He had never had such a realistic prevision in his life. As if in a dream, he had no doubt that what he was experiencing was real.
Rodemhaul Castle looked as it had in its heyday. The knights standing guard, proudly bearing the crest of the lizard-like serpens, and the pure, unfaded colours of the banners in the throne room suggested a world two hundred, perhaps three hundred years ago. So Renas did not understand why, in his mind, he saw himself cowering in fear which he hid behind his raised head and proud gaze of a man reconciled to the inevitable.
He was leaving the castle. In those days, the title of duke still meant something, so the event must have been a great emotional blow; today he would not be so concerned. The most sinister power was hidden in the emotions: people looked on with anger and satisfaction, fists clenched as if ready to strike, while a sneering smile crept across their lips. Against all logic, some of them looked like people Renas knew, but they behaved differently. They feigned indifference, trying to conceal the fact that they had something in common with him. Those closest to him turned away and hid. No one accompanied him, no one reacted. No voice of a higher power, of a god, a king or even a speaker, came from above to command silence. The people just stood there in silence, even though they could have thrown themselves at the departing man and torn him to pieces.
Darkness filled the room.
A moment later, Renas realised that it was no ghostly mist, but simply his own closed eyelids. He came back to reality, and the first thing that came to him was the voice of Rozerin, his sister.
It was kinder and warmer than her demeanour in the vision of a moment ago.
“This is not the first time he has had a prevision right here. Though probably never this strong.”
He opened his eyes. He was in the same throne room, dirty, dusty, with holes in the stone walls filled with new bricks and faded banners with four versions of the Serpens. Next to the railed-off throne was a notice describing it as a historical artefact, and a plaque commemorating the fall of the monarchy and the beginning of the power of the ducal parties. A network of pipes under part of the ceiling ruined the rest of the room’s former atmosphere.
The armour now lined the walls, replaced by tailcoats, jackets and cylinders. Renas himself had given up wearing the latter, but his seven-year-old brother had not.
“What did you see?” Diyako asked. He looked at him with an unhealthy interest. It was as if he somehow knew, or at least sensed, what Renas had seen, and he asked his question deliberately, with soul-searching eyes.
“Not much,” Renas muttered, pushing himself away from the wall. He mentally thanked fate that he had not fallen during the prevision.
“May I sit on the throne?” Diyako asked.
“No, it’s an exhibition piece, you can’t touch it.”
“I want to be king!”
The sister became frightened and began to look around nervously at the faces of the visitors. Renas heard muffled laughter, more from Rozerin’s reaction than Diyako’s.
“Being a king won’t get you any further than being the duke you already are,” he joked.
His sister gave him an indignant look.
“We don’t have a king, we have a ducal party,” she explained to the boy.
“One? And not four?” Diyako asked.
Renas did not know what to say. Officially, any of these answer was correct, depending on the context.
“Four, but one,” Rozerin ventured. “One divided into four.”
“And the Kammerdinate!”
“Yes, they are in the government. If you grow up and do your best, you will be too,” Renas assured.
“Let’s go,” Rozerin urged.
“I just wanted to pop into the library. And downstairs too, you know where.”
“You can do that on your own.”
“He hasn’t seen the castle’s greatest secret yet!” Renas winked at his younger brother.
Rozerin put her hands at her sides and looked at him defiantly.
“Don’t encourage him like that, it’ll only make his life harder later on.”
“Are you coming?”
She hesitated.
“I… well…”
“Admit it, you like it too.”
“OK, I’ll go.”
If he’d asked her ten years earlier, she wouldn’t have hesitated.
