The Lioness

The dwarf considered the “better” and let it go. “You hear people say that about a weapon they trust, one that weighs nicely in the hand.” A shrewd light shone in his eyes. “Maybe one they made a good kill with, eh?” He nodded past her, into the council chamber. “You won’t need your knife in there, lass. Not everyone’s going to agree with you, and you might not get what you want or need, but no one in there is looking to kill you, Mistress Kerianseray.”

Kerian balanced between an intuitive liking for this dwarf and a strong instinct warning her to be careful. Speaking with cool courtesy, she murmured, “You know my name, sir. You have the advantage of me.”

The dwarf nodded, genially agreeing. “Not for long, lass. I’m Tarn Bellowgranite, and I’ve heard you’re looking for me.”

Taken aback, Kerian, a creature of courts before ever she was an outlaw of the forest, bowed at once. “Your Majesty—”

He snorted. “Whose majesty? Never mind that. You’re speaking for your king, so speak as your king. Him and me, we’ve not yet laid eye on each other, but I know the tale of Gilthas the son of Tanis Half-Elven. I know the tale of him and the tale of his kin. Your King Gilthas has had a judgment on him, eh? Since the day he lifted himself onto his dead uncle’s throne he’s been weighed and found wanting in the eyes of people who don’t know what gets sacrificed so they can stand around in tavern and hall making grand opinions.”

His eyes darkened and Kerian thought this king knew about sacrifice and the subtleties of what must be forsaken so others might live.

“Nay, speak proudly for your king, Mistress Kerianseray. In the best of all ways of being, that should be enough. As it is, you can do that and still hope all will be well.”

Kerian’s liking for this dwarf grew. She bowed again. “I will, sir, and I thank you for the grace.”

Tarn laughed, a great booming roar. “Aye, rough looking as you are, your hair all running down your back, booted, belted, and bristling with knives—rough as that, nothin’s scraped the elf out of you yet, eh?” He chuckled. “Well, well. I think those deliberants in there have been warming the air long enough, don’t you? Let’s see what ideas they’ve nourished in our old King Duncan’s hall.”

Honoring the tradition of hospitality, the High King of the Eight Clans of Thorbardin ushered the ambassador from the Court of the Speaker of the Sun the rest of the way into the hall.

This he did by putting his hand at the small of her back, giving her a none-too-gentle push as he said, “Get in there now, lass. Get it said, and let’s get it moving, onward or done.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Ah, you’re everyone of you madmen!”

Ragnar Stonehigh’s scornful judgment boomed through the high hall of the Council of Thanes like thunder, rolling round the high ceilings and raining down in echo upon Kerian. He was, this bristle-browed thane with the fierce Daewar eyes, the third of seven thanes to condemn her mission. Ebon Flame of the Theiwar had rejected it out of hand, and Skarr Forgebright of the Hylar refused to entertain the idea of combining with humans and elves in a treaty against dragons. His had been the most reasoned argument, the one Kerian would address if she could slip in a word between the Daewar’s bluster.

“Why,” Skarr had asked mildly, “should Thorbardin risk even a drop of dwarven blood or a bent copper of treasure for Outlanders? We don’t need them, and their need could bring down a dragon’s revenge upon us. No,” he’d said, seeming to be genuinely regretful, “I can’t sanction this alliance.”

Shale Silverhand of the Klar had argued for the treaty but awkwardly. Donnal Firebane had come down in favor of it for the sake of old alliances. No one knew the opinion of the thane of the Aghar, the third Bluph the Third. He sat far back upon the throne of his clan, sucking the marrow from the bone of an old meal and cleaning his fingernails one with another.

Neither could Kerian reckon the feelings of Tarn Bellowgranite. The high king seemed content for now to watch his council shout it out. He was not, Kerian thought, inclined to suggest to anyone that the emissary from the elf king be given a chance to speak.

“She’s a mewling girl,” Ragnar sneered. “By Reorx’s beard? Sent here—what?—to talk for her puppet king?” He looked around the vast hall, at all his brother thanes seated upon or standing near the thrones of their clans, at the High King himself upon the throne round which these ranged. Very pointedly, he did not look at Kerian. He threw back his head, his dark Daewar eyes flat as a snake’s. “It’s an insult! A damned elven insult! In the name of all Reorx has forged—”