Hermes kept to the shadows, slipping along the torchlit corridor as the High King led Glasán away from the hall.
The sound of music and drunken laughter faded behind them, replaced by the muted slap of leather boots on stone. At the end of the passage, the High King pushed open a heavy oak door and ushered Glasán inside.
Hermes lingered at the edge, pressing his back to the wall, careful not to let his shadow fall across the threshold.
The room beyond was nothing like the roaring great hall. It was small, close, the air heavy with the smell of old parchment and smoke.
Around a broad table sat half a dozen men in fine cloaks, their faces set and sober. A cluster of oil lamps bathed the table in gold, illuminating maps inked with winding rivers, sketched coastlines, and tiny marks where settlements dotted the land. Notes lay scattered among them, written in a sharp, hurried hand.
"…so it is," the High King was saying, leaning over the table.
