“That you command any forces raised, not Governor Yanda, and that you remain in the Southshires until the matter is settled.” His voice thickened with disgust. “After tonight, I don’t want to see your face for a good long time.”

Malachi felt a swell of relief when Viktor and his father re-entered the room. Anything was better than bearing the cold silence of Ebigail Kiradin’s empty stare. Doubtless, she’d sifted the possibilities as to what had transpired in the adjoining room. Just as plainly, she’d reached no happy conclusion. For himself, Malachi had no clue. He and Viktor had worn out their counterarguments. Whatever his friend was attempting, it was a mystery.

“My father and I have reached an agreement,” Viktor announced. “The amnesty will proceed, but under my oversight.”

Malachi frowned. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?

Lady Kiradin jerked to her feet and levelled an angry finger at Lord Akadra. “What have you done, Hadon? Grown a backbone, have you? Or lost one?”

He met her stare with bluff dignity. “It is a private matter, Ebigail. Family. You understand.”

“Family? Pfah! Yes, you’re all about family when it suits you.” She rounded on Viktor, eyes blazing. “And you believe I’ll fall into line, I suppose?”

Viktor looped his hands behind his back. His expression remained placid as any graven serathi watching over a Lumestran chapel. “With respect, it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Malachi, Lady Marest. My father. Three votes. That’s all we’ve ever needed.”

Lady Kiradin’s upper lip trembled, her eyes darting from one Akadra to the other, seeking a crack in resolve. She clenched her fists so hard that her knuckles cracked, then turned to stare into the fire.

“I’ll thank you all to leave my house. It’s late, and this nonsense has set my head galloping.” She picked up Lord Akadra’s brandy glass and drained the contents in a single gulp. “You may consider yourself among the banished, Hadon.”

Viktor’s father scowled and withdrew into the hall. Malachi couldn’t quite determine if the flash of anger in his expression was meant for his son, or his lover.

Malachi bowed. “Goodnight, Ebigail. My thanks for your time, and your hospitality.”

When no reply was forthcoming, he followed in Lord Akadra’s footsteps with as much haste as seemliness allowed.

“What did you do?” he asked Viktor, once they were safely in his carriage once more.

His friend sank back in his seat and closed his eyes. “I got what we wanted. That’s all that matters.”

Neither spoke another word that night.

Nine

Nine