In the darkened Great Hall of the Palladion, Malivare, First of His Name, King of Tol Nedra, Lord of the Vorghol, shifts impatiently in his Throne. The Throne was built for the last Reith King of this land, Rhianor, and Malivare seems almost too big for the seat.
At his side stands the gray-haired Ser Gherlant, commander of the royal armies, in a simple tunic of office. Steely veteran of a hundred campaigns, unflappable in battle, he swallows and eyes the King nervously as a schoolgirl. His Grace is so unpredictable in these moods.
Next to him lurks the Sathanid commander of the Spectral Legion, Marak the Black, unknowable behind the visor of his armor.
Slowly, a limping man approaches the Throne, head bowed. A dark lock of hair obscures his eyes. Swollen tumors, the mark of a Revenant too long out of the grave, grow on his face and arms. He bears something in his hands.
A blur of motion, the King leaps to his feet. "Irron! Where have you been? I should snap your neck and feed your carcass to my spawn…that'd teach you to keep your King waiting!"
Without a word, Irron Trimartia, the King's Eye, pauses before the royal dais, and bows curtly before his sovereign, proffering his burden to the King.
The King seizes the item from the spymaster. A short length of blackthorn wood, sharpened at one end. A half-growl creeps over the King's pale features. He looks sidelong at the shadowy figure to the left of the throne, then back to Irron bowed before him.
Ser Gherlant says, quietly, "The sign of the Hunters…"
Irron nods. His voice is soft-spoken, nearly inaudible, his head still bowed. "Yes, my Lord General." There is a trace of contempt in his voice, as if speaking such obvious facts is a waste of breath. He turns to the King, his eyes hidden. "Your Grace, this stake was left at the scene for us to find. There were apparently two operatives. By accounts of eyewitnesses, one tall and in black; the other, a simple Northerling. The tall one bore a flaming sword, which he used to strike down Lady Merith. The other used invocations to his pagan Power to make good their escape."
Marak the Black hisses furiously, "And…struck down…three of…my warriors…"
Malivare commands, "You will deal with Valkris directly, Irron, in the manner we discussed. Such a fool cannot go unpunished." He makes a slicing gesture with his hand, then pauses a moment. "And what of Varun's suspected involvement in this?"
Irron gives a delicate shrug and answers quietly, "As yet unproven, Your Grace. But if I may say so, it seems most unlikely that even Varun would ally himself with these…Hunters." He adds, anticipating Malivare's next order, "However, reprisals against the populace of Camars would be most unwise until we learn the true extent of his involvement, if any."
Malivare fumes while he regards the stake he holds. "Hunters…gah! They task me, Irron, and that they still exist at all, I blame you for." Although his strength is sufficient to crush the blackthorn stake to dust in his hands, the King controls his urges and passes it to the shadowy figure seated at his left.
Obscured by the deep shadows of the Great Hall, the figure is heard to inhale, as if catching a scent from the stake. Then: "Ah…I know this scent, Your Grace."
The King whirls. "Well? You can locate them then, can't you?"
The figure says, almost hurt by the implication, "Your Grace, I promised I would…"
"Do it. But don't kill them. Bring them to me." The thousand-year
old King smiles, savagely, baring his fangs. "We have so much to
discuss."