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 Keri-anseray. 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.”

“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 Bel-lowgranite. 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 -”

Yawning, scratching his chin through his beard, Rhys Shatterstrike of the Neidar sat up straighter. “In the name of all Reorx has forged,” he said in the drone of the bored, “it is an insult It is tantamount to a declaration of war, so insulting is it that the elf-king-the dancing boy who gave away his kingdom for a chance to go about his golden city in jewels and furs-comes to ask our aid in the name of old friendship.” He yawned again. “At the risk of insulting you, Ragnar-*not a difficult thing to do-I ask you to offer new arguments and to stop repeating this weary old one.”

In the moment of silence between them, flames licked at the darkness from the tripod braziers alight between each of the marching columns. They had been in this council chamber since day’s end. No window graced the hall. What light there was came from torches and braziers. It was, through all hours of the day and night, a deliberative darkness.

In that gloom, Kerian’s glance shifted from the thane of the Daewar to the thane of the Neidar. Shadows sculpted their faces, unfriendly masks. They did not love each other, those two. Rhys scratched his beard again. Ragnar bristled.

“You’re a fool, Ragnar. You haven’t even heard the girl’s embassy. You don’t know what she’s been sent to say-”

“Hah! I know good and damn well what she’s here for. She’s here with her king’s hand out, that’s what I’m telling you now-” He glared around the chamber, not sparing even the high king his disdain. “I’m telling you now, no good comes of it. None!”

Ragnar drew breath, filled up his lungs to pour out more objections. In that startling moment of silence, Kerian took a step forward.

“My lord thanes,” she said. She spoke quietly, and two of the thanes leaned forward as though uncertain she had spoken at all.

“Ah, now what?” Ragnar snarled. “Look at this! The girl’s got no manners, either. Interrupting a council-”

Tarn Bellowgranite shouted, “Enough!”

Ragnar’s eyes went wide, and his face flushed. Ebon of the Theiwar sat forward, thin hands folded one over the other. These were, Kerian knew, the dangerous ones, the lords of dark-hearted clans.

“What wars they have in Thorbardin,” Gil had said, “are generally started by Theiwar, soldiered by Daewar, and ended by Hylar.”

Not this time, Kerian thought. This time Theiwar and Daewar find themselves shoulder to shoulder with a Hylar thane.

Donnal of the Daergar exchanged veiled glances with Shale of the Klar. In the corner of his high seat, the throne of a thane, the gully dwarf Bluph curled up, snoring with a cracked marrowbone tucked under his arm. Ten years this treaty had been in the making, the work of Tanis Half-Elven and Princess Laurana, the hope of their son’s embattled kingdom.

By all the gone gods, Kerian thought, not sure if she would laugh at the irony, will it all hang upon a snoring gully dwarf and a high king who has so far remained undeclared?

“Enough,” Tarn said, a note of weariness underlying the firmness of his voice. “We’ve gone around the hall and a dozen times back with this. For days and weeks, we’ve gone around. For longer than that, it’s been in our minds. Enough now. There is a man with a pressing need. We’ve left him standing on one foot long enough.

“Too long,” he said, darkly, “too long for honor.”

The Daewar snorted, but not loudly. He was not chastened, not he, but to Kerian it seemed he was, indeed, warned.

Tarn rested his hands on the arms of his throne, his fingers curving gently over the smooth black obsidian. “My brother thanes, this young woman represents the reason for the council.” He glared at Ragnar. “I bid her speak.”

Speak! Kerian’s heart rose to the chance to present her king’s need. At last! She stood before them all in the very hall whose tapestried history was part of the legend of her own lover’s family.

“My lord thanes,” she began, no louder than before. Let them be quiet now to hear. Let them lean forward, yes, and cock their ears. “My lord thanes, I stand here in this hall, this storied chamber, and it won’t surprise you to know how much of my king’s own history is woven in the wondrous tale of this place.

“I won’t tell you what you know or speak of ancient friendships and long-ago treaties. You have only lately honored one, the old pact that made a fortress rise up again to bestride the mountains. Pax Tharkas! It stands whole once more because you and the elves of Qualinesti remembered the pact made long ago.” She smiled, a little. “A pact between dwarves, elves, and humans.”

Ragnar snorted, the gully dwarf snored. Skarr of the Hylar sat a little forward.