A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [36]
"A king shall arise…" Sarasper quoted an old ballad-and it was Raulin's turn to frown, as he found he couldn't remember the words to the rest of it.
And that was not a good sign.
"A king shall arise," a soft voice purred in a room suddenly a little less dark-as the glow rising from a large, tilted mirror shaped itself into vivid, moving hues, and then spun suddenly into clarity: a scene of the towering walls of Flowfoam Isle, and a surging in the river water that became scores of slow-moving, purposeful warriors climbing up the stones. "And about time, too…"
The man in the splendid tunic looped with glittering chains of gold wore a thoroughly bored expression as he strolled down the hall. Whistling more tunelessly than he thought he was, he idly regarded the gilding of his fingernails-yes, chipped, just as he'd feared-and stopped to gaze at his reflection in one of the oval mirrors flanking the statue of King Olaurim, who'd ruled Aglirta so long ago that there'd been no baronies then.
"In the days when the Three walked the land and trees were all rooted in the air, floating freely and blowing hither and thither with the storms," the courtier quoted grandly, waving his hands like a great orator, "then was Aglirta born, king and all, and great was the war and wrack of its founding. Beasts were hurled back and roads laid down, and deeds actually mattered… instead of this endless, yawning boredom…"
"If it's not too much trouble, Saraedrin," the impassive guard standing the doors at the end of the hall said suddenly, "could you stir your bored legs a trifle and get yourself to the throne room? Ranking Sword Garzhar's waiting for your report."
Thelmert Saraedrin's head snapped up. "And if he is? I'm not in the habit of taking orders from old fools in ill-fitting armor-or doorguards, for that matter!"
"We can all learn good habits before we die, Saraedrin," the guard said ominously. "Even if our death's not all that far off…" He put a hand to his sword-hilt and drew forth his sword a meaningful three fingers' worth.
"Threats, threats," the courtier sneered. "That's all you steel heads know, isn't it? All dozen of you broken-down old men, swaggering around the palace like strutting roosters now, with the regent gone to war!"
"Aye," the guard agreed, "to war. Which is why your oath of loyalty to the Throne binds you to obey Garzhar as you would the regent-and him as you would the king himself! Now jump, or war will come to Flowfoam even swifter than Bloodblade can ride!"
Saraedrin snapped his fingers insolently. "I tremble, I tremble," he taunted the guard, as he reached the doors. "See?"
The doors swung wide under a practiced hand, the courtier drew him-; self up with a last sneer in the guard's direction-and a boot connected solidly with Saraedrin's backside, sending him sprawling forward onto the gleaming marble of the throne chamber.
"Why, you-" the courtier sputtered, voice rising into inarticulate rage.
Before he could think of a suitable string of oaths or even get to his feet, an old and dry voice above him commented, "your haste is commendable, Saraedrin. Have you those figures for me at last? They won't wait forever; I'm not a young man, you know."
The courtier picked himself up, face dark with anger, and snapped, "Who cares how many barrels of salted fish and wheels of cheese we have, anyway? The regent rides to war and all we fuss over is-"
"Preparations to withstand a siege, if need be," Ranking Sword Garzhar said in a voice of cold iron. "On the morrow, Thelmert Saraedrin, you'll be fitted for armor and taught to hold a sword. By the day after that, I'll expect you to swing it without falling over."
"What?" the courtier almost howled. He met Garzhar's cold stare, choked back what he'd been going to say, and instead asked sarcastically, "And what will you expect me to do on the day after that?"
"I don't expect there