Priam led him to the alcove behind the tapestry.
The royal chambers were dim, lit only by the single lamp that burned beside the bed. Lysander followed his father with the oil lamp in one hand, the leather bag slung over his shoulder. Priam's steps were slow, painful, but purposeful. He had refused to lean on Lysander's arm. This was a thing he needed to do himself.
"Your grandfather showed me this when I was seventeen years old," Priam said. He stopped before a bare stretch of stone wall, breathing hard from the walk across the room. "It was the year after my first campaign. I had blood on my hands for the first time. I had seen men die. I thought I understood what it meant to be a king." He paused. "My father brought me here and showed me that I understood nothing."
He pressed his palm against the wall, low, near the floor. There was a soft click, and a section of the stone swung inward, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into darkness.
