“The messenger has instructions to hand it into your hands himself, Master.”
I frowned. That meant it was serious news. The only thing I could think of serious enough for this formality was the High King’s death.
“He is waiting in the gatekeeper’s office. I came to fetch you.”
“Very well.” I lay the paper on the desk and pushed back my chair. “Renato?”
“Yes?”
“How well do you know the Talents Code?” I shot a glance in his direction as I rose to my feet.
“My trainer had me memorize it cover to cover, master.”
“Mine too,” I replied. I crossed the room and lifted a cloak off the clawed cloak tree. Hibernus, winter, was in full fury and I was not about to walk across the compound without protection against the wind’s icy fingers. “Some of the trainers in the west are not demanding the same of their students. In fact, I have had at least four challenge me to find a reason why they should.”
Renato frowned and shook his head sadly. “Without the Code, trainees would have no reason to not touch the unprotected minds. They could manipulate those without defenses.”
“They would gain a taste for the terrible possibilities of their power. And without knowledge of the Code, they would not know that what they are doing is wrong.”
Together we stepped out of my study and crossed the reception area. I informed the man on duty at the desk that I was leaving for the gatehouse.
“How long has this been going on?” Renato asked as we stepped out in to the icy wind and whipping snow. The wind whipped his voice away.
“For five years, if I am reading the signs correctly. I received a letter yesterday from your brother, Blandone. He reports that a rebel group of talents have formed a settlement close to the Western coast. So far they are peaceful, but his impression is that they are seeking talented females for intermarriage.”
“Elitism?” Renato’s musky taste was stronger than usual and a wave of fear came with his sending. I peered at him through the driving snow.
He had a right to be alarmed. According to talent recorded history, Elitism plagued our nation in the past, almost bringing about its collapse. The last rebellion of Elitists rose about three centuries ago, resulting in the present structure of the Sept Son and the Talent Code, memorized by every talent before his acceptance and the granting of permission to use while not in the presence of his trainer. At each level of testing, the trainee’s knowledge of the Code as well as his skills with the talents were poked and prodded.
“Doesn’t the testing prevent Elitists from rising in the ranks?” Renato asked.
“Someone was cheating or, even worse, not submitting to testing at all and training young talents outside the system.” A twinge of guilt tugged at my heart. Wasn’t that what Errol and I were conspiring to do with Zezilia? I didn’t have time to contemplate it now, but on initial glance, it did look that way. How could I condemn someone for doing what I was also doing?
“What are you going to do?” Renato’s taste interrupted my thoughts.
“We have time. Their plans of creating greater talents by intermarriage are going to take generations to come to fruition. However, I need to begin working on a counter plan now. That is why I am speaking with you.” I stopped in the center of the path. The gatehouse rose before us, a gray solid shadow within the world of white. “Will you help me?”
“Of course,” Renato replied as he squinted at me through the snow flecks on his eyelashes.
“You cannot speak to anyone about this.”
He shrugged. “I figured as much. What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t have time to study the previous movement’s tactics and philosophies. Study them and report to me anything of value. I need to understand them before I can find a way to defeat them.”
He nodded. “Consider it done, master. I will make my first report tomorrow.”
I couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my mouth. “I knew you would be a help to me.” We shook hands and then turned to enter the gatehouse.
A rush of warm air greeted us as we crossed the threshold. The senior gatekeeper, a wizened old talent in his late seventies, closed the door behind us. Across the broad wooden floor at then end of a long trail of puddles, the High King’s envoy stood with his back to the fire.
“This way, Sept Son, sir,” the gatekeeper instructed. I looked down on his wrinkled face and tried to recall his name. “Do you wish me to take your cloak?”
“Hume,” Renato supplied.
“No. Thank you, Hume. I prefer to keep it.”
As we approached, the envoy stepped away from the fire. Executing a formal salute, he simultaneously produced a heavily sealed packet from a worn leather satchel. “Greetings from the Mesitas in the name of High King Honorus, may he live forever.”
“May your message be good news, Envoy. May I ask your name?” I asked as I accepted the packet from his hand.
“Orthius, master.” Surprised flickered behind his eyes, but he kept his features schooled into an expression of solemnity.
“Hume, please take Orthius to the kitchen and see that he is fed well.” Then turning back to the messenger I said, “I shall review this immediately so that by the time you return I shall have an answer. Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you, master.” He saluted again before trailing after Hume in the direction of the stairs to the kitchen.
Not waiting until they were out of sight, I broke the seven seals on the outer parchment and began unfolding. Three letters were enclosed: one with the seal of the Mesitas, one with the seals of the six lower kings, and finally, one with the seal of High King Honorus and the seal of death. The seal of death was affixed to both the inside and outside of the High King’s
