“MY son?” whispered Roland, deflating like a punctured balloon. All the color had fled his face, leaving it pale, sagging, and old. Rafe had to look away; it was worse than seeing his king stripped naked. Wil, who had made his report in wooden tones, stared at the wall-hangings above the king’s head. He did not say anything. “It wasn’t like that,” said Tristan, white-faced himself, trembling like a weak sapling. “It wasn’t like that.” Roland seemed too dazed to hear. “My son,” he said, slowly, w...onderingly, “feeding information to base traitors—nay, haters of mankind! My son, my heir, the next Machinist, using his knowledge to destroy that which is the heart and blood of this entire city. This entire state.” The words fell like stones. “Father—” began Tristan. Roland turned on him, eyes ablaze. He strode over to Tristan and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Tell me it is not true! Tell me that the antimachinists are lying, tell me that my faithful Wil here is false, tell me that you were on some foolish escapade to infiltrate the traitors.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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