cheeks.
“Get up,” the count whispered. “Take the lance.”
Kevin obeyed, and everyone cheered.
“There, now!” Volmar exclaimed. “That’s finished! Sorry I can’t cede you any lands, my boy, but that, unfortunately, is the way of things. But from here on in, you may sign yourself as a court-baron!”
“I, uh, thank you,” Kevin said helplessly. “Now, can we—
“Now, my boy,” the count cut in, slapping him so heartily on the shoulder the bardling staggered, “we celebrate!”
And celebrate they did, even if Kevin and his party still had no clear idea what they were celebrating. So quickly it seemed positively magical, the Great Hall was filled with long trestle tables spread with fine white linen and covered with elegant gold ewers, drinking cups and plates.
Plates, too! Kevin was used to the far more common thick bread trenchers. Count Volmar really was trying to impress them!
As guests of honor—for whatever reason, the bardling thought—Kevin and his party were seated at the High Table with Count Volmar. To the bardling’s embarrassment, he found himself seated beside Channa, so close to her that he could smell the faint, flowery scent she wore (costly stuff, imported from the lands far to the east) and feel the warmth other. Whenever she reached for food or drink, somehow their hands always managed to brush. Each contact seemed to burn through Kevin like flame, pleasant flame that sent heat surging through his whole body. He knew the count, sitting on Charina’s other side, was asking him questions, he knew he must be answering, but Kevin, dazed by Charina’s presence, was hardly aware of what he was saying, any more than he was aware of what, out of the interminable courses offish and meat and poultry, he was eating.
The air in the Great Hall rapidly grew heavy with the varied smells of food, torch smoke and too many people crowded into one place (Kevin was vaguely aware of Eliathanis’ fastidious distaste), and for all Charina’s allure, the bardling found himself struggling not to yawn.
Ah, at last! Here came the subtleties, the spun sugar confections—at this dinner, a castle upon a marzipan hall and a swan swimming through a marzipan sea that marked the end of a feast. Soon, Kevin thought with longing, he would be able to escape and get some rest.
No, he wouldn’t. Dinner was followed by a seemingly endless procession of jugglers, acrobats, dancers, and an illusionist mediocre enough to make Naitachal snort in contempt. Charina oohed and ahhed over each performer, applauding vigorously, jarring Kevin awake every time he started to drift off. Powers, if this interminable celebration didn’t end pretty soon, he was going to end up snoring away with his head in the crumbs.
At last, though, the ordeal did come to an end. The last of the performers bowed his way out of the Hall, and Count Volmar got to his feet, looking as crisp as ever.
“The hour is lace. And so, my friends. I bid you good night” Beaming, he held up both arms in benediction. “1 declare a week of celebration!”
As all the courtiers cheered, Kevin bit back a groan.
I don’t know if I can survive a week of this!
Struggling not to stagger, the bardling followed a bevy of obsequious servants back to the guest quarters, blinking wearily as they fussed over him and removed his borrowed finery. As they finally left him alone, Kevin yawned mightily, sure he was going to fall asleep the moment he fell into bed.
But of course as soon as he was settled comfortably in the big, canopied bed, his mind and body, perversely, woke up. After a time of restlessly tossing about, Kevin gave up trying to sleep altogether. Pulling back the canopies so he could get some fresh air, the bardling sat alone in the dark, puzzling over the weird events of the day.
Charina free? Himself a hero?
But I haven’t done anything!
Nothing made sense. Oh sure, there had been the fight with the bandits and that necromancer. But everything else about their quest had been so—so easy, so ridiculously, frustratingly easy that—
Kevin froze, listening to the sudden faint creak of wood. That was the door! Someone was sneaking into his room.
The bardling shot off the bed, groping blindly for a weapon. His hand closed about a heavy candlestick, and he hefted it experimentally, heart pounding, trying to figure out exactly where the intruder might—
“Kid? Hey, kid?”
