“Shouldn’t the Teshlors be inside the throne room?” Nyrian asked.

Estermon broke his grandfather-granddaughter stare to address his son. “You think that would do it, do you?”

“Are you just giving up, then?”

The emperor put his hands behind his back and turned. “Martasen, give us the room.”

Though the emperor’s back was turned, the First Minister took a knee before leaving the imperial presence. They all waited, listening to the singularly loud clap of his footfalls echo, and in that long pause, Farilane felt the immensity of the chamber as never before. The emperor did not turn back until he heard the doors boom shut, leaving the four remaining members of the House of Nyphron alone.

“You know what you have to do,” Estermon said.

“I know what you want me to do,” Nyrian replied.

“It’s not what I want!” the emperor shouted. His voice, old as it was, pealed off the empty chamber, returning twice.

Like a bell, Farilane thought, but not the celebratory sort. That is the kind of chime that warns of peril.

“You will do it. Tell me you will do it.”

They all looked at Nyrian.

Farilane had the distinct impression Nordyan knew what they were talking about, and she felt more than left out. This wasn’t an accident or oversight. They all knew she was ignorant of the affair at hand; this was purposeful. The why troubled her. She also wondered what had changed. They could have ordered her to leave with the First Minister. She had been allowed to stay . . . why?

“Don’t do it, Father,” Nordyan said.

“Just a few minutes ago, you were the one going on about how fate was inevitable.” Nyrian snapped, clearly not happy with all the unsolicited advice. “Farilane should leave.”

Now they think of it. What in Rel is going on?

“She has a right to know,” Nordyan said.

“This has nothing to do with her,” the emperor declared.

“How can you say that?”

“Because it doesn’t.” Estermon dragged his imperial mantle across the floor as he took the three steps to stand before the princess. Then, for perhaps the first time ever, he touched her by placing his hands on her shoulders. Both hands trembled, and their pressure amounted to the weight of twin sparrows. “It’s important that you remember that.” He said this staring deep into her eyes in an act so wholly unprecedented and contrary to two centuries of rigid indifference that Farilane went stiff with fear. “None of this is your fault—nor is it the fault of your father or brother. We are all victims here.”

“Victims of what?” she barely whispered, as there was a sudden lack of air in her lungs. “What is this prophecy?”