“The skull could have come from anywhere,” said Elymas dismissively. “And speaking of work, how goes the Northern Wall?”

            “We aren’t speaking of work, but of a dead man,” said Ranald, again worried by the weight of his crown. “Proceed without interruption”

            The Warrior King stared down the crowd, challenging them as well. Elymas was sure to have sympathetic hecklers in the crowd, not just Red Robes. There was a fawner named Blatico who was especially loud. The King continued gaze outwards, pausing over each section. They weren’t a pleasant sight, not enough to cheer a dying man. The Blood Wars had wiped out most of the old lines, and the nobility now filling the Great Throne Room were scarcely more than well-dressed rubes. 

            When Milo had deposited his gruesome findings before the throne, Ranald had wondered how many shades of suffering a man must endure before entering the sweet peace of the Deep. All his life had been a struggle against something. The constant fighting, his father’s anathema, the poverty and disease of war. Nor had the battle ended at Ron Jonna. Once the plague had run its course, he’d intended to rebuild the city. Plans lay on his desk, exquisite drawings and detailed maps, then one afternoon a throbbing had begun in his right temple and by nightfall, he was delirious. The fever passed, only to leave him chilled and dreaming he was fighting the Pentacas on a bloody field, hampered by snow.