sit, and the high table now commanded the dais. Torches infused the air with smoky light, and the music of drone, lute, and pipe drifted down from the gallery, played by unseen minstrels.
“Let’s dance, Queenie!” Kel said, pouncing on her the moment she passed through the doors.
Grace’s first instinct was to curl up and play dead, as dancing with King Kel was much like getting mauled by a bear. However, she was too slow, and he grabbed her hands, proceeding to toss her about in a series of wild motions that could be termed
dancing
only by a person of uncommonly generous spirit.
Fortunately, before the centrifugal force gave her an aneurysm, servants entered bearing goblets of wine. Kel liked drinking better than dancing, and the only thing he liked better than drinking was eating, and the servants had brought in trays laden with food as well. The gigantic man let Grace go in the middle of a spin and stalked toward the servants; they backed away like small, frightened animals.
Once she came to a halt, Grace found herself near the dais. Gentle hands helped her up the steps and sat her down in her chair at the center of the table.
“Thank you, Falken,” she said, giving the bard a grateful smile.
“Here, dear,” Melia said, handing her a glass of wine. “This should help you forget the ordeal.”
Grace drank, and after a few sips the room’s spinning slowed to a leisurely roll.
“So did he ask you to marry him again?” Falken inquired.
Grace sighed and nodded. Kel asked her to marry him every time he visited.
“I’m big, you’re pretty, and we’re both royalty,” he would say. “What match could be better?”
Melia patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure Sir Tarus will keep him away from you.”
“Actually,” Falken said, “I think Kel could stuff Sir Tarus in his pocket and use him as a handkerchief.”
Grace laughed. “It’s all right. I can handle King Kel.” After all, she had faced far greater perils. Besides, Kel was an important ally now that the seven Dominions had all agreed Kelcior was to be recognized as a sovereign kingdom. And while she had no intention of ever accepting them, she thought Kel’s proposals were sweet. After all, it wasn’t as if other men were beating a path to her door.
You know that’s not true, Grace
, she chided herself.
King
Evren of Eredane would marry you in a heartbeat to gain a favorable alliance.
But that wasn’t what Grace had meant.
“Is something wrong, dear?” Melia said, concern in her golden eyes.
“I’m fine,” Grace said, and she tried to produce a smile, but it came out more as a grimace, so she took a sip of wine to conceal the expression. What was wrong with her lately? Ever since spring a gloom had kept stealing over her, even though she had every reason to be happy.
Two of those reasons were sitting next to her now. Grace didn’t know what she would have done without Falken’s and Melia’s advice these last years, or their company. She had never known her parents, but she often let herself imagine they had been like the bard and the lady.
Falken’s hair was more silver than black these days. In the time after the war it had become clear to all of them that the bard—who had lived for over seven hundred years—was aging. Though they hadn’t realized it at first that summer in Perridon, the curse of eternal life Dakarreth had cast on Falken was broken when the Necromancer perished. Falken was mortal again.
However, he was still the same Falken, and if he looked more wolfish than ever, he still had the same ringing laugh, and the same magical silver hand. Their work done at last—Malachor avenged, and the Necromancers destroyed—he and Melia had finally been able to acknowledge the love they had borne one another for centuries. They had wed two years ago, and they intended to live out the rest of their days here in Malachor.
The rest of
his
days, at least. For Melia was the last of the nine New Gods who
“Let’s dance, Queenie!” Kel said, pouncing on her the moment she passed through the doors.
Grace’s first instinct was to curl up and play dead, as dancing with King Kel was much like getting mauled by a bear. However, she was too slow, and he grabbed her hands, proceeding to toss her about in a series of wild motions that could be termed
dancing
only by a person of uncommonly generous spirit.
Fortunately, before the centrifugal force gave her an aneurysm, servants entered bearing goblets of wine. Kel liked drinking better than dancing, and the only thing he liked better than drinking was eating, and the servants had brought in trays laden with food as well. The gigantic man let Grace go in the middle of a spin and stalked toward the servants; they backed away like small, frightened animals.
Once she came to a halt, Grace found herself near the dais. Gentle hands helped her up the steps and sat her down in her chair at the center of the table.
“Thank you, Falken,” she said, giving the bard a grateful smile.
“Here, dear,” Melia said, handing her a glass of wine. “This should help you forget the ordeal.”
Grace drank, and after a few sips the room’s spinning slowed to a leisurely roll.
“So did he ask you to marry him again?” Falken inquired.
Grace sighed and nodded. Kel asked her to marry him every time he visited.
“I’m big, you’re pretty, and we’re both royalty,” he would say. “What match could be better?”
Melia patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure Sir Tarus will keep him away from you.”
“Actually,” Falken said, “I think Kel could stuff Sir Tarus in his pocket and use him as a handkerchief.”
Grace laughed. “It’s all right. I can handle King Kel.” After all, she had faced far greater perils. Besides, Kel was an important ally now that the seven Dominions had all agreed Kelcior was to be recognized as a sovereign kingdom. And while she had no intention of ever accepting them, she thought Kel’s proposals were sweet. After all, it wasn’t as if other men were beating a path to her door.
You know that’s not true, Grace
, she chided herself.
King
Evren of Eredane would marry you in a heartbeat to gain a favorable alliance.
But that wasn’t what Grace had meant.
“Is something wrong, dear?” Melia said, concern in her golden eyes.
“I’m fine,” Grace said, and she tried to produce a smile, but it came out more as a grimace, so she took a sip of wine to conceal the expression. What was wrong with her lately? Ever since spring a gloom had kept stealing over her, even though she had every reason to be happy.
Two of those reasons were sitting next to her now. Grace didn’t know what she would have done without Falken’s and Melia’s advice these last years, or their company. She had never known her parents, but she often let herself imagine they had been like the bard and the lady.
Falken’s hair was more silver than black these days. In the time after the war it had become clear to all of them that the bard—who had lived for over seven hundred years—was aging. Though they hadn’t realized it at first that summer in Perridon, the curse of eternal life Dakarreth had cast on Falken was broken when the Necromancer perished. Falken was mortal again.
However, he was still the same Falken, and if he looked more wolfish than ever, he still had the same ringing laugh, and the same magical silver hand. Their work done at last—Malachor avenged, and the Necromancers destroyed—he and Melia had finally been able to acknowledge the love they had borne one another for centuries. They had wed two years ago, and they intended to live out the rest of their days here in Malachor.
The rest of
his
days, at least. For Melia was the last of the nine New Gods who
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