The dynast stopped, returned, and read the words over again. ‘Paint them on their own bodies in order to enhance their magic.’ He continued on, reading aloud. ‘I trace, as a curiosity, some of the rune structures that they have been known to use. Note the similarity to our runes, but note also that it is the barbaric manner in which the sigla are constructed that radically alters the magic, creating—as it were—an entirely new language of crude but forceful magical power.’
Kleitus lifted several of the rune-bones from his game and placed them on the page, next to the drawings of that ancient Sartan author. The matches were almost perfect. “It’s so blasted obvious. Why didn’t I ever notice before?”
Shaking his head, vexed at himself, he resumed reading.
The Wave, for the moment, appears stable. But there are those among us who fear that the Patryns are growing stronger and that the Wave is beginning to bulge again. There are some who argue that we must go to war, stop the Patryns now. There are some, myself included, who caution that we must do nothing to upset the balance or the Wave will bulge in the other direction.
The treatise continued on, but the dynast dosed the text. It contained nothing more about the Patryns, wandered into speculation about what might happen if the Wave bulged. The dynast already knew the answer. It had, and then had come the Sundering, and then life in this tomb of a world. So much he knew of the history of the Sartan.
But he had forgotten the Patryns, the ancient enemy, bringers of darkness, possessors of a “crude but forceful” magical power.
“Absolute and complete domination . . .” he repeated softly to himself. “What fools we’ve been. What complete and utter fools. But it isn’t too late. They think they’re clever. They think they can catch us unawares. But it won’t work.”
After several more moments’ reflection, he beckoned to one of the cadavers. “Send for the Lord High Chancellor.”
The dead servant left, returning almost instantaneously with Pons, whose value lay in the fact that he was always where he could be easily found when he was wanted and was conveniently absent when he wasn’t.
“Your Majesty,” said Pons, bowing low.
“Has Tomas returned?”
“Just this moment, I believe.”
“Bring him to us.”
“Here, Your Majesty?”
Kleitus paused, glanced around, nodded. “Yes, here.”
The matter being an important one, Pons went on the errand himself. One of the cadavers might have been dispatched to fetch the young man, but there was always the possibility, with the dead servants, that the cadaver might bring back a basket of rez flowers, having completely forgotten its original instructions.
Pons returned to one of the public rooms, where large numbers of couriers and suitors were wont to be found. The dynast’s appearance in the room would have struck them like a bolt of lightning from the colossus, shocking them into a frenzy of fawning and bowing and scraping. As it was, the appearance of the Lord High Chancellor sent a mild jolt through the throng. A few of the lowerranking members of the nobility bowed humbly, the upper echelon ceased their rune-bone playing and conversations and turned their heads. Those who knew Pons well gave him greeting, much to the jealous envy of those who did not.
“What’s up, Pons?” asked one languidly.
The Lord High Chancellor smiled. “His Majesty is in need—”
Numerous couriers rose instantly to their feet.
“—of a living messenger,” Pons finished. He gazed about the room with apparent bored indifference.
“Errand boy, huh?” A baron yawned.
The upper echelon, knowing that this was a menial task, one that probably wouldn’t even involve actually seeing the dynast, returned to their games and gossip.
“You, there.” Pons gestured to a young man standing near the back of the room. “What is your name?”
“Tomas, My Lord.”
“Tomas. You’ll do. Come this way.”
Tomas bowed in silent acquiescence and followed the Lord High Chancellor out of the antechamber into the private and guarded section of the palace. Neither spoke, beyond one brief exchange of significant glances on leaving the antechamber. The Lord High Chancellor preceded the young man, who walked several paces behind Pons as was proper, his hands folded in his sleeves, his black and untrimmed cowl drawn low over his head.
The Lord High Chancellor paused outside the library, made a sign to the young man to wait. Tomas did as he was bid, standing silently in the shadows. One of the dead guards thrust open the stone door. Pons looked inside, Kleitus had returned to his reading. On hearing the door open, he glanced up and—seeing his minister—nodded.
Pons beckoned to the young man, who slid out of the shadows and in through the door. The Lord High Chancellor entered with him, shut the door softly behind him. The cadavers guarding His Majesty took up their positions.
The dynast returned to perusing the text spread out on the table before him.
The young man and Pons stood quietly, waiting.
“You have been to the earl’s dwelling, Tomas?” Kleitus asked, without looking up.
“I have just now returned, Sire,” said the young man, bowing.
“And you found them there—the duke and duchess and the stranger?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And you did as you were told?”
“Yes, of course, Sire.”
“With what result?”
“A—a rather peculiar result, Sire. If I may explain—” Tomas took a step forward.
Kleitus, eyes on his text, waved a negligent hand.
Tomas frowned, glanced at Pons, the young man asking if the dynast was paying attention.
The Lord High Chancellor answered with a peremptory raise of his eyebrows, meaning, “His Majesty is paying far more attention to you than you might wish.”
Tomas, now appearing somewhat uncomfortable, launched into his report. “As Your Majesty is aware, the duke and duchess believe that I am one of their party, involved in this misguided rebellion.” The young man paused to bow, to demonstrate his true feelings.
The dynast turned a page.
Tomas, receiving no acknowledgment, continued, discomfiture growing. “I told them of the prince’s murder—”
“Murder?” Kleitus stirred, the hand turning the page paused.
Tomas cast Pons a pleading glance.
“Forgive him, Majesty,” the Lord High Chancellor said softly, “but that is how the rebels would view the prince’s lawful execution. Tomas must appear to join in their views, in order to convince them that he is one of them, and thus remain useful to Your Majesty.”
The dynast resumed the turning of his page, smoothed it with his hand.
Tomas, with a small sigh of relief, continued, “I told them that the man with the rune-painted skin was dead, as well.” The young man hesitated, uncertain how to continue.
“With what result?” Kleitus prompted, running a finger down the page.
“The man’s friend, the one who killed the dead, denied the report.”
The dynast looked up from his reading. “Denied it?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. He said he knew that his friend, whom they called ‘Haplo,’ was alive.”
“He knew it, you say?” The dynast exchanged glances with the Lord High Chancellor.
“Yes, Sire. He seemed quite firmly convinced of the fact. It had something to do with a dog—”
His Majesty was about to say something, but the Lord High Chancellor raised a finger in a warding, albeit highly respectful, manner.
“Dog?” Pons asked. “What about a dog?”
“A dog entered the room while I was there. It went up to the stranger, whose name is Alfred. This Alfred appeared quite pleased to see the dog and he said that now he knew Haplo wasn’t dead.”
“What did this dog look like?”
Tomas thought back. “A largish animal. Black fur, with white eyebrows. Ifs very intelligent. Or seems so. It... listens. To conversations. Almost as if it understood—”