"Damn."
"Sister Landis is pressuring all of the Sisters to rise above mortal politics and tend to arcane matters. She wasn't happy that we trained you. She wants to keep the Sisterhood neutral." Taru gave a harsh chuckle. "That's not happening."
"Do tell," Mikhail leaned against the hearth.
"Arontala's blood magic not only tainted the Flow, it scarred the land. It's especially bad near the Dhasson border, where he called down the magick beasts. Our Sisters could easily stay busy just cleansing the land and blessing the ground where the ashtenerath were buried.
"This is personal," Taru went on. "We're Margolan born. Before it's over, you'll need battle mages in the Southern plains. Landis is likely to have a revolt. There are many of us who would go rogue before we'd turn our back on you or our kinsmen."
"Interesting," Mikhail observed. "The Blood Council faces much the same challenge. Lord Gabriel won a concession in letting vayasb moru fight against Arontala. But most of the vayash mora who helped us win back the throne have already said they'll fight to keep Tris there. Some have even joined the army."
"It's a damn good thing, too." Tris yawned. The medicine was doing its work. "We're short on soldiers."
Mikhail nodded. "You'll need us to go up against Curane."
"What will the Blood Council do?" Tris asked.
"Like the Sisterhood, they face a revolt. Enough of the older vayasb moru wish to support you and they won't influence their fledglings to withdraw. Even the Blood Council can't put down a full rebellion."
Tris passed a hand over his eyes. Crucial as the information was, he was fading rapidly.
"This can wait for another day," Taru said with a glance at Mikhail. "We'll let you rest." Coalan saw them to the door.
Zachar shook his head. "You really haven't changed at all. Always demanding too much =
from yourself. You were the most stubbornly persistent child I ever saw," the white-haired seneschal said, chuckling. "I remember watching you learn to ride. It didn't matter how many times you fell off or how badly you were bruised. Even when you broke your arm, nothing mattered until you could stay in the saddle."
Zachar had been around for as long as Tris could remember. Carroway's music might be the heart of Shekerishet, but Zachar was the brain-an able administrator who oversaw the complexities and finances with honesty and rigor. It was Zachar who had presided over the workings of the castle and its lands when the king went to war. Zachar knew every servant's name, and could locate any piece of silver for the table or sacred item for ritual. The wiry man had looked old to Tris since Tris had been a child. In other ways, he never seemed to age. Zachar was as constant as the rising of the sun. During his exile, Tris had often wondered about the seneschal's fate. He'd assumed the worst. Within a month of Tris regaining the throne, a robed man had arrived on foot- dirty, unshaven, dressed as a tradesman too poor to even own a donkey. The man had been rebuffed twice by the watchmen when he requested to see the king, until he refused to leave without an audience with the captain of the guard. Harrtuck recognized Zachar immediately, and had personally escorted him to Tris. There, amid tears and embraces, Zachar recounted how he had escaped Jared by slithering down a garderobe the night of the coup, pushing a cart of offal out of the city gates, and taking refuge with a rug merchant in a distant town. For Tris, the sight of the familiar retainer was almost as comforting as seeing Bricen himself. Having Zachar back at his post made their chance of succeeding all the better.