Far-Seer

But when Afsan arrived at the main palace, the guards did not nod concession to him, as they had the first time he’d had an audience here. Instead, they turned and walked just behind Afsan, closer than protocol would normally allow. They were much larger than he, and Afsan had to step quickly to keep up with the speed they were imposing.

He was allowed no time to enjoy the Hall of Stone Eggs with its myriad polished hemispheres of rock cut to reveal the crystal hollows within. The guards marched behind him wordlessly. The complex and uneven walls of the Hall deadened the echoes of their mighty footfalls.

They came out into the vast circular chamber with its red telaja-wood doors. Afsan was hustled along so quickly he barely had time to notice that the cartouche representing the Emperor was different: gone were the profiled heads of Tak-Saleed and Det-Yenalb. Instead, most of the cartouche was a carving of an outstretched hand spread over a flat map of Land in the great River. Odd choice, thought Afsan, since Dybo knew full well that such depictions were now obsolete.

One of the guards pushed ahead of Afsan and clicked heavy claws against the copper signaling plate by the door.

Afsan warmed at the sound of his friend’s voice. “Hahat dan.”

The guard swung the door open, and Afsan and his burly escorts stepped into the ruling room.

Lying on the ornate throne slab, high on the polished basalt pedestal, was Dybo. His head sported several new tattoos, including an intricate web-like one fanning outward from his right eye and extending back to his earhole. On his left wrist he wore the three silver loops that signified his position. He’d lost weight, although it would take a charitable soul to think of him still as anything less than fat. And he’d grown—even recumbent, it was obvious that he was slightly older.

Afsan realized that Dybo was likely appraising him the same way. The Emperor’s eyes were probably tracking up and down Afsan’s body, but with those obsidian orbs, there was no way to be sure.

Dybo was not alone. Benches, perhaps ten paces long, with intricate gold inlays at the ends, extended from either side of the throne slab. On the left-hand one sat Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith. On the right, a mid-sized fellow with a slightly concave chest. Afsan didn’t know his name, but recognized him as a palace advisor—quite senior, obviously, if he was allowed to sit upon a katadu bench.

To the left and right of the benches stood more people, some wearing priestly robes, others sporting the orange and blue sashes of the Emperor’s staff. Lends’s worktable on wheels was nowhere to be seen.

Afsan bowed low. He half expected to be greeted by one of Dybo’s usual barbs—a quip about Afsan’s scrawniness, perhaps. But it was Det-Yenalb, not Dybo, who spoke.

“You are Afsan?” the priest said, his voice liquid and unpleasant.

Afsan blinked. “Yes.”

“You took a pilgrimage aboard the Dasheter?”

“You know I did, Your Grace. You helped arrange it.”

“Answer yes or no. You took a pilgrimage aboard the Dasheter, a sailing vessel captained by one Var-Keenir?”

“Yes.” At the far right, one of those in the sash of a staff member was writing into a small leather booklet. A transcript of the proceedings?

“You claim to have made a discovery while on this voyage?”

“Yes. Several discoveries.”

“And what were those discoveries?”

“That the world is round.” There was a sharp hiss from several members of the assembly. “That the object we call the Face of God is really just a planet.” Tails swished back and forth like snakes. Individuals exchanged worried glances.

“You really believe this?” said Yenalb.

“The world is round,” said Afsan. “We did indeed sail continuously to the east, leaving from Capital City here on the east coast of Land and arriving back, simply by continuing in a straight line, at the Bay of Three Forests on the west coast.”

“You are mistaken,” Yenalb said flatly.

Afsan felt a tingling at the tips of his fingers. “I am not mistaken. Dybo was there. He knows.”

Yenalb slapped his tail against the floor. The sharp cracking echoed throughout the chamber. “You will refer to the Emperor as His Luminance.”

“Fine. His Luminance knows.” Afsan moved his head so that there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind: he was looking directly at Dybo. “Don’t you?”

Dybo said nothing. Yenalb pointed at Afsan. “I say again, you are mistaken.”

“No, Your Grace. I am not.”

“Eggling, you risk—”