In the antechamber of the royal apartments, the afternoon light lay flat across the paneled walls. The room was not large: a wide, low couch, two armchairs, a low dark table with three wax tablets and a penknife on it. Beside the door a standing clock struck the quarters slowly; between the clicks one could hear a faint crackle as a piece of coal shifted in the brazier.
Darius sat in one of the armchairs across from me. He did not lean back, nor forward; he sat as one who might rise at any moment, yet felt no hurry. His right hand stood behind my left shoulder, by the door; now for the first time I knew his name: Cassian. He did not speak, did not fidget, yet it was clear he was no ornament—he was listening, weighing the room, the sounds beyond the door cracks, me, and the faint impatienc
