“Well said, Carrick!” a familiar voice boomed out from behind them. “We must wake the Ard Rhys at once!”

All heads turned. The four Druids already in the room had been so deeply involved in their discussion that they had failed either to hear or see the entry doors open to admit the fifth. Bombax stood in the opening, Garroneck looming just behind him.

“I’ve been standing outside the door for some time, listening. I didn’t want to interrupt Aphenglow’s report.” He grinned broadly—that devastating smile that left her undone every time she saw it. “But now I think I must. Aphenglow might not want to say so openly, but I expect she brought the diary back with every intention of seeing the Ard Rhys awakened. Because a decision on a matter of this sort requires that she be consulted and directly involved. Am I wrong, Elfling?”

Aphenglow hated it when he called her that, but she could not seem to stop him from doing so, even after expressing her dismay to him in private countless times. “You are not wrong. I did think it necessary.”

“Well, there you are.” Bombax came all the way into the room and stood looking from face to face. He was a big man, much taller and stronger than she was and almost as tall as Garroneck, though more limber and rangy. His thick mop of black hair fell to his shoulders in a tangle, and his travel-worn cloak was dusty and weathered. He had the look of a man who had journeyed hard and fast.

“Nice of you to drop in on our discussion,” Pleysia purred. “But you might want to learn all the facts before you offer an ill-advised opinion. Though I realize that is not your way.”

“No, it really isn’t,” the other readily agreed, giving her a quick sideways glance. “But then I know something about this that you don’t. So I might say the same about you.”

She glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

He moved over and sat down beside Aphenglow, taking a deep, slow breath as he faced her, as if trying to breathe in her scent. “Just this. We have a new Federation Prime Minister as of midnight yesterday, and it isn’t good news for us.”

“Drustan Chazhul,” Seersha guessed, leaning forward to look past Aphenglow and meet his gaze. “Isn’t it?”

“Chosen last night after only one ballot. No opposition besides the few who have always opposed him—And their number steadily dwindles. Unfortunate things keep happening to them. So we are left with the worst possible choice. He has sworn he will see the order disbanded and Paranor razed. I fully expect him to try to carry out that threat.”

Carrick shrugged the threat away. “What happened to the old Prime Minister?”

“One of those unfortunate accidents I mentioned. He poisoned himself. Perhaps with help.”