By The Truth Of Your Right Hand

Steven was seated, with Marten behind him – a kindly hand bracing his shoulder, great fighter and trusty bondsman. They often met together in secret, to discuss matters of the Affiliation or other things as the dinh might see fit – but not in rooms like these, with soft chairs. A book lay splayed open on the table, pages spread wide enough to crack its spine, but it was difficult to imagine either of them had been paying much attention to it.

His father’s shirt was unlaced to show a deep sliver of his scarred breast – his long mustaches were askew and he didn’t bother to straighten them. Roland had never seen him so out of true. Sweating, rumpled, but of course the heat of the day was oppressive – and Marten too, standing there halfway undressed, though he looked cool as glass. He’d been the one to beckon to Roland as he passed; if it had been his father’s voice calling he wouldn’t have tumbled in half-slouching, he would have made the right respectful gestures, but instead he was frozen in his place.

Roland’s eyes desperately tallied up familiar things, straining to interpret – chairs, cups, maps and discarded tokens. His father’s face was all wrong – not the way he would commit it to memory but unguarded, heavy with lines. There was a wine-colored mark beneath his collar, not a greening bruise but freshly abraded. It was difficult to imagine Roland’s mother leaving such a mark.

The whole tableau was stiff and arrested, like coming into a room where people had been speaking about you. The two of them gazing at Roland – Steven looked rueful, his counselor halfway-mocking, esoterically amused – as Roland gazed back, full of awful understanding.

“Now now,” his father’s advisor said, not unkindly. “Your father wants to speak with you.”