Traitor's Moon

Aurënfaie have come to Skala and so their legacy dwindles among us. Fewer wizard-born children are presented at the Orëska House each year, and the abilities of the young ones are often limited. Because wizards cannot procreate, there is no remedy save a renewed commerce between our two lands.
    â€œThe Plenimaran’s attack on the Orëska House cut down some of our best young wizards before the war had truly started. The fighting since has thinned our ranks still further. There are empty beds in the Orëska’s apprentice hall now, and for the first time since the founding of the Third Orëska in Rhíminee, two of the House’s towers stand empty.”
    â€œWizardry is one of the foundations of Skalan power,” Idrilain rasped. “We had no idea, before this war began, how strong necromancy had grown in Plenimar. If wizardry is lost to us when they are so clearly gaining strength, then in a few generations Skala
will
be lost!”
    She paused, and Magyana again felt Thero’s magic joining her own as she willed more strength into the queen’s failing frame.
    â€œLord Torsin and I have been negotiating with the Aurënfaie for over a year,” Idrilain went on. “He is there now, at Virésse, and sends word that the Iia’sidra has at last agreed to admit a small delegation to settle the matter.”
    Idrilain gestured at Klia. “You will go as my representative, daughter. You must secure their support. We will discuss the details later.”
    Klia looked grave as she bowed her acceptance, but Magyana detected a flash of joy in her blue eyes. Satisfied, the wizard quickly skimmed the minds of the others. Princess Aralain glowed with relief, anxious only to return to her own safe hearth. The rest were another matter.
    Phoria’s expression gave nothing away, but the jealousy that gripped her left the bitter taste of bile at the back of Magyana’s throat.
    Korathan was less subtle. “Klia?” he growled. “You’d send the youngest of us to a people who live four centuries? They’ll laugh in her face! I, at least—”
    â€œI do not doubt your abilities, my son,” Idrilain assured him, cutting short his protest. “But I need you here to assume Phoria’s command.” She paused again, turning to her eldest daughter. “As you,Phoria, must step into mine for a time. My healers are too slow with their cures. You are War Commander until I recover.”
    She grasped the Sword of Ghërilain in both hands. On cue, Thero levitated the heavy blade, allowing Idrilain to pass it to her daughter.
    Though Magyana had orchestrated this moment, she felt a chill of premonition. The sword had passed from mother to daughter since the days of Ghërilain, the first of the long line of warrior queens, but only upon the mother’s death.
    â€œAnd Regent?” asked Korathan, rather too quickly for Magyana’s taste.
    Or for his mother’s, it seemed. Idrilain glared at him. “I need no Regent.”
    Magyana saw a muscle jump in Korathan’s jaw as he gave her a silent bow.
    Are you so anxious for your sister’s honor, or to see her on the throne?
wondered Magyana, brushing the surface of his mind a second time. The Afran Oracle might prevent male heirs from ascending the throne, but it had never prevented one from ruling from behind it.
    â€œI must speak privately with Klia,” said Idrilain, dismissing the others.
    Night had fallen and Magyana retreated into the shadows between two nearby tents, waiting for the rest of the assembly to disperse. Somewhere above the blanketing clouds, a full moon rode the sky; she could feel its uneasy pull as an ache behind her eyes.
    When the way was clear, she slipped into Idrilain’s tent again to find Klia bent anxiously over her mother, who lay slumped back in her chair, fighting for breath.
    â€œHelp her!” Klia begged.
    â€œThero, fetch the drysian,” Magyana called softly.
    The younger wizard emerged from behind an arras at the back of the tent, accompanied by the healer Akaris. The drysian held a steaming cup ready in one hand, his worn staff in the other.
    â€œGet some of this into her,” Akaris instructed, giving the cup to Thero, then touched the silver lemniscate symbol of Dalna hanging at his throat. He placed his hand on the queen’s drooping head and a pale glow engulfed both of them for a few seconds. She went limp, but