Makaran is the Seat of Civilisation
The Makar Palace Garden
FENN MORAVIN GLANCED over his left shoulder, certain he was being followed.
The golden stars of rank upon the shoulders of his dress uniform would be obvious to watchers far and near, and he cursed silently, wishing he had chosen something less conspicuous to wear to this forthcoming meeting. On the other hand, if he was caught out of uniform in the Palace Gardens, his lack of formal attire would raise questions he could not adequately answer. Watchers or not, it was expected of the Brigadier-General to wander in dress uniform here; hopefully those watchers would assume he had been to see the king.
The Pavilion in the centre of the lily pond fell into shadow as he approached. One moment beams of white sunlight bathed it in benevolence and the next it darkened into columns of shivering spectres. This was merely due to cloud covering the sun, but it became an omen to the soldier marching rapidly towards it.
He was about to betray his king and in these moments of shifting light it seemed to him as if that king was aware of his every action and thought.
The king’s brother, Lord Lorn Makar, lounged upon the stone bench under the crenelated ceiling of the Pavilion, watching him approach, his long dark hair intricately braided. The hairs in the nape of Moravin’s neck spiked to attention. This particular watcher was probably the most dangerous man on Makaran, more so than any other potential witness to their clandestine meeting. This man was about to change the fate of their world, their civilisation and history, and he would do so without a shred of conscience.
The king’s brother was a traitor also.