“You’re showing off!”
“To be sure. And when better?”
Corbec was at nearly five thousand feet, and the nights were chill. A crackling pine-scented fire was burning in a big tiled hearth in the bedchamber, and it was pleasantly warm, smelling of blossoms and clean linen. There were wildflowers on the tables and headboards and in the arched windows, pale yellow and bright gold, blue and purple and crimson—saxifrage, mountain jasmine and penstemon and more. Artos could sense Mathilda’s nervousness, and he crossed to the table and poured them both a glass of white wine from the bottle that rested in its silver ewer full of snow.
“Anamchara mine, we’ve waited this long, a little more won’t hurt. It’s not as if we had to show a bloody sheet!”
She surprised him by laughing. “Oh, we couldn’t.” At his raised brow: “I’ve been riding astride all my life, Rudi! Mom asked the doctor and she said it was all gone by the time I was thirteen.”
He joined in the chuckle. “But you are nervous, my darling. I can tell, you know!”
“I’m—”
She sat down, looked at her hands, spoke in a small voice. “I’m afraid I won’t be any, ummm, any good at this, Rudi. And I really want to be.”
Artos sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the sleek brown hair over her ear. “Now, acushla, I’m going to betray one of the Men’s Mysteries to you.”
She made a small inquiring noise, and he went on: “And that mystery is that while for a woman it can be good or bad, well . . . for a man, unless he’s ill or very drunk, it can only be good or better. So let’s start with good, and get better with practice, shall we? Years and years of practice!”
She laughed and punched his shoulder, and suddenly they were kissing . . .
EPILOGUE
Edain Aylward Mackenzie looked up from where he was about to throw the dice onto the inside of the buckler lying on the floor. There shouldn’t be any noise—the ceiling above this ready-room was tall, and good and thick to boot—but suddenly there was, beyond the subdued buzz of voices and the hoot of the night wind around Castle Corbec’s towers.
“Quiet!” he said
The conversations died instantly. Men and women froze where they were, sitting at the tables or leaning against walls between the racks for spears and bills. Some reached for weapons, and then froze at his upraised hands.
The sound grew, faint and haunting, like the bridle-bells of the Fair Folk heard through trees on a moonless night. Then it rose to a peal like a silver carillon, and white light flooded down the stairwell. The skin at the back of his neck crawled a little in awe, and he heard whispered prayers and saw signs made.
“The jewel in the Sword. It must be as bright as the Sun itself,” he whispered, and then it died away.
The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change Page 46