“You speak too hastily,” Namel insisted. “Is is not possible that another entered the pool after Lior's departure? Or that one of his enemies possessed the young man and enchanted the Lady? Yes, the signs of Winter are unmistakable, but not the reasons behind Lior's urgency. We know that there is unrest on the mountain, mirrored within our own people. Could it not be that Lior sought to ensure his line before his enemies could prevent him, that what we witnessed was a battle for our throne? And how can we be sure...”
“SILENCE!” the Master roared, coming to his feet and towering over the old man. His face was red, his eyes brilliant with wrath. “Your speech draws dangerously near treason! You speak of what you do not know! You question your god! Daring to imply weakness and fear! Even if what you suggest were possible, his defeat is not! You will serve your Lady without question; you will serve your Lord when he is born, and you will speak no more of your blasphemous doubts. Do you understand?!”
Namel's features hardened as he listened to the Master's tirade. He clenched his fists, his jaw, narrowed his eyes. His back tensed until it ached. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to call his master a fool, he spoke in a harsh whisper, “I will serve the Lady, and the young Lord, as I serve my vows, and I will keep my own council as you wish, but I will not walk blind into the darkness.” With that, he turned and exited the chamber, knowing full well that he would be under watch, that he would be excluded from sensitive council matters. He would just have to rely on the more subtle methods of participation in the Order and in the Courts.
When Namel reached his personal chambers, he found the young Roslan waiting.
“Sir,” Roslan stood and greeted his mentor, “what says Master Heron?” He hurried about the room: stoking the fire, setting water to boil, fetching Namel's fleece.
The old man removed the robe of his office and hung it carefully by the door as he answered. “He's a fool and speaks just as I have come to expect.” He stepped out of his shoes and into his slippers, accepting the fleece robe and settling into a chair by the fire. “What concerns me is the motivation for his foolishness. I cannot pretend to decipher his game, and yet I know it is more than it appears.”
“SILENCE!” the Master roared, coming to his feet and towering over the old man. His face was red, his eyes brilliant with wrath. “Your speech draws dangerously near treason! You speak of what you do not know! You question your god! Daring to imply weakness and fear! Even if what you suggest were possible, his defeat is not! You will serve your Lady without question; you will serve your Lord when he is born, and you will speak no more of your blasphemous doubts. Do you understand?!”
Namel's features hardened as he listened to the Master's tirade. He clenched his fists, his jaw, narrowed his eyes. His back tensed until it ached. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to call his master a fool, he spoke in a harsh whisper, “I will serve the Lady, and the young Lord, as I serve my vows, and I will keep my own council as you wish, but I will not walk blind into the darkness.” With that, he turned and exited the chamber, knowing full well that he would be under watch, that he would be excluded from sensitive council matters. He would just have to rely on the more subtle methods of participation in the Order and in the Courts.
When Namel reached his personal chambers, he found the young Roslan waiting.
“Sir,” Roslan stood and greeted his mentor, “what says Master Heron?” He hurried about the room: stoking the fire, setting water to boil, fetching Namel's fleece.
The old man removed the robe of his office and hung it carefully by the door as he answered. “He's a fool and speaks just as I have come to expect.” He stepped out of his shoes and into his slippers, accepting the fleece robe and settling into a chair by the fire. “What concerns me is the motivation for his foolishness. I cannot pretend to decipher his game, and yet I know it is more than it appears.”
