell them. There’s so much we need them to agree on. I’d rather they devote resources to finding the Ziz instead of finding power.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say this shouldn’t be on us, this should be something the government fixed, but he was right—it’d make it easier for them to work on one thing if they felt like we were compromising.
Only, I wanted Daziel’s and my relationship to progress at the ratewewanted it to progress. I wanted to be with him atourspeed, and if we completed the betrothal, do it when we wanted.
But. I loved him. And maybe he loved me. Maybe that would be enough.
“We should make it seem like we’re bargaining,” I said, equally quiet. “Tell them we’ll only do it if they agree to look for the Ziz.”
“Good idea.”
Daziel’s accord rang out in a suddenly silent chamber. I blinked, confused. The entire Sanhedrin had stopped talking, their argumentative expressions dropped for shock. They were staring at us. No—behind us.
“That won’t be necessary,” a smooth, liquid voice said.
I turned slowly. There’d been a familiar resonance to the voice, male and older, and when I saw the speaker, I knew why. A shayd. Older than Daziel, his appearance corresponding to a human man in his seventies. A blue silk bow restrained his silvered hair at the nape, and blue jewels studded his ears. A metal circle wrapped around his brow.
“Lord Khasmodai,” the Chief Judge said, with a deep inclination of his head. There was a note in his voice I didn’t recognize. Fear? Respect? “It has been some time.”
“Has it?” Lord Khasmodai flipped his hand. “I cannot keep track.”
“What has brought you to Talum?”
The shayd turned to look at Daziel. “We’ve lost one of our young.”
“What do you mean,” Daziel said in a cold, hard voice, one I suspected was born of fear instead of anger or dislike, “that this won’t be necessary?”
“Ah,” the man said. His gaze roved over Daziel, then flicked to me. He looked unimpressed. “I mean you will not need to go on any quests or adventures or whatnot. Because you’re too late. The Ziz,” he said calmly, “is dead.”
Twenty-four
One could have heard apin fall in the chamber of the Great Sanhedrin, though no one so much as breathed loudly. All attention in the room focused on the shayd.
