The council room lies on the west side of the castle, above the mess hall, its large windows breathing in warm air from the desert sands. The floors are a slick marbled stone known only to the Pfeist Mountains, cool to the touch. Its long, mesquite meeting table is swathed in the Kerrich family colors, a black and gold runner spread down the middle. On the opposite wall hangs oil paintings of Larynth's past sovereigns, Taeg's father, Roen Kerrich, last in line. A hard lump grows in Taeg's throat as he notes the empty spaces next to his father's framed likeness.

  It was his favorite room as a boy. When Nathis trained, swords could be heard clanging and ringing together through the open door that led to the balcony above the gardens. Horses whinnied from the stables. He would lie on the chill stone floor and play his games of knights and monsters while his parents talked of economy and infrastructure.

  When he turned thirteen, Taeg was invited to participate in council sessions. He listened, enraptured by the Court's banter. He marveled at the Chamberlain's knowledge of the Kerrich family history. The Constable told woeful stories of the city's criminals, the Grand Master sold proclamations of the military's greatest weapons, if the Treasurer approved of such expenditures, and the Guard stood sentry near the room's great oaken doors. Taeg had learned of money and military before he was sixteen. It was that same year in which the King had died. While his mother ruled in his stead, Taeg was constructed into the future ruling king, a shadow of the monarch his father was.

  The council room was no longer a respite, but a splinter in his thumb; it was a place in which the country's greatest blunders were addressed by a council of long outdated elders. Heaving mustachios, portly bellies, and cumbersome velvet robes sat themselves at the long table this morning. Taeg, perched at the forefront of the table, lazily crosses his legs over one another and leans into his ornate chair, too uncomfortably rigid for such long meetings.

  The servants bring in smoked sausages and wheat gruel cooked in whey, sweetened with agave. Dried dates and fresh winter melon are set near the Prince, accompanied by a bowl of golden honey. An onion tart steams in front of the Chamberlain, his requested favorite. Making his way around the table, the cup-bearer pours mulled wine for each lord, serving the Prince only with a silver cup of cold cream. Taeg takes a long drink before addressing the Grand Chamberlain.

  "Gideon, please give us an update regarding my mother. We'll begin there." Taeg snags a chunk of the pale green winter melon and dips it generously in honey. The clink of dishes echoes in the open chamber as its members partake of their breakfasts.

  "My Prince." The Chamberlain's voice is higher pitched than his substantial size might suggest. His upper lip is adorned with a great mustachio that parallels his great size, a small clod of onion gravy clinging to it. "We know first and foremost that the Queen Regent is our top priority. We have physicians from the Church seeking abatement of her condition. For now, I regret to say we are at a stalemate. She shows no improvement, nor decline." The Chamberlain swallows hard, meeting Taeg's eyes carefully. "Our Lady does not remember where she is, my Prince. She remains.... hostile, at times."

  The Queen Regent had been the formidable woman at his father's side and the guiding force at his. The kingdom knew that Vilania Kerrich was the anchor that kept the king stalwart, a woman with a thirst for knowledge and an insistence upon goodwill. Taeg could never see himself in her, though she always contended it was so. As a young boy, it was easy to believe that his mother would remain for the sum of his life. As heir to the throne, that reverie had dissipated with the fading of her hair, her eyes, and her mind.

  "Does our Lady understand that she is still reigning Queen?" the wiry Chancellor speaks. His wrinkled hands are folded neatly across a bony chest. "I regret to say that maybe it is our duty to renounce her reign as Queen, my Prince. You are of a ruling age, and undoubtedly have carried the weight of this country's burden upon your own shoulders for far too long."

  Taeg does not hesitate in his reply. "My mother is ruling Queen. She will remain Queen until I am prepared to take the throne. This is not an issue I'm willing to discuss. The Grand Chamberlain and I have muddled over this for months, Chancellor, though I do appreciate your concern. In the meantime, yes, I must serve as Regent."

  Taeg flits his eyes shut for a moment before turning to the Grand Master, an ogre of a man, and Taeg's most heartily unfavored patron.

  "Grand Master Argos, General Tygoh relays information from our captured Denand scout. Silon seeks the Lynac within the borders of Larynth. While I am not unfamiliar with its magic, our libraries lack the necessary documentation on its details. The Chancellor can attest to this, yes?" He nods at the gray-headed scholar, then looks back at the Grand Master. "You were squire to my grandfather during the Xelinite war, correct? Please...educate us." Taeg rolls his family ring about his middle finger, plucking dates from the bowl at his left hand as he pleases.

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  What Taeg knew of the barren country to the west was only as much as his reticent father had felt appropriate to teach a boy of thirteen. Across the desert, far to the west of Larynth's capital, Xelinac held a violent history. Its people had been massacred, their power deemed too dangerous for any independent governance. His grandfather and Denand's ruler at the time, Silon's father, formed an alliance against these "boneshredders." Taeg recalls the goosebumps spreading over his father's arms, how his bright blue eyes had darkened, staring out the window. His father was a young boy during the war, but the Grand Master, as it was told, had fought alongside his grandfather as a witness to the gruesome power of the Lynac.

  The Grand Master, now commander of Taeg's forces, whose shoulders made up the span of his chest, his golden cloak straining at the seams, was a hard-bitten man. Callous and bellicose, he understood the stirrings that birthed warfare. Though imperceptible to most due to his quarrelsome nature, he was wildly intelligent.

  The Grand Master looks up from a bowl of gruel, agave nectar pooling upon its surface. In his left hand is a sausage, two bites taken greedily from an end. "Yes, your highness," he says gruffly, taking a swig of mead and setting the greasy meat down on his platter. He intertwines his calloused fingers upon the tabletop and leans forward. "I was a squire during that time, though I saw little of the Xelinite people. Your grandfather did not trust me but to carry his sword. However, I did help carry a man back from a scouting venture. The vassals went looking for rogue Xelinites." He pauses, stroking his ample gray beard. "This scout, he'd gotten himself into a bad situation in Xelinac. Spooked up a Lynac user. Just civilians, a whole family of 'em. He'd drawn his sword, the fool, and one of them activated their Lynac. By the time we got him back home, we were half deaf from his screaming."

  The Grand Master picks up his spoon and shovels gruel into his mouth. He swallows roughly, looking at the aging Treasurer, who shudders discernibly in his bejeweled vest. He continues.

  "His limbs went rubbery. Said he felt like his bones were being scraped away. Had no strength left in him. His bones would break at the slightest touch. We'd never seen anything like it. Of course..." he wanders, looking down at this food offhandedly, "I learned soon after that, a Lynac user dies when they use their.... power. Just pulls the life right out of 'em. Some of them have better control over it than others." He looks up, "But they could weaken the bones of a hundred men around them in the process." He gazes at the High Priest, a slight man in his sixties with a balding head and quick, dark eyes. "I don't suppose your physicians can regrow bones, can they?" He gulps down what's left in his goblet and motions for the cup-bearer.

  "No, Argos, they cannot," the High Priest replies, his voice steady. "But I am curious as to why they chose to sacrifice themselves instead of attacking."

  "Worst thing about a Lynac user is that their mark isn't noticeable like the Crown's thaumaturgy Mark." He points his spoon toward his right eye. "It lies around the outer edge of the brow bone, but most of their brands were only a few shades shy of their skin color. Hard to pick out in a crowd." He picks up the breakfast sausage and tears off a piece with his teeth. He chews slowly, allowing his words to settle.

  Those who knew of the Lynac's power are silent. Taeg watches the frail Chancellor and the Treasurer go pale. He sits forward in his chair, his dark hair falling over his forehead. The wind from the western windows breezes in, warm and dry, and the gentle flap of drying linens can be heard over the grinding of meat between the Grand Master's molars.

  The High Priest deliberates quietly. "If all the Lynac users died with their power, our council would presume to say their blood does not run in this country. The magic was strictly of hereditary origin and a fierce defense mechanism. The people of Xelinac were not known for bloodshed," the Priest contemplates. "The citizens were lured from their home with the threat of death, no doubt. I have read the scholar's notes present in the castle libraries. He states that upon presence of a mortal threat, Lynac users are prone to activate their magic on impulse. The fatal flaw of their power was that their heritage died with them."

  "Did their power affect other Lynac users? The children of the mother..." the Chancellor inquires, unfolding from his horror.

  "According to the transcripts, no," the Priest sits composed, taking small sips of wine in between speaking.

  The Chamberlain, taking a break from his onion tart, looks to the priest. "Does this mean their bodily structure is built much stronger than our own? Or maybe they have an immunity?"

  The Priest sits his glass down, wiping his mouth gently with a sleeve. "There is no information regarding this, Chamberlain. I have formulated the same question myself."

  The Grand Master finishes his sausage and gruel, drinking swiftly from a second cup of wine. "If this is the case," he says, sitting his cup down, "what threat is a rogue Lynac user to Larynth? We have the most powerful army in Vaeba. What is it that Silon seeks in a magic user whose lineage is long gone?"

  From the end of the table, Taeg shifts, grasping a hand around his goblet of cream, grateful for the cool perspiration on its sides. He eyes each of the men around his table, their expectations building a weighty nest piece by piece in the cleft of his sternum.

  "They have nothing to lose," he says.