A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [135]
In the hitherto empty air in front of every man a knife was suddenly floating: a duplicate of the one thrown by Anglurthauls guard. The points of all of these menacing little deaths hung about a foot away from the throat of every conspirator.
"Consider this a warning," the sorceress announced calmly. "We could instead simply kill you all, and be done with concern over your plans, forever." She gave them a gracious smile, and added as she turned to go, "I know you are sensible men, and will conduct yourselves accordingly."
Their seated companion stood up and threw back his cowl-and there were gasps of rage and dismay from the Ieiremboran side of the table as they recognized Ezendor Blackgult, smiling coldly at them from above a fist-sized glowing stone that hovered beneath his chin. It flashed with sudden white light, men, as his smile widened-and he, the procurer, and the sorceress vanished.
As one, the conspirators swore and started to scramble to their feet-only to fall suddenly silent and still again. None of the floating knives had vanished, and one man, at least-Hardiman Anglurdiaul-could attest to their very real solidity… and sharpness. He dabbed at a goodly wound on one side of his throat, and had to bend to his boot-top with a grunt of discomfort to pluck out a brow-rag and staunch the bleeding. Thus he discovered that, solid or not, the floating knives could pass through tabletops to maintain their menacing positions.
For his part, Tonthan discovered the deep quality of the wine cellars beneath the Basket of Eels, as he sat sipping and pondering-with increasing suspicion-the whereabouts of Sathbrar. The knives did fade away, hours later.
It would be a very long time before Flow-foam Palace was rebuilt, and the gardens to its west and south would be a scarred ruin for seasons to come. To the east, however, where Flowfoam Isle came to a sharp, high, prowlike point against the onrushing Silverflow, the tall stand of ultharnwoods stood undisturbed. They encircled a small green lawn of moss where Embra Silvertree had long ago buried all that she could find of her mother-a place that the sun touched and warmed at the height of day, above the unseen encircling fortress wall but below the palace towers and shielded from them by the trees.
There was a fresh grave in that splash of sun now, and a few grim folk standing around it. Three more came down from the higher, more floral gardens to join them: Craer, Tshamarra, and, walking a pace behind them, the Baron Ezendor Blackgult.
Embra looked up at their approach, all tears done now. Her hands were still bloodstained from the slow, painstaking hours she'd spent on her knees with spells and bare hands, gathering every last smear and droplet that had been Sarasper.
"Four no more," was all she said as Craer embraced her, and Tshamarra waited her turn to do the same. It was the procurer's face that was wet as they parted, and Overduke Delnbone went to the next waiting embrace-the arms of Hawkril Anharu, who stood grimly by the foot of the mound of fresh earth that Embra had so carefully armored in interlocked shards of marble.
The largest warsword that Flowfoam's palace walls could yield was planted in the earth beside Hawk, with his dagger-belt hung about its hilt. An armaragor set down his arms out of respect when laying to rest one of his betters.
Alone on the other side of the grave stood King Raulin Castlecloaks, unsure of what he should say or do, his own grief writ clear on his face. His hands still bore the dirt of his first royal act-digging this grave.
"Fare well, Lord Longfangs," Blackgult said simply, releasing Embra at last to turn and face the grave where the others stood with heads bowed.
"Go now and heal the Three, old healer, and make all Darsar the happier." Then he looked to Raulin.
The king nodded, and said softly, "Tarry in a happier place, Lord Dragon. May it be many long years before we must dig another grave here."
There were murmurs of agreement, and then a few more silent embraces-but no one needed to speak