The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [150]
"By the Three," Flaeros said in awe. "All that bloodshed and strife because two nobles couldn't control their loins."
A silence followed his words, and as it grew longer and deeper the young bard swallowed, a sudden fear rising in him that perhaps he'd angered the great Inderos Stormharp.
The old man's tankard was set solidly down on the table between them, ringing empty, and the cold feeling in Flaeros grew.
He sat frozen, watching an old hand cupped over the tankard as a long, silent time passed. Then the hand went away, and he heard the bard sigh and murmur, "Ah, but she was beautiful."
An old lion rose then, stalking as if he'd once been a fighting man and a graceful, handsome dancer to boot, waved to him in silent farewell, and strode away across the darkened room.
Flaeros let his own hand fall from the wave he'd given in return, then half rose from his seat with a gasp as the old bard ducked out a door, turning his head a trifle.
"Inderos Stormharp" was really-Baron Blackgult!
By the Three! When he tolHis eyes fell on a face visible by a curtain not far away-a face that was watching him intently, studying Flaeros Delcamper as if a bard's each breath, pimple, and every stray glance betrayed many secrets.
He'd never seen this watcher before, but something about the man made Flaeros swallow and sit down again quickly. It was hard to say what seemed so dangerous; the man had nondescript looks, wore the trail leathers of a forester, and offered the world a close-cropped beard and a pleasant expression.
Nevertheless, Flaeros almost dropped his tankard in his haste to pick it up, as he tried very hard to look young and uncomprehending, reminding himself that he was still both of those things, though perhaps not as much now as he had been just an hour ago. His life might well depend on his apparent innocence.
Wherefore he hoped he was succeeding in looking foolish. As a bard, he should be able to. After all, it was something most courtiers managed every day.
The murmuring that had soothed her for so long became the fluid gurgle of rushing waters, sweeping her back to sudden dark terror and remembered pain.
"No," she cried, into the endless darkness. "I can't save them! I love them all, and I can't save them!"
With a shriek she sat upright, staring at nothing, still asleep. A man frowned at that. Her first moans had awakened him from his doze on blankets where he'd been lying beside her for days, waiting for her to rouse.
"Is she awake?" a voice called gently and excitedly across the riverside cavern, but the hulking man on his knees beside her made a sharp gesture for silence, and the voice did not come again.
"Lady," he said, his deep voice so low it was almost a whisper. "Lass, come back to us. We're all here… you saved us all."
The staring, unseeing lady trembled all over, suddenly. For the first time in days her white-clenched grip on the Stone loosened, and it rolled out of her grasp.
Hawkril calmly caught it before it rolled into the water, and hefted it in his hand.
Embra seemed to sigh, and he almost tossed the Stone away in his haste to catch her as she sagged, and lower her gently-ever so gently-back down onto the blankets. He cast a look back across the cavern to where the other two men were talking in low tones and then shrugged. Let them see, and tease.
The armaragor bent forward with infinite care, and kissed the pale-skinned, sleeping lady full on the lips. For a moment she lay slackjawed, and then, slowly, responded, molding her lips to his and lifting herself against him, as if offering herself.
A slender hand rose to trace his stubbled jaw and then patted his cheek and pushed him gently away. A smile crossed parted lips, Embra Silvertree's head fell to one side, and she slept. In peace, now, still smiling, her hands no longer claws around a stone that could reshape the world.
Suddenly reminded