The blind prophet felt his way along the cold and abandoned corridor. Coming to the end of the hallway, he pushed through the unlatched doors leading into the king’s chamber. He could taste the dust and mold of long decay floating in the disturbed air. He tilted his head, straining his ears: There, the sound of footsteps, stumbling. A crash, a slurred curse, and the king came up to the prophet, his breath sweet with wine.
“How dare you—” he was shouting.
“You have invited her into your chamber,” cut in the prophet, “and embraced her in your bed.”
Tale Told 