A few tense seconds pass as Quaestor frowns, his attention now on the obsidian vial. My stomach twists as weariness drives my anxiety, heightens it. I’ve been assuming that my ceding will satisfy this test. But I only have Veridius’s relayed word for it.
The old man’s eyes clear from their brief darkness, and he uses a bandage to cover the small wound. “Thank you.”
I ensure my face shows more confusion than relief. “That’s it?”
“That is a beginning.” Quaestor finishes my dressing and clears his implements with unhurried motions, then reaches into a drawer. Pulls out something and places it between us.
“A Foundation board?” No need to fake confusion, this time.
“I assume you know the rules.” He starts taking the red and white pyramid stones from a leather bag and placing them in their starting positions. Every movement slow and deliberate as he sets stone against stone.Click.Click.
“Uh. Yes. Of course.” I hate the slowness of thought that comes with being an Octavii. “You … want a game?”
“To pass the time, while you answer a few questions.”Click. Click. “There. You may have the first move.”
I stare at the completed board. Foggier than I want to be. Is this part of Placement, now?
Nothing I can do about it. I make an opening play.
The craggy-faced man observes the board for an unnervingly long time, then swivels and sweeps his arm at the banners behind him. “Do you recognise any of these? Look closely.”
My brow furrows, but I bite my tongue and obey. The patterns on the banners are dizzying to the eye, all sharp corners and interwoven lines, similar and yet somehow distinct from one another. None of them mean anything to me. “No.”
Quaestor picks up a pen, dips it in the inkwell on the table, and writes. Slowly. The scratching of words being committed to parchment fills the room.
Then he moves his first stone.Click.
“What was the last thing you wished to do on your own?”
I blink. “Pardon?”
Quaestor looks up. His eyes are a faded grey over the rims of his glasses. “What was the last thing you wished to do on your own?”
“Um.” It’s a strange question, but one I don’t particularly see any benefit toavoiding. “I suppose … pay my respects to my friend.” A lump in my throat accompanies the answer.
Head back down, revealing a liver-spotted pate. More scratching. “Make your move.”
I do. He looks up. Studies it. Makes his own again, slow and measured.Click. “If the sea is the sky, what does that make a shark?”
I resist the urge to make him repeat the question. Repress my confusion. “Uh. An eagle, I suppose?” I shift a stone before he asks, this time. The first few moves are always easiest, and he’s playing a standard opening.
He writes again. Stops.Click. “Can a man go a hundred days without sleep?”
I pretend to study the board, this time. My foggy mind trying to discern what these questions could possibly signify. I answer as I push the next stone. “No?”
Click. “Today I feel the colour of a blue sky. What does that mean to you?”
I turn a disbelieving chuckle—the man’s grim delivery is starkly at odds to his statement—into an awkward cough. “I suppose that you’re happy?” I can’t help but pose my answers as questions in and of themselves.
Pause. Write. “Malum. Terreo. Carina. Lapis. Vinculum. Luteus.” His gaze flicks up. Watching me more intently than before.
“Is that … Vetusian? Something about a stone, and … something orange?”
He grunts. Writes more. “Make your move.”
“What are these questions for?” I let irritation into my tone, in part to cover my increasing anxiety. This seems frivolous, meaningless—but it’s surely not. Not knowing its purpose means I don’t know how to answer. Don’t know what I’m revealing. The blood test, I expected. This is something else.
“Make your move,” Quaestor repeats. No change in intonation. Calm and dry.
