:Some of us have different priorities,: he replied truthfully.
:As do we. At any rate, Eloran is a little nimbler than Lekaron, with slightly better reactions. That should make up for lack of experience.: But he detected a hint of doubt in Kantor’s mind-voice, and oddly enough, that comforted him. If Kantor was having feelings of guilt, at least it meant that Alberich wasn’t being overly nice about this situation.
:They’re terribly young,: he said gloomily.
:Lavan Firestorm and his Companion weren’t any older.:
:And Lavan never got the opportunity to grow any older.:
Kantor was silent for a moment. :Lavan never really got the opportunity to volunteer. Mical did.:
There was that. But could someone that young have any real idea of what he was volunteering for? Bad enough to take the Trainees he had—all adolescents to one extent or another thought they were immortal, that death was something that happened to someone else; the older lot at least were well aware that they could be horribly hurt. But fifteen-year-olds truly thought that they were immortal, yes, and invulnerable, that even injuries would nod and pass on by. And in spite of what he’d seen, was this truly informed consent?
:When do you trust someone?: Kantor asked, seemingly out of the blue.
:Excuse me?:
:When do you trust someone? Is it by age, or maturity? What is the magic number? When do Trainees start to think like adults?:
He understood what Kantor was saying, of course, and his head agreed with it. Mical had been there on the worst day the team had experienced. He’d watched them for two moons at least. And he’d evidently learned some sobering lessons in the glassworks.
He’d shown every sign of acting in a measured and mature fashion this afternoon. So when did Alberich stop doubting and start trusting?
:When my gut decides to go along with my head, I suppose,: he replied glumly. :And my gut is going to be screaming, “but he’s only a child!” for a little while longer at least.:
He might have said something more, but at just that moment, a bell rang out, cutting across the winter night.
And for one, horrible moment, he thought it was the Death Bell, and his thoughts fastened on Harrow—
But no, it wasn’t. It was the Great Bell at the Palace—not the Collegium Bell, that sounded the candlemarks and the meals, but the huge, deep-toned Bell that sounded only for major occasions. So what—
A moment later, his question was answered.
:It’s time! It’s Selenay!: said Kantor, and given the gravid condition of the Queen, that was all Kantor needed to say.
Selenay had gone into labor. By dawn, Valdemar would have an Heir-Presumptive.
And from that moment on, the Queen would be standing between Prince Karathanelan and his ambitions.
Alberich shivered. It had begun.
21
“I’m sorry, Weaponsmaster,” Mical sighed. He pushed the papers away from him, and reluctantly, Alberich took them and folded them up, tightly. “All I get from them is—” he screwed up his face, “—the writer was in a hurry, really annoyed with something, and wanted to get this over with. I think he was that actor fellow—the one we all thought was so—interesting.” He paused again, then smiled wanly. “And about the only thing that I can tell you besides that is that he thought the person he was writing to was very, very thick.”
