Valentine Pontifex

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Valentine swayed, braced himself with his free hand against the table, struggled to keep himself from spilling his wine.

This is very odd, he thought, this dizziness, this confusion. Too much wine—the stale air—maybe gravity pulls harder, this far down below the surface—

“Propose the toast, lordship,” Deliamber murmured. “First to the Pontifex, and then to his aides, and then—”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

Valentine peered uncertainly from side to side, like a steetmoy at bay, ringed round by the spears of hunters.

“Friends—” he began.

“To the Pontifex Tyeveras!” Deliamber whispered sharply.

Friends. Yes. Those who were most dear to him, seated close at hand. Almost everyone but Carabella and Elidath: she was on her way to meet him in the west, was she not, and Elidath was handling the chores of government on Castle Mount in Valentine’s absence. But the others were here, Sleet, Deliamber, Tunigorn, Shanamir, Lisamon and Ermanar, Tisana, the Skandar Zalzan Kavol, Asenhart the Hjort—yes, all his dear ones, all the pillars of his life and reign—

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