In the king’s study, Rinon sat before a table strewn with papers. Reports from the field, from the city. Movements and purchases, visits, times and dates, library registers. Rinon knew what they were doing. The pattern was clear, but still, it wasn’t evidence. Aradan could not use this chain of circumstances to bring down Band’orán. It was not enough, and he knew it.
And damn it all, but where was Handir?
He rubbed at his temples, feeling his thudding pulse there. His eye roved over a report from the Inner Circle. Rinon thought he had convinced at least a handful of captains to vote in favour of the Warlord. But now, they said that if Lord Fel’annár were allowed to become the Warlord, the forest would turn against the Alpines. They would rebel. It was happening already, they argued. Even those sympathetic towards the Silvans had been convinced it was the wrong thing to do, or perhaps the right thing at the wrong time.
Standing, he slammed the reports on his desk and closed his eyes, willing his rising temper to calm. Turning, papers in hand, he threw them on the fire and waited for them to be consumed, knowing that his father watched him and felt the same.
Behind him, the door clicked open. Aradan strode towards the king. Thargodén stood.
“We have news. A missive, at last! From Vorn’asté himself.”
They made for the table. Rinon’s eyes automatically searched for Turion, but did not find him.
“Open it and read,” ordered the king.
Aradan nodded, broke the ornate wax seal that held the scroll together, and pulled it open.
Gracious king of Ea Uaré, Thargodén Ar Or’Talán.
I send tidings from Tar’eastór and news of your sons, both of whom are well.
“Thank the Gods,” muttered Thargodén.
Prince Handir has concluded his fruitful tutorship with Chief Councillor Damiel, who has reported that your son excelled in his studies. He recommends Prince Handir for the role of Advisor, and I urge your own Lord Aradan to continue his studies to this end. A gracious and duteous son, Handir will be welcome in my realm whenever he sees fit to return.
You may already know of the Battle of Tar’eastór.
“What? What battle?” barked Rinon.
A new foe, the Nim’uán, led a mighty host of Deviants to the very doors of my court. Your warriors, under Lord Commander Gor’sadén, shone in their duty and have been personally commended. I congratulate you, Thargodén, on an excellent militia. The Alpines of Tar’eastór are grateful. Your own Commander Pan’assár will brief you in full.
“Nim’uán? What the hell is that?” Rinon was striding around the desk, but Aradan continued reading, unperturbed.
I wish to extend my own invitation to you, to visit the Motherland at a time circumstances permit. I would speak with Or’Talán’s son once more.
“Signed, etc.,” concluded Aradan, allowing his arms to drop. His eyes flitted from the king to the prince.
“What, no more? Is that it?” asked Rinon with a scowl. He wanted the details. He wanted to know about the battle, about this Nim’uán.
Aradan brought the paper back to his eyes and scanned it once more. “The date …”
“What about it?”
“Vorn’asté states the date of the battle. It was nearly two months ago.” Aradan nodded as he turned the parchment in his hands. The king watched him. “Heavy paper …”
“Aradan?”
The advisor strode to the door and pulled it open. “Send for Lerita. Now.” One of the guards strode away, and Aradan turned back into the room, made straight for the king’s desk. “I believe there is a cypher.”
“He knows,” concluded Rinon. “Vorn’asté knows there is danger. But how? Handir can’t possibly know what has happened in his absence, and certainly not Pan’assár.”
The king nodded. “But he knows our correspondence was not arriving, that it was intercepted.” He turned to Aradan for confirmation.
“It would seem that way, yes.” He wandered to the window, aware that behind him, Thargodén was pouring wine.
“How do we know we can trust this Lerita?” asked Rinon, accepting the goblet the king handed him.
“She was Or’Talán’s most trusted scholar. They would sit for hours, talking and postulating. Your father will remember her.”
“I do.” Rinon turned to the king as he spoke. “She almost died for me once, many years ago. A story for later.”
Rinon turned to Aradan, saw his thoughtful eyes. Whatever had happened, his father’s advisor knew what it was.
“Well, she surely knows the consequences of betraying our trust. If word gets out, she knows she will be held responsible.” Rinon was sceptical, but his father seemed as sure as he could be.
Minutes later, the doors opened, and a short woman stood in expectant silence before them. A stranger face Rinon had never seen. It seemed almost flat, her eyes the shape of almonds and her mouth as thin as a bowstring. It was almost a cruel face, he mused.
“Lerita of the Academics’ Guild,” declared Thargodén, smiling at the utterly still woman with the stoniest face he had ever seen. It was even worse than Rinon’s. Still, he knew her well, though they had not spoken much through the years of his wanderings.
“My king, my prince, lord,” she said, eyes fixed upon the king. Thargodén saw it, something he knew the others would not. Fondness. The same he felt for her.
“We call upon you for a task that is of the utmost delicacy. As such, you are under solemn oath to not repeat what happens in this room today, unless I should personally require it of you,” said Thargodén.
“You have my solemn oath, my king.”
All three watched her, but Rinon was fascinated with the odd woman. Lerita was a cool, strangely hard presence in the room. Like a stone in winter, as toughened as any veteran warrior, thought the prince, and he could only wonder at the things she had seen and read.
Aradan held out the missive, and she stepped forward. Taking it, her eyes roved over the paper, fingers brushing over the smooth surface. She turned it, felt it, smelled it, and then looked at her own fingers. “There are multiple cyphers here, my lords. The sender wished to ensure the messages within could not be easily decoded. I will need some time and provisions.”
“You have it all, but you must not leave this room,” warned Thargodén.
She nodded. “May I sit?”
The king gestured to the table. She sat. “Can this be cleared?” she asked, pointing to the piles of paper the king had accumulated. The prince raised an eyebrow at her gall, but Aradan was already clearing it away, piling it neatly on the bookshelves behind. Thargodén watched Rinon with distant amusement.
A pale hand reached for the ink well and straightened it, then smoothed the paper out before her. “I need paper, charcoal, water, scally moss and,” her eyes narrowed as she peered at something in one corner, “more candles.”
With a gesture from the king, Aradan was away in search of the items Lerita had requested. Before long, her work began.