Felderon followed Symon, ducking through a narrow labyrinth of man-made tunnels that were scarce of torches, and even scarcer of headspace. He exhaled a deep breath when Symon opened a door at the end of a corridor into a room with a raised ceiling, then coughed into his palm. Tobacco smoke hung low above a broad table seated around by eight, thick-necked, loose-jowled men of war. Felderon surveyed the men of rank and a tingle swept up the back of his neck.

Who were they? Minister Gerand--his father's war minister. Where was he? Who were all these old heads? He should at least know them by sight. Felderon suppressed a wave of nausea. Swallowing back, he dropped his shoulders and lifted his chin.

"Gentlemen."

The men rose and bowed their necks.

"Be seated," Felderon commanded through a tightened throat. "Around the room, beginning with...you."

King Felderon proceeded, circling the room, hearing each man’s report, trying to connect the least details of their speeches to anything anchored in the world he remembered. He reached for a goblet brimming with ale, and gulped the liquid back.

My father and all five of my brothers dead? How then--how are we winning this war? He wiped his brow of sweat.

Impossible to think clearly. Felderon pulled the neck of his tunic, cleared his throat. The minister speaking paused. "Your Majesty?"

“Where's a calendar? I need a calendar!“

The minister raised his eyebrows. "We don't--"

"You must have a calendar somewhere."

Symon interjected. "We are a fortnight past the equinox, Your Majesty."

Nearly winter. Six months? How had he spent six months in the underground caverns?

"In The Year of Sentinels 562."

Felderon braced himself on the arms of his seat. Not six months. Six years!

Madness! He rubbed his chin. The bristle on his face was scarcely three days growth! "Symon! Remind me where Minister Gerand is now?"

"Minister Gerand. He has recently retired to the Illusion Mountains. After all, he is quite aged and--" Symon apparently thought better of finishing.

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Illusion Mountains? “And what?"

"He served your father so faithfully for so long. And in the end, did not agree with your esteemed progenitors, Your Majesty."

"Because it was killing them? One by one. Six dead monarchs reeks of treachery."

Symon cleared his throat.

"Treachery--or small pox, which, of course, you verified yourself so recently. The strain has been great, but can you have forgotten your role in the rites these past cruel days? Heaven Blessed,” Symon crossed himself with his right hand, “you are the only one who can save the Chalbeams now."

Felderon surveyed the men around the table, who stared at him, unblinking. Did they think him mad? They knew the Chalbeams Dynasty hung by a single thread. Ripe for the picking. Who can I trust?

He reached inside his coat, and felt the smooth, polished touch of the dark mirror.

"Ministers, Advisors, Generals. I come to you, your King, last in the Chalbeams line. It comes to me that there are some unfinished rites following the burial of my good father and brothers. We are yet at war, however near to victory. I am the sixth son, and therefore, was never expected to take a throne. Perhaps you have sworn your loyalty before, but I am the last in the royal line. And I was a jealous prince, uncrowned, I am a jealous monarch, crowned. Any who intends to remain in my service, must stand and swear fealty to me as you once did to my father, or die on the spot.”

"We have ever served the Chalbeam line and will serve you, King Felderon, even until we die," Symon said.

Felderon braced himself, stood, and drew his sword. "Then swear it again--to me--right now!"

The officers around the table dropped to their arthritic knees, bowed their hair thinned heads, and swore grungy oaths to the sixth born son of the Chalbeams.

Of course they did.

“Symon,” Felderon nodded. “A private word with me outside.”

The dark mirror bulged and burdened his tunic pocket.

“Meanwhile,” Felderon surveyed the officers around his table. “I wish to discuss this remarkable object with you all upon my return.” He reached into his tunic pocket and set the dark mirror upon the center of the table where it gleamed under the glare of the torch lamps.

“Please, do not touch it in my absence.”

Felderon ground his teeth in his jaw. An oath was a casual thing where name and rank were concerned. Of course these old heads swore loyalty to him, and made a good show of it, but the mirror, laid bare on the table was the oracle he needed. How else could he know them? There was no other way to undress them to him, and though its power might render them useless to him, they were better useless than a dagger in his back.

Nodding, he herded Symon out into the corridor, closing the latch with an audible click, where he cocked his ear against the white pine barrier.

“Your Majesty?” Symon asked.

“Shhh!”

“What do you wi—”

Felderon clapped his palm across Symon’s open mouth. “Shhhh, I say. I cannot hear while the ass brays,” he muttered, and again, strained his ear against the door.

Symon held his tongue, but little sound seeped through the cracks.

“Symon. Go. Bring me six fresh men.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Do you have them?”

Symon bowed his head and muttered, “I think I can manage.”

“They should be strong—sturdy enough to carry the fat carcasses of sodden liars.”