Time is water that flows through fingers, and stone that weighs on shoulders. Those ten minutes by the tent stretched into military eternity, where every sound behind the canvas could reshape fate.
The worn canvas fluttered in the wind, painted with coats of arms and centuries' pathos. Wind drove dry grass, the air hung with the smell of impending trouble—acrid smoke of fires, salt of sweat and sweet tang of hope before storm.
Inside, fates were decided. Or, more likely, they divided the skin of an unkilled bear.
The flap opened like a curtain of a backwater theater. The Kriver army marshal floated into gray light—monumental like a monument to himself. Behind him like a shadow stepped Brandt de Mortvel. Two enemies from one shelter, only they old friends after a friendly chat.
"I accept your proposal," Brandt said with the intonation of a man who sold his soul to the devil and convinces himself the deal is profitable.
"Agreed," the marshal nodded with the satisfaction of a trader who sold rotten goods at fresh price.
What did enemies agree on? The thought slithered like a venomous viper. Plan to overthrow the king? Absurd became reality with enviable constancy.
"Ah, Captain Scholn de Larens?" Brandt turned his gaze to me. "Or the chief in preparing Monalia's army?"
Mockery for those who prepared the army but couldn't prepare for betrayal.
"I suppose you know why I've arrived?"
"I guess." He turned to his man. "Call Otal."
Canvas walls hid us from curious eyes. Inside smelled of leather, metal and war—a smell that doesn't air out even in peacetime.
"Maybe not tell Otal?" I suggested. "Decide yourselves."
Brandt shook his head:
"I'll gather a council of eight captains. We are deputies of the homeland on this cursed land. All must know what happened to the state."
Into the tent entered Lucian de Nocteyn—dark-haired, with eyes the color of night sky, as if from pages of a philosophical treatise. His face expressed readiness for bad news that comes with experience.
"What happened?" he asked quietly.