“What is it, Pons? That sour face of yours is ruining our enjoyment of this excellent vintage.”
“I beg your pardon, Sire, but I wonder if you are taking this matter seriously enough.” The chancellor drew nearer, speaking in an undertone, although they were quite alone, apart from the cadavers. “The other man I brought in with the prince is extraordinary in his own way! Perhaps more so than the one who escaped. I think you should see this prisoner immediately.”
“You’ve been dropping vague hints about this man. Spit it out, Pons! What’s so … extraordinary . . . about him?”
The chancellor paused, considering how to produce the greatest impact. “Your Majesty, I’ve seen him before.”
“I am aware of your extensive social connections, Pons.” Stalagma tended to make Kleitus sarcastic.
“Not in Necropolis, Sire. Nor anywhere around here. I saw him this morning … in the vision.”
The dynast returned the glass, its contents left untasted, to the tray at his elbow.
“We will see him . . . and the prince.”
Pons bowed. “Very good, Sire. Shall they be brought here or to the audience chamber?”
The dynast glanced around the room. Known as the gaming room, it was much smaller and more intimate than the grand audience hall and was well lighted by several ornate gas lamps. Numerous kairn-grass tables had been placed around the room. On top of each were four stacks of rectangular white bones adorned with red and blue runes. Tapestries lined the walls, portraying various famous battles that had been fought on Abarrach. The room was dry, cozy, and warm, heated by steam that swirled through wrought-iron, gold-trimmed pipes.
The entire palace was heated by steam, a modern addition. In ancient times, the palace—originally a fortress and one of the earliest structures built by the first-arriving Sartan—had not been dependent on mechanical means to provide comfortable living conditions. Traces of the old runes could be seen to this day in the ancient parts of the palace, sigla that had provided warmth, light, and fresh air to the people dwelling within. Most of these runes, their use forgotten through neglect, had been deliberately obliterated. The royal consort considered them an ugly eyesore.
“We will meet our guests here.” Kleitus, another glass of sta-lagma in hand, took a seat at one of the gaming tables, and began idly setting up the rune-bones as if in preparation for a game.
Pons gestured to a servant, who gestured to a guard, who disappeared out a door and, after several moments, entered with a retinue of guards, marching the two prisoners into the royal presence. The prince entered with a proud, defiant air, anger smoldering like boiling lava beneath the cool surface of royal etiquette. One side of his face was bruised, he had a swollen lip, and his clothes were
torn, his hair disheveled.
‘Allow me to present, Sire, Prince Edmund of Kairn Telest,” introduced Pons.
The prince inclined his head slightly. He did not bow. The dynast paused in setting up his game board, stared at the young man, eyebrows raised.
“On your knees to His Most Royal Majesty!” the scandalized chancellor hissed out of the corner of his mouth.
“He is not my king,” said Prince Edmund, standing tall, head back. ‘As the ruler of Kairn Necros, I bid him greeting and do him honor.” The prince inclined his head again, the gesture graceful and proud.
A smile played about the dynast’s lips. He moved a bone into position.
‘As I trust His Majesty does me honor,” pursued Edmund, his face flushed, his brows contracting, “as prince of a land that has now admittedly fallen on evil times but was once beautiful, rich, and strong.”
“Yes, yes,” said the dynast, holding a rune-marked bone in his hand, rubbing it thoughtfully across his lips. ‘All honor to the Prince of Kairn Telest. And now, Chancellor”—the eyes, hidden in the shadow of the black cowl trimmed in purple and in gold, turned toward Haplo—”what is the name of this stranger to our royal presence?”
The prince sucked in an angry breath, but kept his temper, perhaps mindful of his people, who were, according to reports, starving in a cave. The other man, the one with the rune-marked skin, stood quietly, unabashed, unimpressed, one might say almost uninterested in what was going on around him except for the eyes that saw everything without betraying that they’d seen anything.