Blod wet his lips. “Get up,” he said, and she rose. She could not do otherwise. There was no spar, there was no light.
“Beg me,” he said, and oh, what sin had it been? Even as the pleading spilled helplessly from her, as his filthy abuse rained down, and then real pain, which excited him—even through it all she found something. Not a spar of light, for there was no light anymore, it was drowned; but here, at the last, the very last thing was pride. She would not scream, she would not go mad, unless he said for her to do so, and if he did that, it was still being taken, after all, she was not giving it.
But at length he tired and, mindful of his instructions, turned his mind to killing her. He was inventive, and it appeared after a time that pain did impose impossibilities. Pride can only carry one so far, and golden girls can die, so when the Dwarf began to truly hurt her, she started to scream after all. No spar, no light, no name, nothing left but the Dark.
When the embassy from Cathal entered the Great Hall of Paras Derval in the morning, it was with a degree of stupefaction quite spectacular that they discovered their Princess waiting to greet them.
Kim Ford was fighting a shameful case of the giggles. Sharra’s description of the probable reactions on the part of the embassy dovetailed so wonderfully with the reality that she knew with certainty that if she but glanced at the Princess, she would disgrace herself. She kept her eyes carefully lowered.
Until Diarmuid strolled up. The business with the water pitchers the night before had generated the sort of hilarity between the two women that cements a developing friendship. They had laughed for a long time.
It was only afterwards that Kim had remembered that he was a wounded man, and perhaps in more ways than one. He had also acted in the afternoon to save both Sharra’s life and her pride, and he had told them to crown his brother. She should have remembered all of that, she supposed, but then she couldn’t, she simply could not be serious and sensitive all the time.
In any case, the Prince showed no traces of affliction at the moment. Using the drone of Gorlaes’s voice as cover—Aileron had, a little surprisingly, re-appointed the Chancellor—he approached the two of them. His eyes were clear, very blue, and his manner gave no hint of extreme intoxication a few hours before, unless it lay in the slightly edged quality of his gaze.
“I hope,” he murmured to Sharra, “that yesterday discharged all your impulses to throw things at me.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Sharra said defiantly.
He was very good at this, Kim realized. He paused to flick her with a brief, sardonic glance, as to an erring child, before turning back to the Princess. “That,” he said simply, “would be a pity. Adults do have better things to do.” And he moved off, elegant and assured, to stand beside his brother, as the heir to the throne should.
Kim felt obscurely chastened; the water had been awfully childish. On the other hand, she abruptly recalled, he had been climbing into their rooms! He deserved whatever he got, and more.
Which, though manifestly true, didn’t seem to count for much. She still felt like a kid at the moment. God, he’s cool, she thought, and felt a stirring of sympathy for her newest friend. Sympathy and, because she was honest with herself, the slightest flicker of envy.
In the meantime, she was beginning to understand why Gorlaes was still Chancellor. No one else would have put such a flourish into the necessary rituals that accompanied procedures of this sort. Or even remembered them, for that matter. He was still going, and Aileron was waiting with surprising patience, when a second man, in his own way as handsome as the first, came up to her.
“What,” asked Levon, without preamble or greeting, direct as wind, “is the ring you have?”
This was different. It was the Seer of Brennin who looked up at him appraisingly. “The Baelrath,” she answered quietly. “The Warstone, it is called. It is of the wild magic.”
He reacted to that. “Forgive me, but why are you wearing it?”
“Because the last Seer gave it to me. She dreamt it on my hand.”
He nodded, his eyes widening. “Gereint told me of such things. Do you know what it is?”
“Not entirely. Do you?”
Levon shook his head. “No. How should I? It is far from my world, Lady. I know the eltor and the Plain. But I have one thought. May we talk after?”
He really was extraordinarily attractive, a restless stallion in the confines of the hall. “Sure,” she said.
As it happened, they never got the chance.
Kevin, standing with Paul beside one of the pillars opposite the women, was quietly pleased at how clearheaded he felt. They’d done a lot of ale the night before. Paying close attention, he saw Gorlaes and then Galienth, the Cathalian emissary, conclude their formal speeches.
Aileron rose. “I thank you,” he said levelly, “for coming here, and for your gracious words about my father. We are grateful to Shalhassan that he saw fit to send his daughter and heir to take counsel with us. It is a trust we honor, and it is an emblem of the trust we all must share in the days to come.”
The emissary, who, Kevin knew, was utterly clueless as to how Sharra had got there, nodded sage agreement. The King, still standing, spoke again.
“In this counsel-taking, all shall be granted speech, for it cannot be otherwise. It comes to me, though, that first right of address here belongs not to myself, but rather to the eldest of us and the one whose people best know the fury of Rakoth. Na-Brendel of Daniloth, will you speak for the lios alfar?” For a moment after he had ended, Aileron’s glance met that of Paul Schafer in an enigmatic exchange.
Then all eyes were on the lios. Still limping from his wounds, Brendel advanced, and with him for support came the one who had seldom left his side in three days. Tegid took Brendel carefully forward, and then withdrew, unwontedly diffident, and the lios alfar stood alone in the midst of them all, his eyes the color of the sea under rain.
“I thank you, High King,” he said. “You do me and my people honor in this hall.” He paused. “The lios have never been known for brevity of discourse, since time runs more slowly for us than for you, but there is urgency upon us now, and I will not be over-long. Two thoughts I have.” He looked around.
“There were five guardian peoples named, one thousand years ago before the Mountain. Four are here today: Brennin and Cathal, the Dalrei and the lios alfar. None of our wardstones turned red, yet Rakoth is free. We had no warning at all. The circle was broken, my friends, and so—,” he hesitated, then spoke aloud the thought they all shared, “—and so we must beware of Eridu.”
Eridu, Kim thought, remembering it from Eilathen’s whirling vision. Wild, beautiful land where lived a race of dark, fierce, violent men.
And the Dwarves. She turned, to see Matt Sören gazing at Brendel with an impassive face.
“That is my first counsel,” the lios continued. “The other is more to the point. If Rakoth is but newly free, then even with his power, black Starkadh cannot be raised again for some time. He has announced himself too soon. We must attack before that fortress anchors his might in the Ice again. I say to all of you that we should go forth from this Council and carry war to the Unraveller ourselves. We bound him once, and we will do so again!”
He was a flame; he fired them all with the burning in him. Even Jaelle, Kevin saw, had a blaze of color in her face.
“No one,” said Aileron, rising again, “could have spoken more clearly my own thought. What say the Dalrei?”
In the now charged ambience, Levon walked forward, uncomfortable but not abashed, and Dave felt a surge of pride to hear his new brother say, “Never in our long history have the Riders failed the High Kingdom in time of need. I can say to you all that the sons of Revor will follow the sons of Conary and Colan into the Riik Barrens and beyond against Maugrim. Aileron, High King, I pledge my life to you, and my sword; do with them what you will. The Dalrei shall not fail you.”