“Is he a danger, Vice Admiral?” the Fyrst asked.
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Havram said. “I don’t think so, but who knows what mischief His Reverence would get up to in a Border city where there’s everything he’s made a career preaching against.”
“So we should be concerned,” His Grace said, “if only for fear this human will create a tumult in the city.” He beckoned a castle guard to him. “Organize a search. Distribute the vicar’s description—” He raised a brow at the harbormaster. “You did get a description?”
Harbormaster Lin bowed again. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The Fyrst’s brow came down. “Very good. See to it.” The harbormaster bowed once more and withdrew, followed by the harbor warden and the castle guard.
“That was interesting,” Wyln murmured as the door shut. “I wonder where Pellan has gotten himself to?”
The Fyrst shook his head, silencing the Enchanter, and this time, looking at Doyen Allwyn, asked once more, “Who is this vicar?”
“As I said before, Your Grace, a renegade—”
“No, that’s not true.” The Fyrst frowned and glanced at the haunts still coming into the room despite the shut door, sliding between the door and jamb. “Or at least not all of it. Try again.”
Doyen Allwyn frowned back, then looked down, sighing heavily. “He’s our archdoyen, Your Grace.”
“The archdoyen is second only to the patriarch, correct?” the Fyrst asked.
Allwyn nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“A very powerful elder in your church, then. Yet, if I understand correctly, he was serving on your ship as a—chaplain? Isn’t that an army posting?”
Allwyn nodded again. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Why?”
“The patriarch assigned him, Your Grace,” Allwyn said. “As a penance to learn obedience.”
“So to learn obedience he was placed under guard?”
The doyen shook his head, looking miserable. “No, Your Grace. It was for something else.”
“What?” Uncle Havram opened his mouth, but the Fyrst held up his hand. “Let the vicar answer.”
Doyen Allwyn met the Fyrst’s gaze, his face ashamed. “He declared Lord Rabbit apostate after his lordship saved us from the djinn storm, and said it was God’s will that the world be, uh, cleansed of his presence.”
“Seeing someone become the wind seems to have that effect on some people,” Javes murmured.
Wyln looked at Javes and then at me, but the Fyrst ignored the captain and turned to Laurel. “Why didn’t you tell me this, Faena? Didn’t you think I should know what’s in my harbor?”
“I informed Commander Pellan, Your Grace,” Laurel replied. He held up his paw with the truth rune shining on it and my own rune warmed. “On our way to the castle the day we arrived I told him.” He shook his head, his beads rattling. “It never occurred to me that he hadn’t passed it on.”
Wyln jumped up immediately from his chair and walked swiftly to the door, dodging haunts as he went.
“What else haven’t I been told?” the Fyrst asked. “What other information has been withheld?” He sat back down and propped his chin up on his fist, once more looking like King Jusson. “Why don’t you start with what transgression a high elder in your church committed that was so heinous that he was in essence exiled.”
“There was a rebellion, Your Grace,” Suiden said from the doorway, Groskin with him, “and the archdoyen sided with the wrong, ah, side.”
Wyln, returning to his seat, spun around and the guard with them bowed.
“They were already coming up the stairs, honored Fyrst, Enchanter. Guardsman Dercha has gone on to look for Commander Pellan.”
Lieutenant Groskin scanned the room until he found the leopard—and me—and his frown eased. “There he is, sir. With Rabbit, as I thought.”
The Fyrst’s gaze was fixed on Captain Suiden. “A rebellion?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Suiden wove through the haunts, followed by Groskin. “The House of Flavan rose up against King Jusson.”
“Why?” the Fyrst asked.
“Because His Majesty has no direct heir and Lord Teram ibn Flavan e Dru only has forty lines to the throne, Your Grace,” Suiden said as he reached us, “as opposed to Rabbit’s sixty-four—and Rabbit has proved surprisingly impervious to attempts on his life.”
Wyln once more turned his head to stare at me.
“Flavan e Dru! The House of Dru was involved also?” the Fyrst asked, frowning.
“Dru provided the funds for arms, horses, and mercenaries, Your Grace,” Suiden said. “Some, as he was Lord Treasurer, through embezzlement, but the majority through smuggling.”
The frown disappeared as the Fyrst’s face went blank. “Dru was involved in the running?”
Everyone from Iversterre stared back at the Fyrst. “Chancellor Berle didn’t tell you when you met with her, Your Grace?” Suiden asked, his voice careful.
“No,” the Fyrst replied. “She just said that the ‘ring’ had been smashed and those responsible caught.” He looked at the haunts. “Dru did this?”
“Among other things,” Captain Javes said.
“Such as?” Wyln asked, his voice soft, now also looking at the haunts.
“He used his cousin in the assassination attempts on Lord Rabbit,” Javes said.
“The same cousin also killed the White Stag, honored Fyrst, Enchanter,” Laurel added, indicating Basel.
“And didn’t you say, Your Highness, that this Slevoic also is a sorcerer?” Allwyn asked, somewhat recovered.
“Yes,” Suiden said. “He came into his power during the rebellion while wearing a hauberk made of dragon skin and carrying a staff made of a murdered tree sprite.”
“Slevoic ibn Dru,” the Fyrst said, his eyes all of a sudden narrowing.
Again, everyone from Iversterre stared at the Fyrst. “You know him, Your Grace?” Suiden asked, his voice once more careful.
“He visited here a few years ago, in the company of the Turalian ambassador to the human kingdom,” Wyln said.
“Slevoic here?” Javes asked, sitting upright, his head turning from the Fyrst to Wyln.
“Sro Kenalt,” Suiden said at the same time. “A cousin of mine,” he added at the Fyrst’s look. The captain’s clan markings were dark scars against the sudden grayness of his face. He took a breath, hesitated, then took another breath. “I should tell you, Your Grace, that it appears that Tural was in league with Gherat.” He took another breath. “Goods and slaves—”
“Slaves!” Wyln stood up, his black eyes full of fire, while the Fyrst leaned forward in his chair, his own eyes still narrowed.
“—were smuggled out of Iversterre while the Turalian navy played cat and mouse with ours.”
“True, honored Fyrst,” Laurel said. “The djinn storm was most likely sent by a Turalian wizard to stop us from reaching here.”
I had sat silent as first Doyen Allwyn and then Captain Suiden admitted to the misdeeds of elders and family, mulling over what had been told—and not told—to the Fyrst, and what would happen if certain things became known just as I stood before the High Council. I now looked over at the Fyrst—and found his narrowed eyes on me.
“Yes, Two Trees’son?”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I took a deep breath, and tried again. “Did the chancellor tell you, Your Grace, that a near kinsman of the vice admiral’s and mine was also involved in the smuggling?”
“No, she did not,” the Fyrst said.
I swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in my throat, fighting the desire to look away from the Fyrst’s gaze. “My da’s eldest brother, Your Grace, Lord Maceal of Chause.”
“Was he part of this rebellion also?” the Fyrst asked.