‘Then what am I to tell him?’Anwe said, puzzled.It was not her fault, Torin reminded himself, though it did little to quiet his annoyance.Her virtues lay elsewhere than navigating the intricacies of politics.A thick skull could be a virtue in its own right.When things turned violent, it might help her survive a few blows to the head.
‘To beready,’ Torin said.‘I want the option to act, even if I do not take it.The same reason I drag you around behind me.Is that understood?’
‘I’ll just write that, then,’ Anwe muttered.
‘Check on Orn, as well,’ Torin said, and left.
The messenger led him on a winding path through the castle, down narrow hallways, picking their way by a little-travelled route.Torin’s mind was too focused on the impending conversation to note his surroundings overmuch, but several times he felt the jarring sensation that they had travelled from one building into another.Angular moulding and architectural style became rounded edges, then raw brick.Only the decor—tapestries showing the kingdom’s history—created any sense of unity.Some passageways smelled of dust, others of the mild pungency of soil, still others the cold, wet iron of stone.But even looking backwards down the narrow hallway of unadorned brick—by which he recognised that they were now in the oldest wing of the castle—he could not find the point where one style gave way to the next.
‘Just up here, sir,’ the messenger said anxiously.Muffled voices sounded from a door ahead, muted by brick and wood.‘Apologies.I was sent to fetch you.I’d no notion the prince would send for anyone else.’
Torin offered the young man a reassuring smile.‘I can afford to wait a moment in the passageway.’
The messenger smiled in relief.His hands twitched at his sides, obviously fighting an urge to play at the hem of his shirt.A nervous habit likely trained out of him by the castle steward, or whoever was responsible for bringing new messengers into the house.
‘If you don’t mind, my boy, I was about to begin my morning meditations.I can perform them standing in a hallway as easily as kneeling at my bed.’
The messenger blinked at him.‘You’re asking my… permission, sir?’
It would be unusual for a guest of the royal household to defer in any way to one of its servants, which saddened Torin.The Mortal Church recognised the necessity of such hierarchies for the ordered functioning of the world, but one’s role in life ought not to make one’s preferences any less important.
‘I’d not want to make you uncomfortable, my boy,’ Torin said.
The boy shook his head.‘Oh no, sir.I’m only a servant.’
‘No one is “only” anything,’ Torin said.‘I am as mortal as you, and we are both as mortal as Prince Owyn.What differences exist between us pale in comparison to our similarities.The first virtue of the Church’s teaching is compassion.Welcome and respect for all, regardless of station.So, if you don’t mind?’
‘I… ah… I don’t mind, sir, no,’ the boy said, clearly flustered.
‘Do let me know when Prince Owyn is ready for me.’Torin smiled at him again, the poor imbecile, then closed his eyes and murmured a prayer to Gorev, Agion of Honesty.Power flowed into him.The soundscape around him bloomed, everything becoming at once louder and sharper.The skittering of a mouse’s nails through the wall behind him.The slow groan of old wood and stone settling over centuries.The rustling of the messenger boy’s tunic as his fingers brushed its hem.A blessing in proportion to how well Torin had cultivated the virtue he invoked, how well he followed the example of the Agion.
Orn, a Knight of Stillness, had mastered the virtue of honesty almost to a point of fault.He might have cast his hearing through the castle, listening to any whispered conversation, no matter how carefully concealed.In truth, honesty was one of Torin’s lesser virtues—one his role as inquisitor called for him to violate, at times.He could call upon it, but only weakly.Enough, however, to listen to the prince’s conversation through the oaken door.
‘… not a decision I make lightly, Your Highness.’Torin recognised the voice as belonging to Ifan, Count of Glascoed.‘I would not have you take your throne while embers of rebellion smoulder in my lands.’
‘And a fortnight will be enough time to stamp them out?’Prince Owyn asked.‘How long have bandits plagued the Greenwood.Eight years?Nine?No matter how many times our fathers sent sorties to hunt them, there were always more malcontented peasants ready to cast aside their scythes and make their living by the spear.’
‘This is different, Highness, and you know it—’
‘Enough with “Highness”!’the prince snapped.‘You have been a hermit since the death of your father, but I remember the outings after foxes on your lands.Summer days on my father’s yacht.The winter we spent becoming masters of the draughts board, only for Jon Kenn to trounce us both when we challenged him.’
‘Pleasant days,’ the count murmured, so quietly that Torin could scarce hear.
‘I need allies, Ifan,’ the prince said, badly suppressing a crack in his voice.‘But more, I need friends.You were one once.’
There was a pause.‘Consider this an act of friendship then, Owyn.The kingdom is besieged on three sides.The haunting, the bandits in the Greenwood, and these churchmen from Tarebach.’Torin winced at that, though it was not terribly surprising.The count went on.‘I can little help with either the first or last.But I can see to the Greenwood.Let me do my duty.’
‘I can’t convince you to stay?’Owyn said.‘Very well, you may go.Though I consider this folly, and arrogance, and wasted effort.’
‘Thank you, Owyn.’Boot heels clicked together, then thumped across the floor.Torin ceased his invocation as the oaken door swung open.Glascoed paused as he stepped into the passageway and fixed Torin with a long stare.A fire burned in the count’s eyes.He glanced over his shoulder towards the prince, his heavy brows furrowed with an unspoken question, then stalked off down the passage.
‘Prince Owyn is ready for you, sir,’ the messenger boy said, gesturing towards the open doorway.Torin followed him, who announced him in a squeaky, unpractised imitation of the court herald, then retreated from the room and pulled the heavy door shut behind him.
Prince Owyn stood before a low-burning fire dressed in simple clothes: russet breeches and vest over a white shirt, with a gold circlet perched in his black curls the only symbol of his office.On the mantel above the fire stood a device of obvious First Folk make.Cylinders of crystal lined with silver filigree, arranged to form gradual slopes up to a sharp peak that brushed the ceiling.Torin eyed the device for a moment, disquiet churning in his belly.It was difficult to stop the mind from wondering what purpose the abomination served—what the First Folk had made it for, and what use the kings of Parwys had put it to.The prince turned.Torin bowed while the youth studied him with eyes the harsh blue of a summer sky.Dark bags hung beneath those startling eyes, testifying to a long, sleepless night.
‘You are not so frightening as my mother would have me believe,’ the prince said softly, then gestured to a pair of chairs and a table near the fireside.A copper teapot stood beside a pair of porcelain cups.‘Would you take tea?’
‘I would, Your Highness,’ Torin said.‘Though I doubt you summoned me to socialise.’
