There was no trace of confusion in Pontus's eyes. The man stared at the parchment as if it contained a secret only his soul had waited to see. To Alpheo, it was as if he had just placed the key to an unopened chest into Pontus's hands, and the architect, instead of opening it to see the treasure that lay inside, puzzled over its teeth and grooves.
In short he was growing impatient.
He clutched the scroll with both hands, almost tenderly, like a relic entrusted by a warmest friend. His expression brimmed with something close to reverence, an unnatural excitement, the kind that burns in men who suddenly glimpse the edge of eternity through their craft.
Every man had his own, Alpheo knew his legend would be made from the war he led, Pontus hoped for it to be in his own craft.
