Of an evening, after supper, Almeric would stand by the open casement and look out across the darkening, boulder-strewn plain towards a range of hills on the horizon. He had grown used to the sight of these few, unchanging features - the sky, the hills, the plain, and below him, the sheer cliffs of the crag on which the Castle stood - which reflected, comfortingly, the unchanging character of his life. But this evening, he was disquieted to observe that something new had appeared: above the undulating outline of the hills flickered a reddish-orange glow, as of unseen flames, which grew brighter as the sky darkened and stars began to come out.

Almeric continued to watch until behind him he heard a door open and someone enter the chamber. This too was part of the pattern: Manes always came back at this time every night, to remove the supper-dishes from the table, and to enquire in the same words whether Almeric would be returning with his studies before retiring to bed. Tonight, however, Almeric had a question for Manes.

"What are those fires that are lighting up the sky?" he asked, turning to face his attendant. "They are like the flames of burning cities."

"What is a city, Sire?" Manes replied blandly.

The remark was a light irony. Manes knew very well that Almeric, though he had never seen a city, had read of them in his Library.

But Almeric was not to be so easily deflected. Going a little way towards Manes, he repeated the question in more urgent tones.

The contrast between the two figures as they confronted one another was extreme. Almeric, though by no means fragile, was so wasted by inactivity and undernourishment that he always seemed to need support, beginning to sway a little if he remained standing in one place. Since he rarely went out, or even to the remoter parts of the Castle, he was dressed in most impractical garments: white silk stockings and slippers worn with very short padded breeches of woven cloth extending from beneath a close-fitting doublet of matching cerise material, which was vented to display the watered-silk lining and had sleeves down to the wrists, themselves half-concealed by the ruched cuffs of a white chemise. But even this sumptuous costume was reduced to a mere appendage by the magnificent ruff that encircled his long neck with pleats of white, starched linen - garments in which he seemed perpetually posed for an official portrait.