shone with the reflected fire, and his thin lips twisted with the incantation no one—well maybe Shayd—could make any damned sense out of.
The old Seer lifted his eyes to catch Dolfan’s look. He could read thoughts, perhaps, but then he’d already know Dolfan had no designs on his position. The old spine straightened, bringing Syradan up to his full height—not quite what it used to be, but still imposing enough. He crooked one wizened finger and swept it through the smoke, making more patterns, more nonsense. When he spoke, his voice boomed, and at least half of the waiting princes flinched.
“The Kingmaker approaches!”
A gasp crept round the circle. It was early for the Kingmaker’s arrival. They’d yet to even cement their status as princes, and the new king’s bride already showed herself?
“The Heart must be readied.” Syradan spared none of them any attention. He continued to read the smoke with eyes glassy and dark. “We are in time, but only just.”
Dramatics—the Seer swam in them. He’d have announced a pimple just as vehemently. Still, Dolfan felt his own pulse quicken, his genetics and his upbringing wouldn’t let him take the Seer’s words lightly. The Kingmaker. The Sacred Heart. Any Shrouded from the lowest to the highest might take a bride through the Heart, but the first of them to do so, the prince who found his match before the others, would be declared the next ruler of Shroud.
“The blessing must be given,” Syradan said. “So that all princes will be pure and ready for the choosing.”
Around the brazier, heads nodded in agreement. They looked to one another. Dielel to Haftan for reassurance, Haftan to Mofitan in challenge, and Peryl to Tondil for god knew what reason. Dolfan watched them all. Only Shayd kept his gaze riveted on Syradan and his smoke. Had he not been here as a prince, if his lot hadn’t been tossed in with the rest, Dolfan might have enjoyed the scene, the humor of it all. Seven grown, capable men, waiting with breath held for the words of one ancient lunatic, waiting for the Kingmaker.
The Seer took a deep breath and exhaled slowly so that the rasping echoed through the huge room. The vapors puffed in and out of his nostrils. He snapped his fingers to the side and a silver bowl appeared from the incense mists. The acolyte who brought it remained invisible beyond the brazier’s light.
“Now, princes.” Syradan stood taller. His eyes burned with the fumes he breathed. He held the bowl over the glow so that the smoke broke and swirled around it. “Your rings into the vessel.”
Not one of them moved. The ring must never leave the finger. They’d all been told the same. Dolfan remembered his election as his bloodline’s prince. He remembered his predecessor’s words as he placed the heavy gemstone in his palm. “You’ll do us proud, Dolfan. You’ll wear the ring well. Never let it leave your finger.” They’d all received the same instructions. From different people perhaps, but the rituals never faltered.
“Now!” Syradan commanded. “The blessing must be done.”
“But the rings…” Mofitan, of them all, had the balls to question the old man.
“Silence!” Syradan hissed with the full force of his office behind him. Even Mofitan stepped one pace back. “Do you think the secrets of the blessing ritual are free for the sharing? Do you think that there will be no tests along the way? Fool prince.” He squinted directly at the one who dared to speak aloud what they all had thought. “Do you think the king would hesitate to take the blessings of the Heart?”
Haftan cleared his throat. He stepped up to the brazier before Mofitan could recover from the verbal lashing. Stunned, Dolfan watched as Haftan slipped off his ring and dropped it obediently into Syradan’s bowl. The brazier flared as metal hit metal. The smoke boiled around the pot, turned back on itself, and made deeper patterns. Mofitan practically ran forward to toss his
The old Seer lifted his eyes to catch Dolfan’s look. He could read thoughts, perhaps, but then he’d already know Dolfan had no designs on his position. The old spine straightened, bringing Syradan up to his full height—not quite what it used to be, but still imposing enough. He crooked one wizened finger and swept it through the smoke, making more patterns, more nonsense. When he spoke, his voice boomed, and at least half of the waiting princes flinched.
“The Kingmaker approaches!”
A gasp crept round the circle. It was early for the Kingmaker’s arrival. They’d yet to even cement their status as princes, and the new king’s bride already showed herself?
“The Heart must be readied.” Syradan spared none of them any attention. He continued to read the smoke with eyes glassy and dark. “We are in time, but only just.”
Dramatics—the Seer swam in them. He’d have announced a pimple just as vehemently. Still, Dolfan felt his own pulse quicken, his genetics and his upbringing wouldn’t let him take the Seer’s words lightly. The Kingmaker. The Sacred Heart. Any Shrouded from the lowest to the highest might take a bride through the Heart, but the first of them to do so, the prince who found his match before the others, would be declared the next ruler of Shroud.
“The blessing must be given,” Syradan said. “So that all princes will be pure and ready for the choosing.”
Around the brazier, heads nodded in agreement. They looked to one another. Dielel to Haftan for reassurance, Haftan to Mofitan in challenge, and Peryl to Tondil for god knew what reason. Dolfan watched them all. Only Shayd kept his gaze riveted on Syradan and his smoke. Had he not been here as a prince, if his lot hadn’t been tossed in with the rest, Dolfan might have enjoyed the scene, the humor of it all. Seven grown, capable men, waiting with breath held for the words of one ancient lunatic, waiting for the Kingmaker.
The Seer took a deep breath and exhaled slowly so that the rasping echoed through the huge room. The vapors puffed in and out of his nostrils. He snapped his fingers to the side and a silver bowl appeared from the incense mists. The acolyte who brought it remained invisible beyond the brazier’s light.
“Now, princes.” Syradan stood taller. His eyes burned with the fumes he breathed. He held the bowl over the glow so that the smoke broke and swirled around it. “Your rings into the vessel.”
Not one of them moved. The ring must never leave the finger. They’d all been told the same. Dolfan remembered his election as his bloodline’s prince. He remembered his predecessor’s words as he placed the heavy gemstone in his palm. “You’ll do us proud, Dolfan. You’ll wear the ring well. Never let it leave your finger.” They’d all received the same instructions. From different people perhaps, but the rituals never faltered.
“Now!” Syradan commanded. “The blessing must be done.”
“But the rings…” Mofitan, of them all, had the balls to question the old man.
“Silence!” Syradan hissed with the full force of his office behind him. Even Mofitan stepped one pace back. “Do you think the secrets of the blessing ritual are free for the sharing? Do you think that there will be no tests along the way? Fool prince.” He squinted directly at the one who dared to speak aloud what they all had thought. “Do you think the king would hesitate to take the blessings of the Heart?”
Haftan cleared his throat. He stepped up to the brazier before Mofitan could recover from the verbal lashing. Stunned, Dolfan watched as Haftan slipped off his ring and dropped it obediently into Syradan’s bowl. The brazier flared as metal hit metal. The smoke boiled around the pot, turned back on itself, and made deeper patterns. Mofitan practically ran forward to toss his