"She was," Dolmur agreed gravely, "and she was not. 'Tis best, brother, if you believe we're the last living Bowdragons, and she's lost to us."
"I-Kill me, brother, if you have any love left for me at all," Idiim said brokenly. "I've nothing left to live for. All our family thrown down and swept away. All gone, all dark…"
"No, Idiim," the eldest Bowdragon replied in a voice of cold, heavy iron, "there's much for us both still to do. We have a family to refound, and revenge to prosecute for all our lost and fallen. You have the greatest revenge of all."
"I do?"
"Vow with me," Dolmur Bowdragon commanded, as they floated together in the dark refuge where he'd spellsnatched them. "Vow this: That we shall never the, nor rest, until we hunt down and fittingly slay whoever was riding Maelra, to make her attack us all as she did."
Ithim's voice rose. "I felt our foe-cold and gleeful, more a master of magic even than you! Yes, of course my Maelra could not have grown so in sorcery, in such a short time." His voice changed, becoming a wavering, conspiratorial whisper. "So strong… Dolmur, do you think we can do this?"
"Ithim," the patriarch of the Bowdragons whispered back, "I think we must do this-or the Three Watching Gods will not have lost just one over-proud human family this day, but all Darsar!"
He waved a hand, and a few sparks kindled in the darkness as he added, with more bitterness than Ithim had ever heard in Dohnur's voice before, "And what will they do for amusement then?"
"So of course," Overduke Delnbone was saying airily, "I had no choice but to accept her surrender-minus her cloak. She protested, as women do, saying the night was too cold to be running arou-"
"Craer," Embra Silvertree said into his ear, though she was to be seen nowhere in the room, " 'twould be a very good idea to fall abruptly silent right now. Right now. I very much doubt your lady will want to hear all about the time you chased an unclad Naevrele Lashantra down three streets in Sirlptar… especially as she happens to be Tshamarra's cousin."
"Ooop," the procurer remarked brightly, as Flaeros, the king, and Suldun Greatsarn all broke into grins-and across the room there sounded the rhythm of sharp raps upon the door that announced the arrival of the two Lady Overdukes.
"Well, I'm afraid I'll have to finish this little tale some other time," Craer gushed hastily, catching up his saddlebag. "Hawk and I have a noble audience with some heaping platters in the kitchens."
Greatsarn waved a hand. "Oh? And the saddlebag?"
Overduke Delnbone straightened, assuming a look of dew-washed innocence, and replied, "I didn't say just how many platters, now, did I?"
"Craer," Embra Silvertree said into his ear, in person this time. "Get out. Get out now, while you still can."
The procurer whirled around with a flourish-but the soft breast he'd been intending to run into wasn't there. Instead, he found himself staring into a pitying smile. It belonged to Embra, who'd spun away in unison with him, to fetch up facing him just out of reach. She gave him a sigh and the words, "Procurers are so predictable."
Craer was still trying to think of a dignified answer to that observation, with the delighted laughter of all the men in the room ringing in his ears and a scornful Tshamarra Talasorn giving him a hard stare, when Hawkril strode past, smoothly took hold of his ear, and swept him out the door.
"Finest shalarn," the cellarer told the towering armaragor eagerly, almost panting with fear. "Brought straight from far Sarinda."
"Man, 'tis green," the warrior growled, holding the bottle in one hand with surprising gentleness-considering the iron strength and increasing tightness of the grip he had on the cellarer's belt with the other.
The castle officer's legs dangled well clear of the ground, kicking slightly. He was busy deeply regretting his earlier swift rudeness-but how was he to know these two ruffians had the king's leave to raid the palace kitchens, let alone the royal winecellar!
"Ah, well, ah-ha-ha, so 'tis," he offered hastily, fervently wishing he'd donned his older, looser truss that morning, as the armaragor's grip made all his hidden underbelts-and their buckles-dig ever deeper into soft, private areas of his anatomy. "A very splendid emerald green, ah-ha, yes!"
"Deep green and aromatic, you say?" the armaragor asked skeptically, giving the wine another critical stare. "Well, then, you drink some, whilst I watch!"
He rammed the cellarer down into a chair and thumped the bottle down in front of him. Well behind the quivering official, the four guards summoned earlier by the Lord High Cellarer to scourge and then expel the two intruders chuckled openly.
They shall all boil in oil, screaming for mercy, the cellarer vowed silently, as he gulped eagerly. "Why, I couldn't! Friend warrior, this is some of the most expensi-"
"I'm not your friend," Hawkril growled, thrusting his face close to the red and quivering visage just beyond the bottle, "I'm an Overduke of Aglirta, and I'm giving you a command. Consider how quickly you'll obey-for your alacrity may have some bearing on two things: how much longer you're cellarer of Flowfoam, and the remaining length of your life."
"Hawk, I know he was extremely insulting, but let him live, hey? Empty yon bottle over his head, make him fetch a dozen different ones for each of us, and let's be gone from here," Craer muttered, from behind the hulking armaragor.
Hawkril swung around to give the procurer a surprised look. Craer was sitting at a kitchen table, looking at his bowl of soup as eagerly as if a friend had just drowned in it. "You feel as restless as I do?" he asked.
The procurer didn't look up, but he did nod. Emphatically.
Hawkril turned back to the cellarer. "Fetch those two dozen bottles-in a pair of carrybaskets, mind. If you do so swiftly, I won't have to come looking for you, will I?"
For the first time in his fife, the Lord High Cellarer of Flowfoam Castle set about obeying an order at a run.
Their stroll ended up where they'd both known it would, though neither had said a word in that regard: at the graves of Sarasper and Brightpennant. Several empty bottles had been discarded in their wake, and the huge haunch of boar in Hawkril's hand had been literally whittled down-with two very sharp belt-knives-to a short end of meat around a long, bare bone.
"So, have you decided what it is that overdukes do yet, besides bully servants?" the shorter stroller asked his taller companion.
"Chase wenches and steal things, if they're also procurers," came the dry reply, and then, in a different voice, "No. Nor have I looked ahead, to beyond battles against Serpents and nobles. I've never thought any of us will five to see time enough to wonder. If ever we drive down the Snake-lovers, and somehow hammer loyalty into the nobles, 'twill be our turn to do the same to the merchants of Sirlptar next."
Craer opened another bottle, poured a goodly amount on one grave and then the other, saluted the fallen ones quietly by name, and then asked, "So what's been riding you, these last few days? Between fights to the death and a certain Lady of Jewels, I mean?"
Hawkril let out a long, reluctant sigh and said slowly, "Fear. Fear for her. Something's going to happen to Embra. Something bad. I can feel it."
He looked sidelong at Craer, expecting the usual wry quip or light-heartedly tasteless comment, but his old friend wore no smile. Lifting his eyes to meet Hawkril's gaze, the procurer nodded soberly. "I've dreamed of such things, too-different horrors, different grim fates, but all of them dark."