Hanson—who was remarkably fit and already bald at thirty-nine, hurried to greet them. Topen dismounted and gave the reins over to the outstretched hands of his stable manager.
* * *
T he doors of the timekeeper room burst open to expose a large room of clocks. Topen swiftly entered and the panorama of timepieces on the walls surrounded him. The walls had all manner of clocks mounted on them, and each had on their face the words, Last Visited, followed by a plethora of metalized numbers that rotated on a mechanical spindle. The hands of the clocks spun at different rates, though most closely synchronized to the large master clock that hung from the ceiling—with its four faces it was viewable from every direction. Nearly twenty percent of the clocks moved far slower or faster than the master. One clock had a minute hand that rotated precisely in concert to the master clock’s second hand.
Topen stepped before a grandfather clock, pressed tightly against the wall. The minute hand twirled rapidly around the face—fast enough to watch twenty-four hours pass while only eight minutes would rotate on the master clock. An etched metal sheet attached to the body of the tall clock prominently displayed the words, Rondros’s Avileen Empire , and the numbers that rotated next to the words, Last Visited , read—.
Loran shot straight awake and lifted up in bed—her wide-open eyes locked on the two paintings hung on the wall in front of her. Breathing heavily, sweat tricked from her brow and flew onto her bedding when she shook her head to regain her bearings. She expected to see the morning sun glaring through the windows, but just a subtle glow was present. Of one thing she was chillingly certain, this experience was new—more vivid than any other dream.
Loran tossed the covers from her body and threw her legs over the side of the bed; her feet instantly carried her away when they touched the cool floor. She stared at the paintings one last time before she rushed into the other room to dress. Despite the sense of urgency that had been her companion over the last five months, there would be no attempt at the silvering on this morning—her dream having assured that the calm mind required for the ritual would not be possible.
* * *
A knock on Rolam’s door so early in the morning was uncommon, but the loud noise persisted, nonetheless. Rolam resisted the urge to become conscious and turned away from the intrusive racket; he tugged tightly at his covers. Three more authoritative knocks nudged him awake.
“Who is there?” Rolam shouted.
“It’s Kelamar. There are matters I need to discuss with you.”
Rolam squinted his eyes in the fading darkness of his room.
“Come in.”
Kelamar entered the room, and Rolam forced himself from his comfortable bed. He reached for his robe, draped at the foot of the canopy, and slipped into it.
“It must be important, Kelamar, since I have never known you to give way to hysterics.”
“It is, indeed.”
Rolam yawned and motioned for Kelamar to join him at the timbered table near the entrance of his chamber.
“The ascension of Gervest must not take place,” Kelamar blurted out. “I have observed you closely since Gilvius announced his intent to appoint Gervest as Sovereign. I do not believe I am misreading your agreement with my words.”
“You have placed a great deal of confidence in your assessment, to now reveal your defiance of my father’s edict.”
“I would not defy a proclamation of the sovereign if I believed it was made of his own clear mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone or something is exerting influence over him. It is familiar, from long ago, during the castle war,” Kelamar reflected, and searched his mind for the exact memory he could relate to Rolam.
“Have you proof of this?” Rolam asked.
“It is not so easily shown, but had Gilvius displayed his current condition more rapidly, we all would have been suspicious. As it is, the slow
* * *
T he doors of the timekeeper room burst open to expose a large room of clocks. Topen swiftly entered and the panorama of timepieces on the walls surrounded him. The walls had all manner of clocks mounted on them, and each had on their face the words, Last Visited, followed by a plethora of metalized numbers that rotated on a mechanical spindle. The hands of the clocks spun at different rates, though most closely synchronized to the large master clock that hung from the ceiling—with its four faces it was viewable from every direction. Nearly twenty percent of the clocks moved far slower or faster than the master. One clock had a minute hand that rotated precisely in concert to the master clock’s second hand.
Topen stepped before a grandfather clock, pressed tightly against the wall. The minute hand twirled rapidly around the face—fast enough to watch twenty-four hours pass while only eight minutes would rotate on the master clock. An etched metal sheet attached to the body of the tall clock prominently displayed the words, Rondros’s Avileen Empire , and the numbers that rotated next to the words, Last Visited , read—.
Loran shot straight awake and lifted up in bed—her wide-open eyes locked on the two paintings hung on the wall in front of her. Breathing heavily, sweat tricked from her brow and flew onto her bedding when she shook her head to regain her bearings. She expected to see the morning sun glaring through the windows, but just a subtle glow was present. Of one thing she was chillingly certain, this experience was new—more vivid than any other dream.
Loran tossed the covers from her body and threw her legs over the side of the bed; her feet instantly carried her away when they touched the cool floor. She stared at the paintings one last time before she rushed into the other room to dress. Despite the sense of urgency that had been her companion over the last five months, there would be no attempt at the silvering on this morning—her dream having assured that the calm mind required for the ritual would not be possible.
* * *
A knock on Rolam’s door so early in the morning was uncommon, but the loud noise persisted, nonetheless. Rolam resisted the urge to become conscious and turned away from the intrusive racket; he tugged tightly at his covers. Three more authoritative knocks nudged him awake.
“Who is there?” Rolam shouted.
“It’s Kelamar. There are matters I need to discuss with you.”
Rolam squinted his eyes in the fading darkness of his room.
“Come in.”
Kelamar entered the room, and Rolam forced himself from his comfortable bed. He reached for his robe, draped at the foot of the canopy, and slipped into it.
“It must be important, Kelamar, since I have never known you to give way to hysterics.”
“It is, indeed.”
Rolam yawned and motioned for Kelamar to join him at the timbered table near the entrance of his chamber.
“The ascension of Gervest must not take place,” Kelamar blurted out. “I have observed you closely since Gilvius announced his intent to appoint Gervest as Sovereign. I do not believe I am misreading your agreement with my words.”
“You have placed a great deal of confidence in your assessment, to now reveal your defiance of my father’s edict.”
“I would not defy a proclamation of the sovereign if I believed it was made of his own clear mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone or something is exerting influence over him. It is familiar, from long ago, during the castle war,” Kelamar reflected, and searched his mind for the exact memory he could relate to Rolam.
“Have you proof of this?” Rolam asked.
“It is not so easily shown, but had Gilvius displayed his current condition more rapidly, we all would have been suspicious. As it is, the slow
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