The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [123]
She had never seen quite so much of Durge before. His bare arms were chiseled like those of a statue, and the thick, dark hair of his chest swirled in circular patterns. She could count the muscles of his stomach as if they were precisely lined paving stones in a Tarrasian road.
Durge frowned, apparently noticing Aryn’s attention. “Is something amiss, my lady? I suppose I’ve managed to get these trousers all wrong and look the fool for it. I fear I couldn’t tell which was meant to be the front and which the back.”
He had trimmed his mustaches and shaved his cheeks, and his wet, brown hair was slicked back from his brow. The soft glow of late afternoon through the curtains softened the crags and valleys of his face.
“Durge,” Aryn breathed, “you’re so … that is, I mean, you look …”
Melia drifted forward. The lady still wore a white kirtle, but it seemed lighter than before, almost translucent, and trimmed with fine silver thread.
“I believe Aryn means to say that you look very manly, Durge.”
He glowered as he plucked at his gauzy pants. “That is passing strange, my lady, for I do not feel particularly manly at the moment.”
“Just trust me on this one, dear.” She squeezed his arm, and her eyebrows rose. “Falken, perhaps you should grow muscles like this.”
The bard snorted and strummed a sour note on his lute. “Only if I can get them drinking ale.”
Falken also wore new clothes courtesy of Melia: pants like those Durge wore, only soft gray in color, and a loose-fitting shirt of azure cloth belted at the waist. While more slender than Durge, Falken was in fact lean and wiry. He had shaved as well, and he looked striking in his new clothes, if still a bit wolfish and wild around the edges. However, the bard only held Aryn’s attention for a moment.
What is it, sister? spoke a voice in her mind.
Aryn realized she was staring at Durge again.
It’s nothing, she spun the words back across the Weirding.
She started to feel a question return to her, but she hastily snatched back her thread and turned toward a sideboard to pour herself a glass of wine. However, as she sipped the cool liquid, she wondered. Why had she been gawking so rudely at Durge?
Or course—she was simply surprised to see a man of Durge’s advanced years looking so hale. After all, he was past his fifth-and-fortieth winter now. Yet she knew his greatsword weighed half as much as she did; no doubt swinging it kept him in good form. And she was glad for the fact, for Durge was her friend, and she wished him to remain well and hearty for many years to come. Satisfied with her explanation, Aryn downed the rest of her wine.
“So were you granted an audience with the emperor?” Lirith asked. Melia’s kitten had sprung up into her lap and was playing with a corner of cloth from her gown.
Melia let out a sound that might have been any number of different words, none of them particularly pleasant.
“You can take that as a no,” Falken said. “How about some of that wine, Aryn?”
She hastily poured two cups for the bard and lady.
Durge started to sit, seemed to get momentarily tangled in his pants, then hastily stood again. “I find it puzzling that Emperor Ephesian would turn you away, Melia, given your … er, your stature here in Tarras.”
“Ephesian would never turn me away,” the lady said. “He wouldn’t dare! He knows what I did to his greatgrandfather, Ephesian Sixteen.”
Aryn gulped. “And what was that?”
Melia’s lips coiled in a smug smile. “Let’s just say he never sat on his throne again without using an extra cushion.”
“I don’t understand,” Lirith said. “If Ephesian respects you, Melia, why weren’t you granted an audience?”
Falken answered. “Because that little wart in expensive clothes—excuse me, I mean the Minister of Gates—wouldn’t even let us into the First Circle. Nor would he relay our message to the emperor.”
“But Melia,” Aryn said, “couldn’t you have just, you know, tampered with the minister?”
“I’m afraid that’s frowned upon here in Tarras, dear. A god tends to get touchy when you meddle with one of his followers. There’s such competition