10
The doors of the Spire theater whimpered as they parted, giving way to a wall of darkness. Lurien stepped inside, claws outstretched in search of a lever. He found one and yanked with all his strength. Despite the rust, it gave way, and the Lumafly lights overhead convulsed. Slowly, they bloomed to life—at least some of them. A sparse constellation formed in the rafters, interspersed with lightless bulbs stained yellow-brown by Lumafly corpses.
Lurien picked at a seam in his robes as he surveyed the theater. He could not recall the last time he'd visited, and from the looks of it, every last attendant in the Spire would say the same. A growl slipped free as he resolved to seek out the labor logs and censure those responsible for the theater's maintenance. He drifted down the middle aisle, flanked by a dozen rows of chairs with burgundy cushions. Some of the chairs had been covered by enormous gray sheets, a half-finished bulwark against neglect. He ran a claw over the fabric. It left a white trail like shoveling molt off a marble floor.
A list of suitable punishments began forming in his mind.
There was a hiss, a snap of liberated cloth, and then a deluge of coughing. Lurien turned to see Hornet in the act of cloaking herself with a sheet. She twirled erratically, casting a festive dust cloud throughout the room. The Vessel stood behind her, unfazed by the sudden shower. Gray clumps collected upon its head.
Hornet's face emerged from her makeshift hood. "Why is it so dusty in here? Isn't—" She paused to hack, her whole body shuddering. "—Isn't the Spire supposed to be all clean and proper?"
"That is the expectation…" Lurien said. He wiped his claws clean and approached the stage. The main curtain—a rippling, ruby-red affair—seemed to be the only thing in this place that yet retained any dignity. He attempted to part it down the middle, but the folds were lead-heavy, so he circled around.
The backstage was in no finer shape than the auditorium. A lone Lumafly bulb shone weakly upon the disorder. To Lurien, the place gave the impression of a thicket, of somewhere deep and tangled, rarely traveled by civilized bugs. Ropes hung from the batten like vines. Miscellaneous props crowded the corners like overgrowth. He waded deeper in, half-expecting to hear the trill of a Mosscreep or the hum of a Squit. On the far wall, a pulley caught his attention. It rose into the dark, presumably connecting to the track that controlled the curtain.
Though winded by this point, Lurien hastened over. He tugged experimentally, and then upon making no progress leveraged his entire bodyweight. After a pause, every wheel on the track leapt into a hellish chorus, and the curtain began to part. Light from the auditorium fell upon the backstage in a broadening pillar, and with it came a throb of hope. Perhaps this play could yet be managed. Perhaps with enough moil the theater would be returned to some semblance of function. Who could say, after this, perhaps theatrical performances would become a regular occurrence in the Spire.
Lurien continued to pull, limbs burning, breath heaving. A sharp, percussive sound carried over the track wheels, and he realized Hornet was applauding, her sinuous arms lifted high to be free of the sheet. He managed half a chuckle, then the curtain tore free of its mounting and slammed onto the shellwood stage with all the force of a toppling building. A great gush of dust and debris shot into the air, blinding Lurien. He stumbled back, coughing and cursing. The sound of the impact echoed for several painful seconds, a mocking testament to the theater's excellent acoustics.
Once the air had stilled, Hornet redoubled her applause. "Amazing! Do it again! Do it again!"
Lurien descended from the stage in a storm. What utter negligence! Was the Spire not equipped with a battalion of mender bugs? Was it so tall a task to oil a curtain track once in an eon?! He would see bloody vengeance done on these attendants, whoever they were. He would have them be made to sharpen quills for a month! To trim every solitary petal in the garden! To—To bathe the Watcher Knights!
Hornet halted her applause. "…Was that not supposed to happen?"
Lurien made it halfway to the theater's entrance before the bluster drained out of him. He took two agonizing steps and sat down on the lone clean chair that Hornet had uncovered.
But what point was there in punishment? Really? What occasion in the Spire's history had even required the theater at all? It was vestigial, all in the Spire knew that. Who would have felt compelled to maintain it? Certainly not himself.
Lurien removed his mask and put his face in his claws. It was bad enough that he hadn't so much as penned a title for this play, but now there wasn't even a theater to present it in. This was the end. In a matter of days, Soul Master would realize he'd been deceived. His suspicion, his meddling, would increase tenfold, and he'd unearth the truth about the children. What would come of that, Lurien dreaded to contemplate…
Hornet's sheet hissed over the carpet as she padded close. "Are you okay?" she asked, mirth suddenly swallowed.
"Yes, I am unharmed," Lurien said. His voice came muffled through his claws.
"No, I mean, are you okay?"
Lurien lifted his head and gave her a hard look.
Hornet doffed her sheet then kicked it under a chair. "Look, it's not so bad. So, what if it's dusty? That won't hurt anyone. And the curtain is fine, we can just put it back up and—"
A quartet of rusted gears fell from the curtain track and struck the stage, landing with a bang, one after the other like the first bar of a ghastly concert.
Hornet grew quiet. She seemed to be formulating a new argument.
Not wanting to allow her the time, Lurien reaffixed his mask and stood. "Follow me, children." He did not know exactly where he was going or what he intended to do, but remaining in this ruin was not an option. He glanced around for the Vessel. It was—almost predictably—absent. He waited for the usual barb of panic to pierce his chest, but it did not come. He was thankful for that at least. Was this a sign of his growing experience as a caretaker, or his apathy? He couldn't say. Just as he was about to enlist Hornet's aid in searching, Belvedere's voice carried faintly through the theater doors. He seemed to be reciting something.
Lurien stepped outside into the library to behold the Vessel wrapped in a dusty sheet of its own. It was seated before a reading chair occupied by Belvedere. In his claws, Belvedere held a long, beaten scroll. He read from it with grave authority, modulating his timbre as he voiced different characters.
"'Enter stage left, the King ridding upon a stag'," Belvedere cleared his throat and feigned a baritone, "'What happiness to reign a lonely king; Vext — O ye stars that shudder over me; O earth that soundest hollow under me; Vext with waste dreams? for saving I be joined; To the Lady that is the fairest under heaven; I seem as nothing in the mighty world; And cannot will my will, nor work my work; Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm; Victor and lord. But were I joined with her; Then might we live together as one life; And reigning with one will in everything; Have power on this dark land to lighten it; And power on this dead world to make it live.'"
A vague remembrance stirred in Lurien. He tried to place the line. "The Vision of the King?" he asked.
Belvedere paused mid-sentence and looked up, eyes twinkling. "Quite so, Watcher. Your memory is as sharp as ever."
"Grandiloquent language of that magnitude is difficult to forget."
"Oh, come now. The Vision is a classic."
Lurien shrugged.
With care, Belvedere rolled up the scroll and placed it beside several others on a small reading table. "So," he began, a charlatan's air of ease about him. "How did your bout with Soul Master go?"
"As well as I had predicted. He will be lodging with us for the time being." Lurien walked over and removed the sheet from the Vessel's shoulders. It looked up at him, revealing a face speckled by dust motes. Impatiently, he swiped the Vessel's face clean. It did not flinch.
"Word around the library is that a play is in production," Belvedere said. "One about Soul Master himself. This comes as no small surprise, as I wasn't privy to any such plans before being furloughed. It is… expected within the week, correct?"
"Word travels quickly," Lurien observed.
"Like fire through a scriptorium." Belvedere lifted another scroll. It was titled Dramatic Theory for the Novice. He skimmed through it, nodding as though revisiting an old favorite. "Has a playwright been commissioned for this project?"
"I could write it!" Hornet blurted, suddenly at Lurien's shoulder. She held a bent gear from the curtain track and was trying to force it back into shape. "How hard could it be?"
Lurien ignored her. "As of yet, no."
Belvedere craned his neck to get a glimpse of the theater. Even from here, the fallen curtain was clearly visible. "Is the stage in operating order?"
"It is under maintenance."
"Not the most auspicious sign," Belvedere said, "This production will surely demand a heroic deal of work to reach completion on time. It is a pity I can't offer any help. As you know, I am much too occupied with reading."
Lurien squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Very true. I will not keep you any longer, then. Enjoy your leisure." He nodded at the children to follow him and strode off.
After a beat, Belvedere leapt from his chair, sending Dramatic Theory for the Novice fluttering away. He took Lurien's claw in both of his and knelt like a Court Knight making a pledge. "Oh, enough with pretense. Grant me this task, I beseech you! All this idleness is driving me mad. As Watcher, it is your onus to delegate excess responsibility. Do so!"
"Foisting my every woe onto you seems a poor way of delegation."
Belvedere made some flustered noises and tightened his grip into a vice. "I have managed stricter deadlines with greater consequence before! Who else but I could even be trusted to see this through in time? Look." He groped blindly at the scrolls strewn over the table, snatching one up and presenting it as a holy relic. "I've all the resources necessary right here. I could begin this very instant."
"In the full span of your life, how much of it has been devoted to theater? An hour?"
"An entirely sufficient amount, I assure you!"
Lurien growled dubiously, but Hornet took him by the other claw. "Come on, let Mr. Belbedere do it. I'll help him."
A sudden, claustrophobic feeling fell upon Lurien. "Enough, then! Fine! Fine!" He wrenched his claws free and stepped back. "You are hired, Belvedere, as playwright, director, stage manager, and whatever else necessary. Does that please you? Are you satisfied with this rockslide of obligation?"
In a flash, Belvedere was back on his feet, shell straight, voice even, as though the last minute had never occurred. "Positively ecstatic, Watcher. I shall begin immediately." He produced a small silk sack from a pocket in his uniform and shoveled the scrolls from the reading table into it. "You may expect a preliminary draft of the first act by this evening. I must inform the Menders about the theater's condition." He bowed deeply, then shouldered the sack and set off through the library, a living dynamo if Lurien had ever seen one.
As Belvedere diminished, Lurien shook his head. Another verbal duel, another embarrassing defeat. It seemed he could not shield anyone from harm, not even the self-inflicted sort. He thought of the King, of the many perilous tasks he had entrusted to his eager Knights. Did those edicts weigh on him too?
Hornet began to set after Belvedere, presumably to make good on her offer, but Lurien caught her by the cloak.
"Hold now," he said. "It is best you leave that one to his own devices for now. If he requires your aid, he will solicit it."
"But you gave him like four jobs. How's he going to do them all alone?"
"King only knows," Lurien said. "But I have no doubt they will be done. For now, however, we have other concerns. Our guest will surely expect a banquet in his honor, and the chefs must be warned."
Hornet started to protest, but another thought came to her, and she nodded slyly. "Okay."
They made haste for the kitchen, and the Vessel trailed after them, The Vision of the King clasped to its chest.
The Spire possessed many banquet chambers, but none were so storied as the 'Arboretum'. Though its name was unofficial—a sobriquet bestowed by the serving staff long ago—Lurien could understand why it had stuck. Between the moss-green of the tapestries and the earthy lacquer of the shellwood furniture, it certainly alluded to growth and verdure. To him, its most alluring aspect was the engravings hidden away in the half-shadows of the arched ceiling. In onerous detail, a landscape of thickets, roots and cobbled paths wove overhead. During happier times, he would have made a game of spotting the dozen Mosscreep expertly hidden throughout the piece. But as he lowered his gaze to the seat of honor on the far side of the table, he was reminded that happier times had long since passed.
Over the years, the King, the Queen, Monomon, and even the Beast had all supped within the Arboretum's walls. Sharing a table with the Beast had been a particularly harrowing experience. Lurien still recalled how she had dismembered a roasted Loodle with her bare claws. But now, at this moment, who was it that sat on the shellwood throne which had carried the frames of so many much worthier Beings? Whose presence, like a defiling stench, had insinuated into this most sacred place? Lurien glared into his lap, rather than direct the spite where it truly belonged. He did not wish to provoke Soul Master in public. As far as most onlookers knew, they were fond friends. How exactly that fabrication had propagated, Lurien could only speculate.
Though assembled on short notice, the congregation ringing the table was varied: Spire scholars, traveling dignitaries, the odd artisan. The first course had yet to arrive, and the air was thronged with talk. The fine dishes had been laid out. Up and down the banquet table they marched, a legion of crystal glasses and plates, all carved by claw. Lurien's own was flanked by a dozen silver utensils, all recently polished. He had endured enough formal dining to know a salad fork from a Crawlid fork but dredging up that memory never ceased to irk him. So much pageantry yet so little significance.
Hornet was seated to his left, a knife in each claw. She clashed them together, dueling with herself in slow motion. Her tiny parries and ripostes were surprisingly adept for one who had never wielded a real nail. Lurien considered scolding her but held his breath. Though Soul Master was currently prattling about his experiments to one of the other dinner guests, that did not guarantee he wasn't watching them. If Lurien were to demonstrate authority over Hornet, it might harm her alias as a foreign royal.
Like a meditative mantra, Lurien repeated 'Princess Flower' in his head until the words lost all meaning. He could not shake the dreadful sense that he would misspeak in Soul Master's presence, revealing Hornet's name and shattering the illusion. He busied himself with the napkin beside his water glass. The purple silk had been folded into the likeness of a Fool Eater, mouth agape. He smoothed it, obliterating the shape, then placed it on his lap.
To Hornet's left—concerningly out of reach—sat the Vessel. It still held 'The Vision of the King' to its chest, as though hoping to absorb the contents through sheer osmosis. What precisely had attracted the Vessel to that scroll, Lurien had yet to deduce. However, he had learned that the Vessel possessed an astonishing grip. It would not be relinquishing that scroll until it very well pleased to, that much was certain. This rapidly emerging willfulness from the Vessel should have been more alarming to Lurien, but he had other worries at that moment.
"Do you suppose Soul Master's soliloquy would be better placed at the end of the first act following the estate fire, or the beginning of the third act preceding the founding of the Soul Sanctum?"
"I do not know, Belvedere."
"Because, as you see, the core theme of the soliloquy is agency, its presence or absence in the pivotal moments of our lives, and the events framing the soliloquy will impact the audience's interpretation."
"I do not know, Belvedere."
"If placed in the first act, it may ring as overly despairing, but in the third act it could be seen as egotistical. I am so very torn."
"I do not know, Belvedere."
Belvedere lowered his notepad and paced a thoughtful circle. He had, as far as Lurien was aware, been writing without pause for the last eight hours. As was often the case when he took on tremendous workloads, his body trembled faintly. "Perhaps I shall entreat Gram's opinion," he said.
"Our captain?" Lurien asked.
"Oh yes, he is quite the theater enthusiast."
Despite all his faculties, Lurien could not create that mental image.
Hornet leaned back in her seat to lay eyes on Belvedere. "Why not both?"
"Pardon?"
"Why not put the solila—the thing in both places? Make it a little different the second time. It would be like… like an echo."
"That is an intriguing idea," Belvedere said. He lifted his notepad and began scribbling furiously.
With what power he could muster, Lurien gestured from Belvedere to the empty seat beside himself. "Sit. Dine with us. You look to be in need of a moment's rest."
Belvedere took a step back. "Apologies, Watcher, but there is little time for that. The proverbial iron is hot, and I mean to strike. As promised, you shall have the first draft before the night's end. If you'll excuse me." And he scuttled out of the room, nearly colliding with another attendant along the way.
Lurien let out a long breath and tapped his plate with a claw.
Several more minutes of conversation passed, some murmured from shoulder to shoulder, some half-shouted from several seats down. Eventually the kitchen doors parted with artful slowness, and the first fleet of serving carts emerged, topped with appetizers and carafes of drink. They fanned out like the petals of a flower to encircle the diners. The kitchen staff, looking meek yet professional in their gray uniforms, served without a word. The head chef, the same portly bug that had provided Lurien his breakfast that very morning, stood beside the door, hat in claw, awaiting culinary judgement. His apparent fears were unfounded, however, as all in attendance made quick work of their first plates.
Just as the time came for Lurien to officially welcome the guests, Soul Master cleared his cavernous throat and levitated into the air. A glass of rootwine orbited him, gently swirling as though held in a claw. "Good bugs of the Kingdom," he began, "It is a great honor to dine with you this evening. I am pleased to have finally experienced the Spire's legendary hospitality. To the Watcher—" he bowed with mocking extravagance, "—I extend my ardent appreciation. Thus far, my time here has been so agreeable I fear I may never find the will to leave." He laughed, which elicited a few chuckles from the table. Hornet joined in as well, but hers was not a laugh of courtesy.
"But pleasantries aside," Soul Master continued, "my purpose here is not leisure, but the deliverance of us all. Take this as solemn oath: here, in this very tower, I will devise a cure for the Infection. With my brilliance and the Watcher's sage counsel, this Kingdom will live on." He plucked his glass from its orbit and raised the crystal in a toast. "And do not doubt, I shall be seeking that counsel at every opportunity, day or night."
Applause rose like a startled flock of maskflies. Gazes shifted to Lurien, anticipating a response, but the only words he could form uncolored by contempt were "Well said."
Seemingly disappointed, Soul Master returned to his seat and sipped his rootwine. "I anticipate we will all come to know each other quite well by this visit's end. I hope as much, at least." His eyes swept the room, but did not settle on Lurien, instead finding the Vessel and lingering there, equal parts intrigue and menace.
The Vessel, oblivious to this, was lifting and lowering a fork, failing repeatedly to spear a morsel of food it hadn't the slightest intention of eating. Periodically, it stole a covert look at Hornet, who was busy massacring her meal down to the last crumb.
Lurien felt an impulse to draw Soul Master's attention away, to shield the Vessel from his scrutiny, but he suppressed it. Attempts to obfuscate were often more revealing than mere inaction. In truth—and though Lurien was loathe to admit it—he and Soul Master were likely sharing some of the same thoughts. What was it that granted the Vessel such an aptitude for Soul? If it lacked the coordination to even open an umbrella, then why for King's sake, was it skilled enough to sap the life from one of the Kingdom's most preeminent Soul manipulators?
The answer was in the Vessel's origin, but even to Lurien that was a murky subject. In the past, the King had referred to the Vessels as his 'spawn', objects 'born of his Being'. Had this been a literal statement, or yet another example of the King's fondness for figurative language? Being the offspring of a god would certainly explain the Vessel's abilities, but it could just as easily be a construct not unlike the Kingsmoulds. Despite his years of service, Lurien had never sought clarification on this ambiguity. He did not consider it his place to interrogate the King on the minutiae of his methods.
At least that was what he told himself…
On some invisible signal, the first course of the meal was concluded. Though he'd hardly touched it, Lurien's plate was seized and ferried off. Water glasses were refilled, napkins were replaced, and the serving carts beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen. With their mouths no longer enthralled, the diners resumed the conversation. Lurien contributed where appropriate but found his attention drifting to the head chef. The stiff-backed bug was still stationed beside the kitchen door, scanning the room, gauging the mood. From his years of dining here, Lurien knew full well that every course of the banquet had been prepared in advance. The serving staff were lined up just beyond the door, waiting to sally forth once the head chef deemed the moment correct. But how did he come to that conclusion? What was 'correct' in this case? A certain tone of impatience among the diners? A certain thrum of energy in the air? If correctness could indeed be measured, how did one cultivate such a skill? How many blunders would Lurien have prevented over the years had he only known the answer?
As if in retort, the head chef rapped on the door, and the second course began.
It proved to be moss salad, unsurprising, but not unwelcome. The conversation faded again, replaced by the clink of silverware and low noises of approval. This dish seemed to be another rousing success, for even Soul Master was quiet. He scooped up the greens with a hovering fork, clearing his plate in a few moments.
And then he began to cough.
Daintily at first, into a monogramed kerchief that he snatched from his cloak pocket. He took a sip of water, then a gulp, then downed half a glass and shook it in the air. One of the serving bugs refilled it in a beat, but this too was drained.
Soul Master pressed the kerchief to the Tiktik-trap of his mouth and unleashed a deluge of coughs that rebounded off the ceiling like hammer blows. Tears streamed from his eyes, and his breath came in a hoarse wheeze.
"King!" he exclaimed, rising from his seat, "that salad was hotter than a Belfly's backside!" Almost drunkenly, he claimed the serving bug's water pitcher and upended the thing, guzzling it dry.
Lurien, too, rose, his chair scraping the tiles. He could feel calamity coming on, a rockslide about to crush him. Hornet let out a giggle. They locked eyes briefly, and she gave a little nod, as if claiming a point in a secret game.
"What buffoon assemble this affront to the culinary?" Soul Master shouted between coughs. "Bring them here. This instant!"
With all the speed propriety allowed, Lurien made his way over, but the head chef arrived first.
"Is s-something amiss?" the chef asked.
Soul Master wheeled on him. "Why, yes! Is that not painfully evident?" He cleared his throat, then gulped another glass. "Who among your staff prepared this salad? Bring them here immediately, I will have words with them."
The head chef hesitated but then straightened. "I did so, your grace. Forgive me, I was unaware of your distaste for spice. Shall I fetch you something else? Some soothing mint tea, perhaps?"
Soul Master swelled in his vestments. "To the depths with your tea! Do you imagine me a fool? I know an act of malice when I see one. You will rue this transgression, bug."
The chef murmured another apology and bowed, but it accomplished nothing.
"Soul Master, are you unharmed?" Lurien asked. He kept his voice low, hoping futilely that Soul Master would do the same.
The dinner had lurched to a standstill. Not a fork was raised. The nearly three dozen bugs in attendance were making a pointed show of not noticing the debacle transpiring before them.
"Despite this one's best efforts," Soul Master said, "I will survive."
Lurien swallowed a groan. "Shall we resume the dinner, then? Despite this error—" he shot the chef a curious look "—there are several more courses to come. I assure you they will be more palatable."
Soul Master wiped his mouth one last time and stowed his kerchief. "Yes, we may proceed, but first, dismiss this one."
Puzzled, Lurien waved gently at the head chef as though guiding an errant Lumafly out a window.
The chef bowed again and retreated toward the kitchen.
"No! Dismiss him from the Spire," Soul Master snapped. "Banish him! It is the fate a crime of this scale deserves."
The chef froze, like one who had taken a nail to the back.
The word 'absurd' nearly leapt from Lurien's throat, but instead he managed, "I do not find that punishment fitting. Mistakes are inevitable in this world."
"Undoubtedly, but this was no mistake. You would be wise to rid yourself of this wretched schemer before he turns on you as well. In fact, I insist on it. As both your guest and the aggrieved party here, I demand it. Banish him."
His hat nearly tearing in his claws, the chef fell to one knee. He started to beg, but Soul Master silenced him with a warning crackle of Soul.
"Very well," Lurien said sharply. "I will have him dismissed immediately. For now, however, let the meal resume. There is no sense in squandering the rest of the evening."
Soul Master snorted and returned to his seat. Like emerging from an enchantment, the other diners resumed eating, though now lacking in the earlier cheer.
The chef whimpered and seemed to be working his way up to a wail, but Lurien took him by the shoulders and guided him into the kitchen.
"Watcher!" the chef blubbered "Please, this is a mistake, truly! I gave his salad but a dash of deepspice, just enough to draw out the flavor. How could I have known that he had such a d-delicate palate? In all my years serving the Spire, I have never once sought to harm a patron. You must believe me!"
Lurien held his breath as the fleet of serving carts passed into the Arboretum. The chef, tears on his face now, looked up at him as though he were an executioner, an avenging god. Once the din of wheels had passed, and they were truly alone, Lurien spoke. "I have no doubt in your honesty nor your ability, chef, but if my suspicions are correct, then you have been made an unfortunate victim in a game that you did not agree to play."
"What will befall me, then?" the chef whispered. "This kitchen is all I have."
Lurien considered. "I recommend you depart through the front entrance—" The chef moaned piteously, but Lurien lifted a claw. "Do so in theatrical fashion, ensuring many eyes witness you. An hour later, return to the Spire through the back entrance and don an apprentice chef's uniform. The Spire is vast, and nobles have little skill for recalling the faces of common bugs, so you should go undetected. For as long as Soul Master remains here—a blessedly short period, I hope—you must content yourself with de-shelling Squits and washing silverware. Once this disaster is resolved, and our intruder expelled, you may return to your normal duties. Now, how does that strike you? A feasible scheme, yes?"
The chef, though a full head shorter than Lurien, closed him in an embrace so fierce it nearly lifted him off the ground. A heartbeat in, however, the chef recalled himself and let go. "Forgive me, Watcher, and t-thank you, Watcher."
Lurien chuckled stiffly and unruffled his robes. "Yes, well, a poor Watcher I'd be if I could not discern an innocent bug from a guilty one."
With incongruous enthusiasm, the chef pulled a crate from beneath a kitchen cabinet and began filling it with his possessions: saucepans, ladles, a half-dozen shell tablets scrawled with recipes. He hefted the clanking crate in his arms and departed through the Arboretum. Lurien followed.
The meal had progressed into the third course: roasted Squit over a bed of mushrooms. Soul Master was already quite invested in his plate, but he paused to watch the head chef go. His chin rose in triumph, as though this petty clash of wills had held any significance whatsoever.
Lurien was no advocate for violence, but it would be a lie to say he did not long to slap the conceit out of Soul Master's head.
Oddly, Hornet wasn't eating. Her elbows rested on the table, claws clasped together. She followed the chef's slump-shouldered departure, and stared at the door once it closed behind him. Her pose, her prison of thought, reminded Lurien of the King, how he would descend into a statue-like stupor whenever confronted with a difficult problem.
And what, exactly, was the problem with which Hornet currently grappled? The interplay of action and reaction? The moral quandary of allowing another to suffer in one's stead? Perhaps the answer would reveal itself in time.
Until then, Lurien would be watching.