Ithacles didn't like this room. Every time he entered it he came with a tight stomach, and every time he left he took nausea with him. It was a war room and those who met here rarely discussed anything else. He'd been dispatched from the room too many times with that sick-hang of air around him. The air that said here is a man going out to kill and, in the case of many he'd brought with him, to be killed.
He'd come to associate Ter Alvon with that dread pang. And he couldn't see him as anything else, especially with news that his father had taken ill. They had excellent physicians, and the King's constitution was robust. Perhaps it was just circumstance that had him weighing the servant's words so carefully.
And wasn't it just like Lethe to be elsewhere? Even when she didn't know know she was playing she won. She couldn't possibly have known Ithacles was coming, and with a fury in his chest, and yet fate had arranged her to be far from it. Ithacles looked up at the great dome above and shot the patchwork sky a glare.
"Prince Ithacles," the fellow said. "Captain Uthral. And Master Tyullis. Thank you for coming so quickly. I am sorry for my hasty request."
"It seemed haste was in order," and Ithacles nodded.
"I meant no disrespect. But ... Princess Lethe asked me to speak to you on this matter. I... you should be hearing this from family, my Prince, but I remember training you to use that hanger. I hope ... I hope that is enough."
His heart sank. Ithacles stood before the massive tables and panned his gaze across them. yes, a war room indeed. The hanger felt heavy on his hip.