The mountain air bit into his bare flesh. His mask was in his hand, held close to him. As he looked out over his city, a pair of Griffins climbed into his view from the side—two of his Tithing taking off for their patrol. The morning fog had largely been burned away by the rising sun, but he could see a few wisps winding and curling away what remained of their short lives down in the pass. The day was well under way in the city below, so many of its people having risen not long after the sun. For its part, the sun was not one quarter into its sluggish trek across the sky. “Your Grace.” “Is something the matter, Adyras?” Kalon turned to face the other, much younger, man. He was pale—paler, even, than Kalon was—and was wrapped in an unadorned black robe. A raven was perched on one shoulder, which idly ate from a hand he had raised up to it. Asyras’ eyes were locked on Kalon, but his face was impassive. “I must admit, your Grace, that I am nervous.” Kalon’s lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke. “You have little cause, Adyras. You won’t even be in the room.” Adyras pulled his hand away from the raven, which squawked in protest. “Nevertheless, this will be the first Council of War Sanc Valatir has seen since it became a part of the Empire. And to host all of the Archons…” “Iao still sleeps in the north, and none have the same mercurial tastes as Soraya.” Adyras heaved a heavy sigh. “It isn’t the physical demands that have me concerned. If it was just the aggregation of resources, and the management of preparations, there wouldn’t be a problem. If it was just the task itself, there wouldn’t be a problem.” Kalon stood rigidly, his eyes tracked up and down the other man. After a long pause, he said, “It’s in your head.” “Aye, your grace.” Adyras’ lips curled into a rueful smile. “It is a fear not conjured by reason or sense, and fed by the idle hours where I do not toil.” “Then toil.” Kalon’s voice developed an edge, and closed his eyes. “If it is in idleness that brings you fear, then rest idle as little as you can until the object of your fear has passed.” Kalon raised his mask to his head, and lowered it onto his face. His eyes opened to see that Adyras had taken a small step back. “Do your duty, Steward. Shelter in in it. Find purpose in it. Even revel in it. But do not let anything [i]distract[/i] you from it, or else you may bring your fears to pass.” Adyras brought his feet together, and raised his fist to his chest in a silent salute. Pulling the hood of his cloak up over his head, and walked past to the stairwell. [hr] The Eyrie was busy as it ever was. Soldiers bustled to and fro through the stone corridors on some business or on leave—snapping into a salute as Kalon passed—slaves carrying on their menial tasks—averting their gaze from him. As he clibed the floors, he passed the Griffin stables, large portions of their wooden, outer walls lowered by winch over the walls of the city, and saw one slave struggling with a Griffin. He passed the barracks, where the men slept. He passed the armory, where the weapons of the Eyrian Wings were kept, as well is their harnesses and saddles. At last, he came to another door, this one closed and somewhat more ornate than the others. On either side stood a soldier in the colors of his city, a mace at their hips. As one, as the soldiers on the floors below, they snapped into a salute. “Sky-Captain Kalaster is expecting me.” One of the guards opened the door, and he saw a graying man in a fine gambeson seated behind a desk look up. In an instant he was stood, also saluting. Kalon stepped in, and the soldier holding the door open closed it behind him. “At ease, Cirile.” The man lowered his arm, but still stood rigid as a tree. “Now, you mentioned earlier that you had a map of the skirmishes of late?’ “Indeed, my Lord.” Cirile bent down and grabbed a scroll from a box of them beside his desk, and, pushing aside what he had there previously, and spread it out over the wood. “We’ve had seven Riders clash with enemy pegasus riders in the past fortnight,” Each was marked on the map, with the elevation and date scrawled beside each. “We’ve repulsed every probe of their into our airspace, and brought down four more of theirs, of which all riders and mounts were killed.” “They’re pushing harder. That’s the same number of encounters as in the last month.” Underneath his mask, Kalon scowled. “We’ve probed their air-space over the same period. As expected, there aren’t any openings, but we have thus far suffered no fatalities, and only minor injuries to two Griffins. That’s in addition to those last month. Additionally, all interior Flocks has reported having sighting and engaging small enemy ground forces in the passes they protect. All were turned back without difficulty, and a reported twenty enemy casualties with no prisoners.” Kalon leaned onto the desk. He closed his eyes. Reaching out with his power, he intoned aloud: [i]”Commander Salvus Ward.”[/i] The response was clear as day. [i]”I am hearing you, your Grace.”[/i] His command was simple: [i]”Report."[/i] [i]”Your Grace, extensive inspection of our fortifications have produced no sign of enemy sabotage, nor have any enemy forces been sighted by any of the garrisons. Our scouting parties have skirmished with the enemy on their soil, but we haven’t been able to get within sight of the river.”[/i] [i]”That will be all.”[/i] Closing the link, Kalon reopened his eyes. Cirile looked back it him quizzically. “No losses on our part, but we don’t have the numbers or the training to probe them properly. Looking back down at the map, Kalon continued, “Maybe I could convince Soraya to call up some of the levy to scout for us. But how quickly would they finish?” “I wouldn’t know, my Lord.” Kalon ignored him. “Galenave has good guerillas. Guerilla types. They might be trained already, but Lysvita wouldn’t be on hand for me to ask. My best hope would be for Soraya to know the capabilities of the forces she commands.” Beneath his mask, his scowl deepened, and he raised his head to Cirile. “Maintain current procedures until you are instructed otherwise, and alert me if anything goes awry.” Cirile saluted again. “Of course, my Lord.” Kalon regarded the Sky-Captain briefly, before turning and leaving through the door. [hr] Kalon could see the war-room of Sanc Valatir clearly in his mind: The large, round table, with a map of the southern Tiranine Mountains and all of Lesmiana stretched across it, with the location, date, and time of each skirmish to date marked on it. His fortifications were marked, and the strengths of their garrisons, as were the many towers of the Tithing. Around it were several chairs of fine make—with four of yet finer make for the Archons. The whole of the room was well lit, and it was protected by additional layers of anti-scrying enchantment. Kalon’s eyes fluttered open. He saw his gloved hands resting on the pommel of a longsword. His fingers drummed along it in irritation. Realistically, he knew that Kabius and his spies would be able to perform better reconnaissance than Kalon could dream of, and that he couldn’t realistically expect a force trained to garrison heavy fortifications to expertly probe enemy capabilities. But they were [i]right there[/i] It was his duty to protect the border, and he was ill-equipped to do that between now and the Council. He breathed in, slowly. And then out. The Council would come. And, despite the escalations, it would almost certainly be before Lesmiana could strike. The Archons would arrive. The other Exarchs, who would attend, would arrive. And they would have a plan. And then, Lesmiana would never threaten the Empire’s borders again.