“Typically the Eye would be kept there while a monarch was in Thalan. But here they would see more clearly.” Devrin smiled and filled his lungs, terribly excited. “Well, perhaps you can place the Eye down now, Elyon? I am my father’s son. Now he will curse me for a monster forevermore for this, but maybe I’ll have a little gander first, see if I might glimpse something for you?”

For us, Elyon thought to correct him. This was about everyone, not just him. But he only took the orb from the bag on his back and set it on the plinth. A smile graced his bearded lips as he placed it there. It sat snugly in the depression, a perfect fit. It felt good - right - to bring it back to its proper place, and to finally complete his quest.

Devrin looked at the Eye like it was an old friend of his, though more likely he’d glimpsed it only a handful of times in his life, if that. He moved about it in a slow walk, admiring it from all angles, smiling and turning his head here and there. “I suppose my auntie Cristin asked to have a look as well, did she?” He glanced over, seeing the answer in Elyon’s eyes. “Did she have any luck?”

“None. She said it was broken. That the pupil was shut for good.”

Devrin smiled. “Perhaps she’s right. I daresay we will find out in due course. Though…” He continued to circle it, like a very friendly bird of prey. “I can feel a certain power coming off of it. A throbbing essence, if you will, spreading from its core. Do you feel it as well?”

“Not like you do.”

“No. It is steel that calls to you, not the timeless motion of the sea.” He took another slow step, another.

Elyon watched him, as the prince moseyed along on a second circuit. He seemed to be biding his time, embracing the essence of the orb, letting its aura enrobe him, fill him. Not like Cristin. She tried too hard and gave up too easily. Devrin did not seem that sort and his father, too, would be greatly more patient. “Your auntie said something interesting about your father,” Elyon said, as the prince walked.

Devrin kept his eyes on the orb. Another step. Another. “Oh? And what was that?”

“She spoke of a rumour regarding his sire.”

“Ah, that. A well-worn thing among the members of my family. There is no proof of it either way, though some like to point at my grandfather’s general sense of discourtesy toward his king brother as reason to believe it. Not many take it seriously, though. Why do you mention it?”

“Because of that.” Elyon pointed at the orb. “If your father is Godrin’s son, not Tayrin’s, his sight will likely be stronger.” He was not the eldest son, no, not the firstborn and thus not direct in the line of Thala by primogeniture, so in that sense it probably didn’t matter, but all the same, Elyon had been intrigued by it. Simply being born of Godrin’s loins, brilliant as he was, might have fostered Sevrin with more power, and Devrin too by extension.

Might this have even been foreseen? By Godrin or even his father King Astan before him? Elyon didn’t much want to take that thought to completion, ugly as the implications were. A father, guiding his eldest son to sire a child by the wife of his brother. There was much about all this that could be perverse, even if it was necessary. Like tricking a poor girl into thinking a handsome prince was coming for her, he thought. Gods, that poor woman. No wonder she’s turned so crazed.

Devrin had stopped before the Eye, his hand to his chin, rubbing. “Well…here goes, then,” he said. “Let’s see if Great Rasalan’s got anything to show me.” He stepped toward the glowing orb, put his hands to the stone plinth to either side, locked eyes with the pupil and leaned in. A second later he leaned back. “My father is here,” he said.

Elyon frowned. “Great Rasalan showed you that? That isn’t so exciting, Devrin.”

“No, I mean…I heard them outside. A horse whicker. It must be them arriving.”

Elyon had heard nothing. He reached to grip the handle of his dagger, enhancing his hearing, and true enough there was the sound of horses and men below, and the howling wind blowing in through the open doors. “You’re right. Good ear, Devrin.”

“We Seaborn have decent senses, you know. Helps us under the water.” He smiled and then looked at the Eye once more and the smile slipped from his lips. “Well, my chance is gone. Knowing my father he will command me to stand down. Etiquette must be followed, Elyon. Gods forbid I might have better sight than him.” There was the smallest hint of rancour in his tone, hidden amidst the jest. “Well, let’s leave it here. Come, I’ll announce you.”

They sped together down the spiral stair. Walter was waiting where it passed the library and joined them as they descended, a stack of books clutched in arm. He took a short moment to deposit them into his room, then they continued back down into the entrance hall with the stables and the wood and the weapons. Men were dismounting and unpacking their saddle bags, bustling about, stabling the horses.

Devrin saw his father among all that and moved forward at once. “Father, you made it. I have prepared the tower for your arrival. The fires are roaring and Hemmet is preparing the food. Oh, and Elyon is here with his friend Walter Selleck.”

King Sevrin’s face looked like it was carved from a block of ice, white-blue and frosted over as it was. The rest of him was fur speckled in hoarfrost. “Prince Elyon. You didn’t have to await my son too long, I hope?”

“No, my lord. He awaited us, in truth.”

“Oh?”

“They arrived only fifteen minutes after I did, Father. No more than an hour ago.”

Sevrin cocked a brow. “Intriguing. And you must be Walter Selleck.”

“Last I checked.” Walter gave that functional bow. “A pleasure, Your Majesty.”

“Majesty. I don’t feel so majestic right now. Your Frozenness would suit me better, yet I thank you for the courtesy, Walter. But that’ll serve on the titles. We’ll dispense with them here in the tower. My lord will do, or Sevrin when we’re alone. And we’ll be alone plenty enough, I would think.”

It was hoped that Walter’s luck might help Sevrin to open the Eye. It would be an extremely dull charge, Elyon knew, standing by for hours on end while the king peered endlessly into that orb. He would be tasked with writing down anything he heard as well. As Elyon understood it, Sevrin might mutter something without remembering, and someone must be on hand to record it.

“I have shown our guests around, Father,” Devrin put in. “And I brought Elyon to the rotunda. We left the Eye up there.”

Sevrin looked at his son. “I asked you to wait for me, Devrin. Before visiting the top of the tower.”

“Yes, Father. I would have, but for Elyon. We thought it prudent to set the Eye in place as soon as possible. So it might settle.”

Sevrin gave a small grumble. “I did want to share that moment with you, Devrin, but so be it. It’s done now.” He removed his gloves and flexed his thin, bony fingers, trying to get some life back into them. Both were white from the cold. “Is the small hall warm?”

“Pleasantly so, Father.”

“Then let us retire there.” He turned to the man who was likely his steward, fussing with some bags. “Bertrand, take my things to the royal apartments. And make sure a fire is lit. I want the room warm for when I take to my bed.”

The steward nodded acknowledgement, and off they went up the stairs.

The small hall was aptly named, a small hall with only a few long tables and benches lined up down its length. There was no king’s table, no stage at the top where a monarch might sit and cast his judgements. That was not the way of the humble Rasal people. Instead a monarch would go among his men and subjects, of which there were only ever few here, sitting with them as they ate at whatever table he so chose.

On the eastern and western walls of the hall were built great chimneyed hearths. Both were firing splendidly as they entered. Two men were going around, wiping the tables and benches of dust, setting out plates and cutlery. One stepped away as he saw them enter, and returned as they sat with a tray topped with a large jug of wine and cups. Their chosen table was near the western hearth, and Sevrin sat closest to the blaze, reaching out to warm his hands against the flames. He flexed his fingers again, feeling the blood return. “I’ve never felt a cold like it, truly. A beastly thing. Be thankful you flew, Elyon. How long did it take you to get here?”

“We left Ilithor not long past dawn.”

“Oh. You came that far in one day?”

Elyon nodded as Devrin served the wine. Steam rose from the top of the jug. “We stopped for a short time in Thalan, to confirm you’d left. That added some length to the journey.”

“And tomorrow? You’re to leave come the dawn, I suppose?”

“That is the plan.” Elyon did not say where, because even he did not know. He needed to sleep first, and already he could feel the pull of it in his head. He had a long drink of wine to warm his insides. The fire crackled relaxingly, and he felt a deep thick pang of weariness fill his blood.

King Sevrin smiled at him. “You look even more tired than I feel, Elyon. Can you hold on to eat? You must be hungry after your flight.”

Famished, Elyon thought. He had barely enough strength to say it all of a sudden, the last of his energy leeching out of him like the final spurts of blood from a severed throat.

“Well, let’s get you fed, then.” Sevrin waved a man over and asked for them to bring out whatever the cook Hemmet had already prepared.

The stew was delicious, rabbit cooked slow with carrot and onion, a simple broth brought alive by the seasoning. Elyon began by eating with accustomed grace, before Sevrin disavowed him of the notion and after that he ate like a man starved, slurping, gulping, tearing at chunks of bread with his teeth, munching on thick moist cheese and cuts of beef so tender they fell apart in his mouth. By the time he was done he jested he might have to have the Forgemasters at the Steelforge let out his armour a little, when next he visited Varinar, and that led into a discussion on the state of the city and other such affairs.

Elyon found a second wind, but it lasted only so long before the warmth and the wine and the food in his belly demanded he take his leave. By then the other men were sitting about the tables as well, and there was talking, laughter, hearty voices to be heard. It reminded Elyon of a simpler time. Here in this remote old tower, four hundred miles from the nearest city and hidden away from the rest of the world, he felt safe. It was an odd feeling. Even in Ilithor, far from the fighting, he knew a thunder of dragons could come at any time. He knew the Dread might descend upon them. But here…no. It was a haven in the frozen wastes, looking out over the frozen seas, enrobed and enclosed in a thick white mist. No one would find them here.

Prince Devrin accompanied him to his room. It was grander than Walter’s, with a larger bed and richer furnishings, but Elyon did not care for them. The bed was all that mattered. “Will your father spend time with the Eye tonight?” he asked, as Devrin was leaving.

The prince paused at the door. “He will pay a visit, I’m sure, before taking to his bed. Who knows, perhaps you will awaken to good news and the birth of a brand new vision?”

“Good news would depend on the vision,” Elyon said to that. Just as likely a vision would spell doom.