Chapter Twenty

Tristan

I shifted one of the pieces on the Guerre board I’d made out of light and illusion, then turned to Fred, who’d insisted on standing and watching while I considered my next move. “Yes?”

“There are refugees outside the gates,” Fred said, his face flushed. “They managed to escape the Duke’s militiamen.”

“Tell them to seek refuge in the mountains.” I shifted several of the Duke’s human players closer to my own.

“They have no supplies. Even if they don’t freeze to death, they’ll surely starve.”

“A certain number of casualties are inevitable.” I took a sip of mulled wine and circled the game, nudging Fred out of my way. He huffed out a breath, one hand balling into a fist.

“What is it that you want?” I asked.

“For you to pay attention to me, for starts,” he snapped.

“I am paying attention to you,” I said. “I’m not so simple-minded that I can’t manage two things at once.” Although it would’ve been my preference that he left so that I could focus on puzzling through our enemy’s strategies, which, in my opinion, was a far better use of my time. I told him as much, and his scowl deepened.

“You need to let them into Trianon.”

I shook my head. “They might claim to have escaped my brother, but it’s just as likely they are lying. They could be spies, or worse, insurgents with orders to stir up what chaos they can.”

“Insurgents? There are children amongst them. Stones and sky, there are babies still in their mothers’ arms!”

“Roland is a child.”

Fred threw the jug of wine across the room, where it splattered against the wall, the air filling with the smell of cinnamon and cloves. Souris promptly ran over to the mess and began licking it up.

“A child can point a pistol as well as any man,” I explained. “Letting them in Trianon would put all those whom we know to be loyal at risk, which would be a disservice to them.”

“I’m not turning them away.”

I sighed, and sipped at my drink only to find my cup was empty. “I don’t recall giving you a choice in the matter.”

Expletives fountained from his mouth, and I catalogued a few away for future use.

“You can’t turn them away, Your Highness.” Sabine came into the room wearing a gown that was too elaborate and costly to be hers, and judging from the sheen of her hair, she’d heeded my earlier advice and bathed. “It is a strategically poor decision in the long run,” she continued. “The people of the Isle will see you as callous and cruel, and they will hate you for it and seek to betray you.”

“Don’t they understand–”

She held up a hand. “No. They don’t. You must think of another solution.”