Free Forest For The Trees (Book 3) by Damien Lake Page A

found some use or other.  Men like the knight-marshal would undoubtedly
test their ingenuity against such problems during their military studies,
refusing to pass up such a valuable potential lesson.
    Even such a simple lesson as that one was , Marik mused.  Hardly a stepping stone on the way to
whatever grandiose strategies the more brilliant tacticians would leave
behind.  Still, Marik took pride in having been able to decipher the best plan
for that situation, especially since his decisions had mostly mirrored the ones
made by such a legendary figure as the first Arm of Galemar.
    Funny how he’d never learned the man’s name before.
    It was an interesting piece of history he might never
have realized.  The seemingly random fragments of information he had used to
reconstruct it could as easily have passed him by, unnoticed.  If nothing else,
it validated Landon’s assertions that knowledge of the past could be every bit
as valuable as knowing what transpired in the present.
    Yet for all its interest, it held little importance. 
The only true benefit would be that these people, who were familiar with the
types of men the diorama had been designed for, might take his warnings
seriously once they learned how well he’d performed under its quiet trial.
    Few enough of the hallway lamps were lit.  Walking
through corridors where two out of every three iron-bracketed lamps were dark
lent the moment an ominous quality.  Most of the people had vanished while
Marik discussed the finer points of military strategy with the knight-marshal. 
From appearances it could have been halfway to dawn after the midnight bell.
    The knight-marshal angled to a door larger than that
of the previous room, passing a group of dignified men and women who exuded a
miasma of power.  These individuals were important figures in the halls of
statehood.  Marik’s head followed them until an irritated cough from the
knight-marshal drew his attention back.  He stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed
while he pointedly waited for the young mercenary to hustle.
    With luck the dim lighting would hide the flush that
rose anew to his cheeks.  Marik could feel them reddening.
    Brighter light illuminated the room’s interior, like
stepping from the dappled shadows of a forest into a clearing brilliant with
unfiltered sun.  It was a circular room, continuous walls without corners. 
Several doorways were set at irregular intervals.  Wood paneling had been
shunned in favor of plaster painted green and brown in Galemar’s colors.  A
table as circular as the room followed the walls in a massive ring.  Flag
stanchions flanked chairs resembling thrones on the room’s far end.
    And thrones they might indeed be, Marik knew, when he
saw who else stood in the room.  Raymond Cerella possessed features that would
easily pass from the mind moments after meeting the man, if one encountered him
as a fruit seller or a clerk in the city’s counting houses, a lifetime of
strain showing on his face from keeping track of other people’s wealth.  His
wife Ulecia on the other hand…Marik’s eyes instantly recognized the streaming
locks rippling over her shoulders.  From a distance, that one feature recalled
her to his mind.
    The knight-marshal made his way around the table
toward the group.  In every sizable room Marik had been in, the ceiling rose in
proportion to the floor space.  Here, the low ceiling lofted lower than the
hallway’s, creating the impression that they had entered into a hollow space
inside a coin.
    Their entrance had been noticed.  Several eyes
followed their progress across the room.  Drawing closer to group of standing
figures, Marik could see Celerity, the head of Raymond’s mages and, most
shocking of all, Torrance, the commander of the Crimson Kings.  A woman
unfamiliar to Marik stood to the Raymond’s left, dressed in an austere blouse
with a collar tight enough to do a hangman proud and a matching skirt that
brushed the floor.