Ione swept a hand across the Northern Territories. “Skanisse could be a problem. He’s extremely close with Eamon.”
Seraavi cut in. “Skanisse won’t stand a chance against us. His is the least populous territory. His forces wouldn’t even be a tenth of what we could conjure.”
“What about the Imperial forces themselves?” Felix asked, ruffling his feathers. “The legions controlled by Eamon within Delos and Nephes?”
Ione rubbed a finger over her bottom lip. “They’re loyal to the throne itself, not Eamon Erabis.” Her indigo eyes shot to Tristan. “Once they have a new Erabis in the palace, they’ll fall in line.”
Felix looked skeptical. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”
Ione clenched her fist on the table, something passing between her and the blond general that made Tristan’s wings prickle. A familiarity Tristan hadn’t picked up on between her and any of the other leaders. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” she said sharply, silencing him.
Seraavi scanned the map. “So that just leaves Syvalle and High Councilor Geirdrios.Herforces are not small. She could be a problem if she decides to side with Eamon.” She turned to Tristan. “Your mother is a Geirdrios, is she not?”
“She is,” Tristan answered. “Daena Geirdrios is my cousin. My mother’s niece.”
“Any familial affection we can exploit?”
Tristan shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since I was a teenager.” He felt Ione’s eyes upon him, as if she was remembering him as a teenager—the young Fae male she’d fallen in love with. He shifted on his feet. “Where does my mother factor into all this? Or my sister Belen, for that matter?”
Trophonios leaned around Ione. “Our spies in Delos claim that Empress Mila is playing the part of the dutiful dowager at the moment. Supporting your brother publicly. As is your sister. But we have no idea how much either of them knew of Eamon’s plans to capture you. Perhaps if you could speak to them…”
Tristan grimaced. Belen had been a young Faeling of only seven the last time Tristan had seen her. And he hadn’t spoken to his mother in centuries. Not since the day Mila Erabis had stood next to her husband Leonin, dry-faced and silent, as the male had announced Tristan’s exile. At the time, his mother’s reaction had burned. She’d always been so loving, so affectionate. Had doted on both her boys. For her to not shed a single tear when her first-born had been sent away… Tristan had buried that pain long ago, had no interest in excavating it.
“I don’t think we can count on either of their support,” he said. “So we shouldn’t count on Syvalle’s, either. Assume it’s hostile territory.” Heads around the table bobbed. “We move forward with our plans then.” He turned to Layla. “Is everything set for tomorrow morning’s raid?”
“Yes, Prince,” Layla said. “Our forces have set up camp along the cliffs above the Staurien Pass. They’re ready to intercept as soon as the train exits the tunnel.”
Layla had briefed Tristan on the details of the raid yesterday. The rebels had paid Arran Zephryus a nearly crippling amount ofdrachasto reveal the route of a missile shipment heading to Delos by way of the Staurien Pass in eastern Brachos. They wouldn’t be able to take the city without them.
Delos was not only well-defended, but damn near unbreachable. The city itself consisted of a series of islands connected by narrow canals. A sieging army would only be able to capture the city with winged forces or water vessels. And, unfortunately, the Teles Chrysos didn’t have any kind of armada floating around.
And speaking of weapons just laying around, he asked a question that hadn’t occurred to him yesterday. “How do we know that Eamon won’t have a few of those missiles aimed right back at us?”
“These are brand new,” Layla answered. “A recent invention by Zephyrus’s weapons manufacturing facilities at Typhon Mountain. They’re filled with compressed dragon-fire, and take years to craft. Some wicked alchemy that even Trophonios can’t figure out.” The snow-leopard bi-form grunted at her side. “Eamon ordered all five missiles from Arran’s first batch. The next five won’t be available for another ten months.”
“Good,” Tristan said before he dropped theotherproverbial bomb he’d been waiting to spring upon his generals. “Once the weapons are in hand, there’s one more thing we need before we march upon Delos.”
“What?” Ione asked.
Her confused smile transformed into a cold grimace at Tristan’s answer.
“The final copy of the Goddess’s Compendium.”
“Respectfully,” Tanius piped up, without an ounce of genuine respect, “it’s too big a risk. Not to mention we don’t need it to move forward.”
Tristan cocked an eyebrow at the blond general, about to disagree when Trophonios’s deep bass cut in. “That’s not entirely true, Felix. There’s knowledge buried within that book from the time of Adelphinae. There could be clues about how the wards of Tartarus were created. Clues about how to breach them, even. Such knowledge could be instrumental for my research team.”
Blood rushed to Tristan’s head, and he grappled with the urge to scream at Ione as he turned to her and asked in as professional a tone as he could muster, “Why did you not inform me of this?”
A mask settled upon Ione’s features—the beatific one she used when she was about to invoke some blathering nonsense about her Goddess. “It is just a book, Your Highness. The Goddess provides us with her wisdom in myriad ways. Besides,as General Tanius has stated, to acquire it now would be too great a risk.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Ione said, still the picture of cool calm, “it’s locked within a chamber beneath the palace.
“One that can only be opened by the blood of an Erabis male.”
“Why didn’tyou tell me about your desire to retrieve the Compendium?” Ione asked, pressing in nearly close enough to trip Tristan as they left the leadership meeting.
