“What’s behind the mound?” Jason asked.
“It’s a storage room.”
He lowered his voice. “Steal anything good?”
She reached him just in time to punch him on the arm. “Right, I was stealing stuff from our hosts.”
“Then what were you doing back there? They have an outhouse, you know.”
“Ew, sicko. I was practicing Edomic.”
“Sure you were,” Jason said. “You’re just too embarrassed to admit you were playing hide-and-seek all alone. Rachel hiding, nobody seeking.”
“You got me,” she said. “It’s a homeschool thing. We make our own fun.”
“They said the meeting starts at noon, and we’re riding there in a wagon.”
“You mean the conclave?”
“I thought the Conclave was the group.”
“The group is called the Conclave, and when they preside over a meeting, it’s also called a conclave. I asked Farfalee.”
“Lazy,” Jason complained. He spoke in a mocking voice. “The Conclave is having a conclave. It should be really conclave.” He shook his head. “They should call the meeting something else.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “A jamboree.”
“Slip that one into the suggestion box.”
Rachel and Jason found the others waiting in a large, open wagon on the far side of the house. It was the sort of vehicle people back home might have used for hayrides. Rachel felt a little awkward once she saw that the others were ready and waiting. She must have really lost track of time.
“Sorry,” Rachel said, climbing into the bed of the wagon.
“No apologies required,” Galloran said. “I felt you issuing some potent commands. Such dedication to your talent is commendable. I waited until the last moment to send Jason to fetch you.”
Lodan and Farfalee sat up front. Lodan snapped the reins and the team tugged the wagon forward.
They all wore dressy robes. Rachel wondered how they had scrounged enough for everyone. Corinne looked especially gorgeous, her hair woven into elaborate braids. If that girl ever made it to America, she was a supermodel waiting to happen. No surprise that Jason found her so interesting.
“Everyone looks really official,” Rachel commented over the clatter of the wagon.
“It was tricky to outfit Aram,” Ferrin said. “Fortunately, Farfalee had kept some apparel from Lodan’s infancy.”
“Keep it up,” Aram dared him.
Ferrin grinned. “Or perhaps she borrowed the robes from a doll.”
“Do us all a favor and toss your mouth overboard,” Aram replied.
“Not bad,” Ferrin said. “You just earned a truce.”
“Only until the sun goes down,” Aram grumbled.
Rachel sat silently, enjoying the cool breeze, the bright sun, and the pleasant countryside. She wondered idly why they didn’t see more people on the road. Aside from their wagon, the day seemed very still.
She got her answer when they arrived at their destination. The Conclave met in a large amphitheater between five hills. The oval depression descended one concentric ring at a time, forming a bowl large enough to seat thousands. Not only was the sunken amphitheater crammed with seedfolk, but the surrounding hillsides were thronged as well. Nobody had been on the road, because they were already at the conclave!
“I hope we have reserved seats,” Jason said, voicing her thoughts.
“We’ll sit up close,” Galloran said. “How glad we are to be there will depend on how the Conclave rules.”
Lodan remained with the wagon while the others disembarked. Farfalee led them down a long stairway to the bottom of the amphitheater. Galloran kept one hand on Dorsio’s shoulder. Rachel watched the crowd, men and women clad in robes, not many of them beyond middle age. She only spotted one possible teenager, a girl with light brown hair. Nobody looked younger.
As members of the crowd took notice of the procession marching down the stairs, they became quiet. Rachel felt the weight of thousands of eyes staring her way.
At the bottom of the huge bowl, three men and one young girl sat at a bulky stone table surrounded by a flat, open area. There was clearly room at the table for a fifth person.
“Who’s the little girl?” Jason asked.
“Ilestra, the eldest surviving seedwoman,” Farfalee said. “Her First Death happened by accident at age seven. Her latest rebirth occurred only a year ago.”
After the stairs ended, Farfalee gestured toward an empty bench situated front and center. Rachel filed over with the others as Farfalee claimed her seat with the Conclave.
A strapping man with his hair twined in a pair of long braids arose off a bench and strode to a position to one side of the stone table. He was meatier than the typical seedman, and spoke in a strident voice.
“By order of the Conclave, five speaking as one, this emergency conclave is now in session. Galloran, son of Dromidus, will be the sole petitioner. Naman of the Conclave has elected to personally serve as rebutter.”
A murmur rippled through the onlookers.
The heavyset seedman glanced over his shoulder. The man seated at the center of the table dipped his head. The speaker turned and announced. “The Conclave recognizes Galloran.” He withdrew and sat down.
Dorsio guided Galloran to the position vacated by the speaker, then stepped back a few paces. “Forgive my voice,” Galloran said, raising it as best he could. “I inhaled an acidic concoction some years back, and it has never been the same.”
He sounded plenty loud to Rachel. The audience was silent, and the space seemed to have good acoustics, which helped. Craning her neck to look upward, she figured the crowds on the neighboring hillsides were out of luck.
“I am honored to be back among the Amar Kabal and to stand before this illustrious Conclave,” Galloran began.
“We are delighted to see you again,” said the seedman in the center, a handsome man with dark-gray eyes and a slightly crooked nose. “Diverse rumors have circulated concerning your fate. We feared you had met your end in the dungeons of Felrook.”
“My mind and body were maimed in those dungeons,” Galloran said. “But I was eventually released. It has required some time and effort to become functional again.”
“What brings you before the Conclave?” the seedman asked.
“I wish for the Amar Kabal to reconsider their current relationship with Maldor. I want to urge your people to support a rebellion.”