He dreamt about Larten, and that is what brought it to mind. Larten, sitting in the snow with the wolves at his first Council, looking forlorn. The memory - the dream - is at once so long ago and so recent.
Where must Larten be, with his hunt for the Lord of the Vampaneze? He and Vancha surely must have returned to Darren and the Little Person now. How are they faring? Have they been successful? No. They cannot have been successful yet. There would have been a message from one or the other of them if they had.
Seba sighs. The inside of his coffin is only so enlightening. He closes his eyes and sends a mental burst Larten's way. To know he is safe would be enough.
There is no response.
No response. No answering wave of mental energy, conscious or not. Silence.
No need to worry. Perhaps he had not been focused enough. He has just woken up, his head is still thick with sleep. It is perfectly reasonable that he had not mustered the mental strength.
Heart pounding, feeling vaguely nauseous, Seba tries again. And waits.
And waits.
And still the silence remains.
His eyes snap open and he pushes the coffin lid off. Nothing dire can have happened, surely. He is simply still too tired to put the required energy into it.
In a minute, and in spite of the stiffness still in his muscles, he is dressed and hurrying down the hall. The guards search him, and permit him entry. Mika is in his seat, thinking, and frowns when he sees Seba cross to the Stone of Blood.
"What-"
He is being ridiculous, Seba knows, but still he has to know, has to be certain.
He places his hands on the Stone and calls Larten's face to mind - hair stained orange from that ridiculous dye, the scar, the twitch of his lips when he is secretly pleased.
And the Stone is silent.
It dawns on Seba what that means. No response can mean only one thing but it must be wrong. (It cannot be wrong. It is never wrong. But-)
Even when he cut himself off from the clan, Seba could still track him from here, could still trace him through the mental link.
And now . . .
He allows his hands to fall away from the Stone, eyes burning, and turns to face Mika.
"Apologies," the word is a croak and Seba clears his throat to try again. "Apologies for my rude interruption, Sire." And that is better, more his own voice. "It appears grave misfortune has befallen the hunters." And the words he follows that with seem to tear down the mountain around him.