"Holiness?" An old monk came up behind the Rathen, one who attended to him. "Holiness, are you well? Is there something you need?"
"What is it?" Saddam called from where he'd sat up in the grass under the tree. He was vaguely disturbed at the old man's agitation. Piqued at being so rudely pulled away from his reverie. "The old goat's getting more and more senile," he whispered to D'oa, who grunted assent.
"There," said the Rathen, pointing again. "Do you know what those are? What those mean? It's over, man. It's finally over!"
Saddam looked where the Rathen pointed. He could see the white streaks of the vapor trails from where he sat. The rumbling grew louder. "Those are just shuttles," he called. "It's the normal flight path. They fly over all the time."
The Rathen pointed to a young acolyte, a bodyguard who carried a weapon. He beckoned him over to him.