by Karen Miller
With a flick of his fingers he sent the glimfire bobbing towards the crypt’s doorway. As he reached Fane’s tomb he stopped. Shook his head. Turned back.
“Nearly forgot,” he said. “About the baby. If it’s a boy we thought we’d call it Rafel. That’s a bit more personal than a moldy ole statue. If it’s a girl, Darran says we got to call it Gardenia.” He grinned. “Darran can suck on a blowfish and die.”
And he left the crypt, still grinning.
———
The recently opened Garden of Remembrance was full of fountains and flowers and flitting, jewel-colored birds. Asher came out of the crypt into warm sunshine, where families strolled and boys and girls, black-haired and yellow, threw balls of glimfire, squealing with laughter.
Dathne was waiting for him, round as a full moon.
“All right?” she asked, her hand on his arm.
He kissed her cheek. “Aye. All right.”
“Good,” she said, and tugged him along the path. “Now walk with me.”
As he turned, obedience personified, he caught a glimpse of Darran hurrying towards them from the direction of the palace. The light of battle was in the ole crow’s eye and a dozen scrolls were clutched to his chest. He groaned. He never should have mentioned he was going to the crypt...
“What?” said Dathne, alarmed. - “Nowt, nowt,” he assured her blithely. Slid his arm around her shoulders and matched his stride to hers as they strolled between the budding pink cantimonies. With luck she wouldn’t notice ...
But Dathne glanced to her right and cursed. “Oh, for Jervale’s sake! Can’t he leave us alone for five minutes?”
“Doubt it,” he said. “Darran lives for his paperwork, you know that.”
She gave him a look. “Since when are you so tolerant?”
“I ain’t. But you’re the one said bygones were bygones and these are brand-new days. And you said I had standards to set. Can’t hardly show my aggravation in public, can I?”
“Maybe not,” said Dathne, and raised her hand. “But I can.”
The scrolls of paper leapt out of Darran’s sheltering arms. They heard his wail of dismay quite clearly.
“That weren’t very nice,” he said. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Darran stooping and scooping the scrolls from the ground, and grinned. “Then again, neither’s this. Rat’s arse to good examples!”
With a whispered word he set the scattered scrolls to dancing. The children, seeing a better game afoot, abandoned their balls of glimfire and joined in the chase. They thought it enormously funny.
Darran didn’t.
“Asher!” he shouted, his voice carrying on the lively breeze. “You reprobate. You ruffian. You sorry excuse for a king!”
Asher shook his head in sorrow. “What a mouth the ole man’s got. And all in front of the baby, too.”
“Disgraceful,” Dathne agreed, smiling. Took his hand and placed it tenderly on her burgeoning belly.
With Darran disposed of they wandered amongst the flowerbeds and past the statues in the Bower of Heroes: Gar and Matt and Veira and Rafel. The sun shone softly in an eggshell-blue sky. Birdsong drifted from the trees around him. And a lone skirling eagle rode the thermal currents above the top of the Black Woods, up the face of Barl’s Mountains ... and beyond.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, last, and all the stops in between—my incomparable editor, Stephanie Smith. Julia Stiles, copy editor extraordinake. The entire HarperCollins Voyager team in Australia, most especially Robyn Fritchley and Samantha Rich.
Fiona McLennan for friendship, feedback and excellent website advice.
Shane Parker, for his exquisitely delicious covers and putting up with the nit-picking author.
Elaine and Peter, again, for more beta reading above and beyond the call of baby Kate.
The Purple Zone crew, whose enthusiasm for Book One made me smile and smile and smile.
All the folk who gambled on me with their dollars, then made a point of letting me know they didn’t consider the money wasted. Thank you.
And last, but never least, the wonderful booksellers who convinced them to take that gamble. Thank you.