"A fool throws sticks into the river, a brute fights against the current, a wise person builds a bridge over it..."
"Your Grace?" Zayneth asked, his voice cautious, treading softly as if the Prince's words were thin ice. His eyes flickered toward the slip of parchment resting in the Prince's hand, a small thing to have summoned such a philosophical mood.
"Who ought to be the one to slash the river? Would you answer me this, Zayneth?"
The Spymaster, the right hand of the Prince of Habadia, eased his posture, sensing the shift in the air. There was no scent of failure here,the prince was in a good mood. "A king, Your Grace."
"Is that so?" Nibadur, son of Girmald, asked. He didn't look up, his fingers tracing the edges of the letter.
