I force a smile. My instincts were right. Something else is at play, and it might be me. “I had a lot of practice surviving before I got here,” I say.
He makes a note on his pad. “The Concord Stone’s decision was, in hindsight, prescient.”
The older one leans in. “Your integration has had stabilizing effects beyond the Reach. The High Lord wishes to acknowledge your contribution personally.”
Rythar bristles. His hand moves under the table, settling on my thigh. He’s trying to comfort me. To signal that I’m not going anywhere. He tells them, “The High Lord honors us with his attention. But my wife has already met with the High Lord.”
The older councilor’s lips twitch into a sly smile. “You misunderstand. The High Lord is not requesting her presence. He is requesting her transfer.”
The room goes dead quiet. The escort in the corner shifts, just enough to draw the eye.
“I already gave everyone the antivenom,” I say. “I have nothing else to offer.”
The obsidian-eyed male smiles, razor-thin. “Yes, you have shared freely. Most admirable. But I must admit we have had some trouble replicating your success. Your transfer may ensure future replication.”
Rythar stands so fast his chair slams the wall behind him. The escort’s hand goes to his weapon, but he looks frozen as Rythar pushes my chair behind him. He’s between the Councilors and me.
“She is not yours to take,” Rythar says, voice deep.
The older man doesn’t move. “If you do not comply with the request, the High Lord will issue a directive.”
Rythar smiles a deadly smile. “Which we will all pretend never happened. If Jarrett thought he could take her from me, he would already have done it,” Rythar says.
The obsidian-eyed councilor stands, too. “You misunderstand. She will be treated as a guest, not a captive.”
Rythar’s body blocks all view of me. “No.”
“If you insist, Warlord. But you must understand the consequences.”
“You will suffer consequences merely for making this request. Leave,” he says. The words echo in the large chamber.
The councilor blanches. “You’ve declared open defiance,” the older man says. “There will be a record.”
Rythar glances at the guard captain. “Drenz, secure every corridor. They leave through the main gate. They do not return without pre-scheduled authorization. All other Council ships will be shot out of the sky on sight.”
Drenz moves instantly, his voice rippling down the line of warriors outside. The corridor beyond fills with the stomp of boots, the dull thunk of armor on stone.
The older man gathers his pad, nods once, then moves for the door. His gaze falls on me. “You are free to contact the Council at any time,” the older man says. “We will listen.”
After they leave, I turn to Rythar. “Why have they done this? I gave the antivenom to everyone,” I say.
“Jarrett trusts no one,” Rythar says. “He likely suspects you are making good on your threat to him. Sending good antivenomto the other biomes, and little or fake antivenom to the Astral Spire.”
“How can I fix this?” I whisper.
Rythar cups my face with a tenderness that belies the fierce look on his face. “You do not belong to them,” he whispers. “Not now. Not ever.”
I manage a single nod in response.
We stand in the dead center of the chamber, alone together, the entire world outside pressing in, unable to reach the two of us.
Our quarters become my bunker. This is how it was on New Terra when another battle loomed.
Rythar paces back and forth, the scars on his hands standing out like white bands. His jaw is clenched, a line of rage running from his temples down his neck. I watch him from the edge of the bed, my own fingers curled so tightly they ache.
“Is it really that dire?” I ask, breaking the silence. “You act like the Council is going to break down the door themselves.”
“They would if they thought it would work.” He doesn’t look at me. He’s focused on the display, the rolling feed of security data projected in shifting bands of gold and green. “They want you. They’ll try anything.”
