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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T ristan leaned against the doorframe of Trophonios’s workshop, hidden beneath his wings and awaiting his cue as Ione began her speech to the gathered rebels.

Tonight, Ione would officially turn leadership of the Teles Chrysos over to Tristan.

An impressive mix of all three sub-species of Fae had gathered in the village square, several sporting Teles symbols on their shirts or jackets.

Ione, wearing a sleeveless white tunic over flowy pants and crowned with a circlet bearing a fire opal, addressed the crowd. “I am pleased to see so many familiar faces. And even more pleased by the new. Welcome, friends and future allies.” As a human, her voice had always been confident. Her Turning had honed it into something even more powerful—a dagger forged into a sword. It sliced through the square, demanding attention. “Already, we have shown you evidence of Adelphinae’s pleasure with our work.”

The festivities had commenced with an Anointment, a sight which Tristan would not soon forget.

Several long-standing members of the Teles Chrysos had bowed before Ione, all with mixed-species heritage; Trophonios himself had verified the human ancestry within their bloodlines. Ione had knelt with each supplicant and held their hands as they muttered prayers to Adelphinae.

Though Tristan agreed with the foundational principles of Adelphinae’s dogma, he wasn’t sure if he believed the Goddess was an actual living entity. If she was, Tristan might have some questions for her after everything Ione had claimed at dinner last night. A dinner that he hadn’t said a word to Ione about all day.

But watching those Fae—the Anointed, as they were now called—show off their newly-restored fire, water, and lightning… Someone, or something, had provided it. If not the Goddess herself, then who? Or what?

He wondered what it might feel like to be blessed with a second element. To wield fire or lightning as easily as he summoned the wind. Futile musings, really. The Erabis line was the oldest and purest on the planet. Fae to the roots, not an ounce of human sap flowing through the family tree.

Ione continued, “Adelphinae herself, in her Compendium of Creation, stated that Fae and humans were created as equals. And that it is her wish that we share this world and her generous bounty. But that message has been lost over the centuries. Suppressed by greedy leaders who sought to invalidate her worship, to hoard resources for themselves and establish unnatural hierarchies between the species and sub-species. And in doing so, have dampened her elemental gifts.”

Several rebels spat upon the cobblestones.

“With the increased support we’ve received these past decades, we are closer than ever to achieving our goal of taking back the Crystal Throne and restoring our Creator, so that all Ethyrians may thrive once again. Tonight, we thank you for your patience and ask for your continued support. But I would not do so without offering proof of our progress.

“We have gained the most important ally in our fight against the Empire. One that many of you will recognize. A leader who was stripped of his title, stripped of his birthright , before he could enact his plans for peace. Plans that caused his family to brand him a pariah and exile him to the colonies.”

Ione glanced over her shoulder toward Tristan before turning back to the crowd. “It gives me the greatest honor to welcome the true leader of the Teles Chrysos. The male responsible for my own immortality. The male who Turned me into the Delphine and hastened my relationship with our wonderful Goddess.

“The rightful Emperor of Ethyrios—Prince Tristan Erabis!”

Shouts of joy rippled through the crowd as Tristan whipped his wings open and stepped into the square.

The Fae parted like a sea before him, many dropping to their knees and bowing their heads, others reaching for him with tears in their eyes.

He shook their hands and clasped their shoulders, murmuring greetings and words of encouragement. He made his way toward Ione, who sported a broad, boastful smile beneath the clock tower.

She snatched his hand, then raised their clasped fists into the air as a boisterous roar stirred the jungle.

All these Fae still remembered him. Shared his wishes for a better Ethyrios.

Not only that, they were willing to risk their safety—their lives —to achieve that goal.

Hope rattled his feathers.

He wanted to be worthy of their worship, worthy of their faith in him.

“They cheer for you, Prince,” Ione muttered, drinking in the applause as she intertwined their fingers. “They cheer for us .”

He faked a smile, stifled his heartache, and tried his best to project an air of confidence toward the crowd.

But how could any of this matter while he had the wrong female by his side?

Tristan smoothed a hand over his bloated stomach, dreaming of his bed. Rebel after rebel had approached him in the square tonight, toasting him with food and drink. He didn’t have the heart to refuse a single one of their offerings.

And now, he was so full he could barely walk—and if he never saw another glass of aguaver for the rest of his life, he would die a happy male.

Trophonios ambled over and dropped a hand onto Tristan’s shoulder. “The generals are ready for you, Prince.”

Tristan groaned. “Remind me why I set a meeting this late?”

“Because you run as tight a ship as our Delphine.” Trophonios winked.

When Ione had told him of her intention to turn leadership over to him, Tristan had crammed his days full of meetings and reports, gulping down as much knowledge as he could of the movement’s history and future plans. He felt a tremendous amount of pressure—pressure he’d fully admit he’d put on himself—to get up to speed as quickly as possible.

He hefted himself out of his canvas chair, cursing past-Tristan for scheduling a status meeting in the middle of the night, then followed Trophonios to his war committee room.

Golden bowls filled with flames lit the corners of the dim, smoky hall, the fire provided by one of the Anointed. A large oval table topped with a fabric map of Ethyrios dominated the space. Ione was leaning over it, dressed in her ethereal white garments but without the opal-studded circlet.

Her chin rose when he entered, pure affection glowing in her smile. He returned a polite nod.

“Rebel Prince,” she greeted, moving away from the head of the table.

Trophonios folded himself into his chair as the rest of the Teles Chrysos leadership filed into the room: Seraavi Pfania, the fuchsia-eyed Deathstalker who’d portaled down from Lodesvale; Felix Tanius, a rugged Windrider with persimmon-colored wings and long blond locks; Layla Fetar, a honey badger bi-form with pin-straight sheets of half-white, half-black hair and a glittering corset of throwing knives accentuating her waist.

Tristan had been pleased to discover the movement’s key leaders were each a member of a different sub-species. Proof that the world they were fighting for would not hew to the hierarchies established by his father Leonin, who’d only ever put Windriders in positions of power. And as soon as it was possible—and safe—Tristan would be adding humans to this group as well.

Once everyone was seated, most of the eyes in the room shifted to Ione before recalibrating toward him. He could understand why. She commanded a tremendous amount of respect from the rebels. This former human woman who had somehow clawed her way back from death, now poised to help him take back his throne. Maybe even occupy it with him, if she was right about the prophecy.

His heart lurched in his chest, but he tried to ignore it as he addressed the room. “Our coup must be as bloodless and result in as little collateral damage as possible. Therefore, we have our sights set on a single location.” He tapped his finger in the center of the map—right on the city of Delos. “If we can remove Eamon and his lackeys from the Imperial capital, with the support we have from Aurelie Lambros in Akti, plus the support of the Berstoh family in Cernodas, that leaves only Brachos, Syvalle and the Northern Territories to challenge us.”

“Arran Zephyrus won’t fight you,” Layla piped up. “Not as long as you do nothing to diminish his wealth or remove him from power.”

Ione’s brows furrowed. “As long as he agrees to abide by our new laws, then I see no reason to do so.”

Tristan snorted. “He’s not going to like the ‘ treat humans as equals ’ part. But I have an in with his family. His son Cael and I were Vestian Guards together. He may hold some sway over his father.”

Tristan had no idea whether that was true or not. Sure, Arran Zephyrus had an obsessive, controlling sort of loyalty where his sons were concerned, but Tristan didn’t even know where Cael was . The fucker hadn’t returned any of Tristan’s windwhispers. That could mean one of two things: Cael was going through one of his episodes again or…

Tristan didn’t have the emotional capacity to consider the second option.

From what Tristan had gathered, Arran was somewhat of a free agent in this conflict, playing both sides. As long as his profits kept rolling in, Tristan didn’t think Arran gave a flying fuck who sat on the Crystal Throne in Delos. Tristan would use that indifference to his advantage now, then force the male to fall in line after.

“Assume Brachos won’t be a threat,” Tristan said, projecting a confidence he was trying to convince himself he felt.

Ione swept a hand across the Northern Territories. “Skanisse could be a problem. He’s extremely close with Eamon.”

Seraavi cut in. “Skanisse won’t stand a chance against us. His is the least populous territory. His forces wouldn’t even be a tenth of what we could conjure.”

“What about the Imperial forces themselves?” Felix asked, ruffling his feathers. “The legions controlled by Eamon within Delos and Nephes?”

Ione rubbed a finger over her bottom lip. “They’re loyal to the throne itself, not Eamon Erabis.” Her indigo eyes shot to Tristan. “Once they have a new Erabis in the palace, they’ll fall in line.”

Felix looked skeptical. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”

Ione clenched her fist on the table, something passing between her and the blond general that made Tristan’s wings prickle. A familiarity Tristan hadn’t picked up on between her and any of the other leaders. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” she said sharply, silencing him.

Seraavi scanned the map. “So that just leaves Syvalle and High Councilor Geirdrios. Her forces are not small. She could be a problem if she decides to side with Eamon.” She turned to Tristan. “Your mother is a Geirdrios, is she not?”

“She is,” Tristan answered. “Daena Geirdrios is my cousin. My mother’s niece.”

“Any familial affection we can exploit?”

Tristan shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since I was a teenager.” He felt Ione’s eyes upon him, as if she was remembering him as a teenager—the young Fae male she’d fallen in love with. He shifted on his feet. “Where does my mother factor into all this? Or my sister Belen, for that matter?”

Trophonios leaned around Ione. “Our spies in Delos claim that Empress Mila is playing the part of the dutiful dowager at the moment. Supporting your brother publicly. As is your sister. But we have no idea how much either of them knew of Eamon’s plans to capture you. Perhaps if you could speak to them…”

Tristan grimaced. Belen had been a young Faeling of only seven the last time Tristan had seen her. And he hadn’t spoken to his mother in centuries. Not since the day Mila Erabis had stood next to her husband Leonin, dry-faced and silent, as the male had announced Tristan’s exile. At the time, his mother’s reaction had burned. She’d always been so loving, so affectionate. Had doted on both her boys. For her to not shed a single tear when her first-born had been sent away… Tristan had buried that pain long ago, had no interest in excavating it.

“I don’t think we can count on either of their support,” he said. “So we shouldn’t count on Syvalle’s, either. Assume it’s hostile territory.” Heads around the table bobbed. “We move forward with our plans then.” He turned to Layla. “Is everything set for tomorrow morning’s raid?”

“Yes, Prince,” Layla said. “Our forces have set up camp along the cliffs above the Staurien Pass. They’re ready to intercept as soon as the train exits the tunnel.”

Layla had briefed Tristan on the details of the raid yesterday. The rebels had paid Arran Zephryus a nearly crippling amount of drachas to reveal the route of a missile shipment heading to Delos by way of the Staurien Pass in eastern Brachos. They wouldn’t be able to take the city without them.

Delos was not only well-defended, but damn near unbreachable. The city itself consisted of a series of islands connected by narrow canals. A sieging army would only be able to capture the city with winged forces or water vessels. And, unfortunately, the Teles Chrysos didn’t have any kind of armada floating around.

And speaking of weapons just laying around, he asked a question that hadn’t occurred to him yesterday. “How do we know that Eamon won’t have a few of those missiles aimed right back at us?”

“These are brand new,” Layla answered. “A recent invention by Zephyrus’s weapons manufacturing facilities at Typhon Mountain. They’re filled with compressed dragon-fire, and take years to craft. Some wicked alchemy that even Trophonios can’t figure out.” The snow-leopard bi-form grunted at her side. “Eamon ordered all five missiles from Arran’s first batch. The next five won’t be available for another ten months.”

“Good,” Tristan said before he dropped the other proverbial bomb he’d been waiting to spring upon his generals. “Once the weapons are in hand, there’s one more thing we need before we march upon Delos.”

“What?” Ione asked.

Her confused smile transformed into a cold grimace at Tristan’s answer.

“The final copy of the Goddess’s Compendium.”

“Respectfully,” Tanius piped up, without an ounce of genuine respect, “it’s too big a risk. Not to mention we don’t need it to move forward.”

Tristan cocked an eyebrow at the blond general, about to disagree when Trophonios’s deep bass cut in. “That’s not entirely true, Felix. There’s knowledge buried within that book from the time of Adelphinae. There could be clues about how the wards of Tartarus were created. Clues about how to breach them, even. Such knowledge could be instrumental for my research team.”

Blood rushed to Tristan’s head, and he grappled with the urge to scream at Ione as he turned to her and asked in as professional a tone as he could muster, “Why did you not inform me of this?”

A mask settled upon Ione’s features—the beatific one she used when she was about to invoke some blathering nonsense about her Goddess. “It is just a book, Your Highness. The Goddess provides us with her wisdom in myriad ways. Besides, as General Tanius has stated, to acquire it now would be too great a risk.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Ione said, still the picture of cool calm, “it’s locked within a chamber beneath the palace.

“One that can only be opened by the blood of an Erabis male.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your desire to retrieve the Compendium?” Ione asked, pressing in nearly close enough to trip Tristan as they left the leadership meeting.

Tristan stepped away, putting distance between then. “Why didn’t you tell me Trophonios was researching how to breach the wards?”

Ione frowned. “Felix isn’t wrong. You’re the only one of us who can open the chamber. It’s too great a risk to send you into your brother’s orbit. Not to mention doing so could put our spies in danger of exposure. We can retrieve the book when we take the palace. It’s the safest course.”

While his head recognized the rationality, his heart fiercely protested. “Back in Thalenn, Ronin made it sound like you all were desperate to get your hands on it. I’m wondering why you changed your mind.”

“I didn’t change my mind, I…” Ione lifted her head, not looking at him and instead staring off into the middle distance. “You and I are fated, Tristan. Our love will save this world. We will rule Ethyrios together as Emperor and Empress and usher in a new era of peace.” She stopped in her tracks and grabbed his hand. “I don’t need to know the other half of a prophecy to tell me that.”

Didn’t need the other half? Or was afraid of what it might reveal, given how quickly he’d abandoned her after she’d rescued him?

He dropped her hand, some selfish part of him relishing the hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ione, but I do . I need to know.”

I need to know for certain that the Goddess is asking me to sacrifice my heart in order to save my people.

“I’d like to head to Delos as soon as possible,” he said. “And I’m going with or without you.”

Ione closed her eyes and let out a resigned sigh. “You’ll have a better chance if I go with you. I spent decades down in those dungeons. I’ll help you get to the chamber.”

His expression softened. “Thank you, I?—”

Someone shouted his name from across the square and they both turned to find General Fetar rushing toward them in a panic.

“Layla?” Tristan asked, gripping the female’s forearm. “What’s wrong?”

“Imperial forces,” she snarled, flashing short, sharp fangs. “They’ve been spotted on the road through the Icthians that leads to the Staurien Pass.”

“Head to the camp,” Tristan said. “Now. Take as many members as we can spare. Go find Trophonios, he’s got plenty of cuffs ready for travel.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Layla said, scuttling off to the workshop.

Concerned for his rebels, annoyed that this meant delaying his trip to Delos, but grateful for the chance to work off some of his anger and frustration, Tristan turned to Ione.

“Wanna go smash some Imperial soldiers?”