Fantasy of Fire (The Tainted Accords #3)(84)

“Much better,” I say cryptically. I peer through the material and catch his tense smile before his head disappears over his work again.

I try to stay out of the way of the council, available if they need me. But soon it’s not enough. I pace the tent. The feeling of yesterday is worse. Is this just battle nerves? Or do I just feel the anamosity from others because I’m their enemy? I frown as I change direction again.

No. Something else is wrong.

Drummond’s whispered comment catches my attention. “My King, the Solati army should have been in sight by now, if the Ire boy was correct.”

“Well, we’re lucky they’re not. The man Malir left in charge out here said he didn’t receive the missive sent by King Jovan three days ago. The men here weren’t even alert to the danger. They would have been overrun,” Terk says.

His words are a trigger. I’m on the verge of discovery. “Why didn’t he receive it?” I ask slowly. I feel like something important is right in front of me, but it’s slippery and impossible to catch.

Terk shrugs. “They deserted, maybe?”

I don’t feel like that’s the answer. “But why aren’t the Solati here?” I muse. The odd feeling I’ve had all day is intensifying. I stride over to the map and study it, trying to get close to see the detail. Damn veil.

“Landon, who is in the tent?” I ask.

“It is clear, Tatuma,” he answers after a short pause.

I remove the veil, tucking it into my trousers, and survey the board. I repeat my question aloud. “Why aren’t they here yet?”

A long narrow line on the map catches my attention.

“What’s this?” I ask.

Drummond peers over my shoulder. “Trina’s Valley.”

“Not big enough to hide an army,” the king says, moving to my side. “It’s shallow and narrow. Could have been a stream at one point.” Jovan surveys my face. “What’s worrying you?”

I frown and trace the line up and down, absently. The messenger never arrived. He could’ve deserted, as Terk believed, or they could have injured themselves…

“How many messengers were sent?” I ask.

“Three,” Jovan replies, rounding the table.

I finally get a weak hold on the sense of wrongness I feel. “Jovan, what if the messengers didn’t desert?”

“Then they were injured,” he says. He immediately shakes his head. “But the second and third would’ve continued on.”

“So what if they were stopped from reaching the First Sector…” I voice the silent thought we’re both having.

“But who would do that?” a voice asked.

I stare up at the king. “By Hamish’s calculations we should have arrived as the Solati army arrived, maybe a little after. So either the Solati army are somehow delayed and will arrive in the next few days, or…” I trail off.

Jovan’s face is grim as he looks down at the scratched line of Trina’s Valley visible on the map. “Or they’re already here.”





Chapter Nineteen


“But the party would need to be so small to travel through Trina’s Valley unnoticed, it would hardly be worth their while.” King Jovan prowls through the tent. “You can’t beat an army with one tiny band of men.”

I barely hear the words. My mind is working desperately.

“We would know if the army were already here,” says Roscoe. “My King, we would see them.”

“Not if the army is hanging back on the Oscala,” I interrupt. “Stalling and distracting us as the smaller force moves around Glacium. But this wouldn’t make sense. The clear advantage to Mother’s army was speed. Striking at your forces while the remainder of your army was still halfway here.”

“Remember who leads them,” Olandon murmurs.

He’s right. Uncle Cassius is the head of the Tatum’s army and can barely swing a sword. His battle strategy is appalling, if Olandon and Aquin are to be believed. And he’s too conceited to listen to anyone else. “What is Cassius up to?”

“I don’t see why they would send a squadron through. What purpose could it serve?” Malir interrupts.

I resume my pacing. Maybe I’m tackling this the wrong way. I turn my thoughts to what I know of Cassius. Evil, poor fighter, Mother’s lackey. I know very little actually—a consequence of avoiding him my entire life.

Olandon speaks, “He was always obsessed with one of our relations. The famous Tatum. The one that killed all those Bruma.” He swallows at a glower from Jovan.

“Tatum Ronsin?” I ask, heart racing. “Or Tatum Frinceska?”

“Tatum Rosin. It was definitely a male he talked about. Cassius always went on and on about him at the few trainings he turned up to. He’ll be using that Rosin’s tactics. He doesn’t know anything else, and he won’t listen to anyone who knows better. Never does. That’s why we haven’t won already.” He crosses his arms with a sniff.

“Bruma think of each meeting as a war, while we think of it as a battle,” I recite from my history books. “Each battle is merely a chip in the enemy’s armor. With enough weaknesses, the protection is destroyed and we conquer.”