“And,” Sire Neen added, once more showing his ghastly teeth, “the league owns the Gray Slopes. Without us you can no more get to the Aklun than they can get to you. Only we have successfully navigated that great ocean and all its dangers.”

“So I’ve been told time and again.”

“If you like,” Sire Dagon said, “you could see for yourself, with your own eyes. We have permission from the League Council to offer you transport across to meet with them. Nothing would impress upon the Lothan Aklun the strength of our partnership like seeing you stand beside us.”

Corinn looked between both men, trying to read them while not betraying how shocked she was by the proposal. In all the years of the quota trade, no Akaran had met with the Lothan Aklun. The league had guarded their exclusivity jealously. If this offer was genuine, they must really be worried. “I cannot leave Acacia right now,” she eventually said, “but I will send my brother, Prince Dariel, with a message from me to the Lothan Aklun. He should be returning to Acacia in a few days. He will appease them and then get on with business.”

She could not read whether or not they were happy with this pronouncement, but for them being hard to read was as essential to life as breathing. Rising, she dismissed them formally, promising to sort out the details with them in the coming days.

Alone once more a few minutes later, the queen again stood over her desk, trying to recall each word spoken and the gestures that accompanied them. Of course, the leaguemen had not told her everything. They would never do so anyway, but they likely hid some aspects of the affair that she would do better to know about. She would have Rialus send out his ears, his rats, to see what more they could learn. As for her brother, perhaps he really should accompany them. There were surely things to be gained. It was an opportunity best grasped before the league found a way to squirm out of it.

She heard somebody enter the room. She felt a flare of annoyance, but it vanished just as quickly. She knew—from the rapidity of his steps and the lack of a whistle to announce him—exactly who it was before he had begun speaking.

“Mother, watch this,” a child’s voice said. “See what I’ve learned.”

Corinn straightened, looked up, and watched her son, Aaden, dash into the room. He carried a wooden training sword, a small, light version designed for children. Appropriate, for a child of eight was what he was.

“Watch,” he ordered. “I’ll do the first part of the First Form.”

Without waiting for affirmation, he set his legs and brought the sword to ready position. He focused on the imagined foe standing before him. Corinn grinned. Her little Edifus at Carni, already imagining carnage. He had never known a day of hardship in his life, and yet he already hungered for conflict.