The armory was close dusk broken only by the glitter of metal as torchlight struck shimmers from the weapons. Old Barrock held the torch in his wizened hand. His long white hair was a soft crown around his bald pate. His blue eyes were still the same clear blue, like deep water where the fish run strong.
Keleios said, "The weapons are in good condition."
He swelled a little at the compliment. "I try, even though no one comes back for them. I make sure they could have them if they wanted."
Stacked and hung along the walls were all the weapons of all the fugitives who had been given refuge over the centuries. If one intended to stay on the island, there was no need for anything more than knives. Magic glimmered here, alive and waiting. Keleios stepped into the softly charged gloom with Aching Silver in hand. Her long skirts caught on a pole arm, and she pulled back on the dress, trying not to tear it. She succeeded and used one hand to hold the full dress closer to her body. Barrock found an empty hanging place between a battle-ax and a huge two-handed sword. Keleios hung the sword in place carefully, caressing the fine workmanship. "It's a pity that the thing is demon touched."
"Ah, 'tis a pretty piece of work. Some of the best I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot."
They turned to go. Something fell clanging in darkness. The long sword lay on the floor. Keleios hung it once more, checking that it was secure.
Through the sheath she could feel it pulse, the life beating in the metal. The lives of all that it had consumed coursed through its silver form. She tugged, and it remained. Halfway to the door it fell again.
She stopped Barrock from going back for it and said, "Let it lie there if it wants to play childish games." They mounted the stairs. Keleios nearly tripped over the sword as it appeared on the step in front of her. She walked over it, sending Barrock ahead. It reappeared two steps in front of her. Keleios squatted beside it, tugging skirts back and under. "Why won't you stay in the armory?"
Its voice came muffled and indistinct. She clasped it carefully and unlocked the blade. The sword rose half a blade length from its sheath. "I have waited for someone like you for too long to give you up."
"How like me?"
"I am elven work that needs an elven hand. I am demon powered that needs a demon hand. I am evil and need a tainted hand. My maker sought to control me by putting restraints upon who could wield me. He was an elf who had been through the pit and survived; it taints the blood." The sword rose farther until Keleios caught its hilt to keep it from falling. It pulsed and beat up her arm, singing a song of sadness and past ages. "You are half-elf who has been through the pit and survived. Do you know how rare that is? I will not give you up."
Keleios resheathed the sword and snapped the locks in place.
Barrock said, "My lady, what will you do?"
"I will find another way."
In the afternoon Keleios rode toward the sea. The white mare ran swift and sure footed along the cliff road. Someone, probably Methia, had given her the name of Snowball. Keleios chose to call her Cloudrunner. Keleios left the road when she was near Gull Cove. It was the best place to find seashells, small but fine.
She found the steep and narrow path leading down and urged the horse to take it. The riding clothes were not exactly what Keleios had wanted. The entire outfit was blue velvet, too big, and hopelessly elaborate, but if someone didn't mind a good suit being ruined, she would wear it. Her own boots, now clean, had been kept.
The sand that stretched out before them was white and caught the light in a thousand starlike crystals. Pulverized Mirlite had gone to make most of the sand, and each grain was a tiny prism.
She let the horse walk along the beach as it pleased, reins dangling in the sand.
She had felt the call ever since she began trying to think of a joining gift for Lothor. It was customary to give something of oneself, one's own magic. Being an enchanter, there was not enough time, but being an elven enchanter, there might be.
Keleios walked just above the water line. The waves came in dark emerald green, capped with white foam. Seaweed rode the waves in brown strands. The waves crashed upon the sand, and the tide crawled up over the ground and retreated as if pulled back. A clump of seaweed the size of a large man had been pushed up on shore. Keleios walked through the wet collapsing sand and knelt beside the seaweed. The weed was brown and heavy. There nestled in its wet fishy tendrils was the shell. It was small no bigger than the end of her middle finger. It curled to a perfect spiral and was ivory white with shades of gold sketched down its swirling length. The lip that led inside of its whispering depths was a pale pink, flushed and beautiful.
It spoke to her like raw metal could. It said that here was something of the sea's power. Here was a piece of magic given, not made. With a tiny bit of added power, it would be what she wanted it to be.
Water swirled over her boots and wet the bottom of her trousers. She stood and carefully put the shell in a small pouch she had brought for the occasion. Cloudrunner came when she called, snorting and nibbling at the salty taste of her hands. She led the horse back up to the cliff top, thinking as she went. The shell would be a charm to enable Lothor to breath underwater, for a time. Instant enchantment was not easy even for a half-elf, and given so little time, it would not be permanent. She smiled at the thought of the black healer gasping on the bottom of the boat. An adult who couldn't swim -- it was unthinkable. The smile vanished. This was a joining gift, and tonight they would bed together. She shivered, half in fear and half in something she could not put a name to. Suddenly, the wind felt cold on top of the cliff.
She dropped the reins and let the mare graze. Keleios walked to the edge of the cliff. She unbuckled the sword belt, unlooped the belt from the sheath, and held it for a moment listening to the distant mutterings of the sword. It pulsed and promised power and success in battle and magic. Keleios ignored it. She drew her sorcery out and began to build it in her mind. She would put a shield between the sword and herself. A shield to surround it, a prison to keep it from her. "I cast you out; I cast you down. Let the waves have you. Let them lock you away from me." She drew all her strength and threw the sheathed sword out over the water. A thin wail sounded in her head. It spun end over end, glittering in the sun, and vanished beneath the waves.
When she returned, she was finally allowed in the room Methia had prepared for her. The bed was draped and canopied with veils and silk. The goosedown tick was so soft as to suck and hold her body when she lay on it. The coverings were done in cloth of gold and heaviest black. It was the color of mourning.
Why was it that Methia could always anger her, always? Then Keleios shrugged and laughed. Perhaps the black would make Lothor feel more at home.
Costly tapestries and hangings cloaked the walls. The scenes were all of battle, death, failed love: the failed love of Gynndon and Pestral, their gruesome suicides done in livid color; the battle of Ty-gor hill with its mounds of dead and dying. One man in particular seemed to reach out of the scene, begging for help, one hand held outward, beseeching, eyes full of horror and the coming dark. The far wall was hung with a hunt scene. The great stag fallen to its knees, blood frothing on its lips. The hounds roared down to tear at it.
Methia had the slyness of the court. She had done everything properly but in a backhanded way.
As dusk fell, Keleios stood looking out of the many narrow windows. The cream-colored dress was back on, and she had even consented to most of the undergarments, except for the stays. The things were so tight she might have passed out during the ceremony. She had left the dress plain without its half-cloak. A gold lace veil lay on the bed. Her hair had been brushed until it shone, wavy and thick, the candlelight catching hints of dark gold in it. Two thin braids, one on each side of her face, were intertwined with gold thread. It was the way a Wrythian elf would wear her hair for a wedding. No one but she would know, but then she was the one joining. Every comfort was needed.
She turned from the windows with a swish of silken skirts. Poth hissed and struck at the skirts. Keleios stooped, nearly knocking over a small table with the full dress. The cat hissed and backed away, fur stiff. "Poth, it's all right; it's still me." She sat awkwardly on the floor and coaxed the cat to her. Poth came, sniffing her hand before allowing herself to be petted.
She had tried to talk herself into acceptance. He was young, handsome, half-elven. She could have looked farther and found worse, but he was evil. Keleios was beginning to realize that she herself wasn't wholly good. The sword Ache silvestri had been evil and preferred her to Lothor. Or perhaps the sword didn't feel like fighting with Lothor's ax. Yet Lothor had trapped her into this joining. He had trapped her like an animal. Well, there was one more bite left in this trapped beast.
She cuddled Poth to her face. "No, I can't fight him. I break oath if I fight. But I can't just let him take me." The cat purred softly, trying to comfort, but there was little comfort to be had.
She tried to stand, got tangled in the dress, and was forced to put the cat down and crawl upwards using the bed. There on the bed was Aching Silver, painful death. It lay on the neatly made bed; nothing disturbed, but the sword was there.
There was a whoosh and crackling of flames outside. Torch poles had been put all along the road to light the procession. They flamed now, casting gold-red shadows into the night.
The sword was cold to the touch. She unsnapped the locks slowly and drew the sword. It glittered and turned pale gold in the rich candlelight. It pulsed softly and spoke. "I am yours . . . forever."
"You are cursed, a cursed sword."
The thing laughed, a strange sound without lungs to hold it. If possible, the laugh reverberated round the metal, giving a hollow sound to it. "Cursed, well, it depends on how you look at it." It went into another peal of laughter.
She shoved the blade into the sheath and locked it, its laughter still coming muffled and tinny. She tossed the sheath back on the bed.
Groghe appeared with a night-blooming flower in his claw. The thing was white and as big as Keleios' outstretched hand. The scent was heady and exotic. Methia had been using earth magic to get tropicals to grow in the winter-ruined climate. It was something their mother would never do, saying the plants weren't as happy.
"A present for you, Master, a present."
She stooped and took the flower. "Thank you, Groghe, it is beautiful."
A knock sounded on the door with a, "It is time to dress, Lady Keleios."
"Enter."
Two serving girls entered, squealing when they saw the small demon. Keleios waved them inside, suddenly tired.
The short brown-haired one began to brush at the wrinkles in the skirt, tsking. Keleios could hear the rustle of the golden veil. It was lifted over her head, and they began to bind it in place with hairpins. It fell in a point past her knees, but was mid-thigh in front. They tugged and fluffed and finally said, "Princess Keleios, you look lovely."
Keleios approached the oval mirror hesitantly. She did not recognize the creature who stared back. This person was impossibly dainty, all gold lace and silk. The brown eyes gleamed in the candle flames. She turned slowly, trying to see the back of the dress. The serving girls brought up a second mirror and positioned it. This wasn't her. Someone else had come and stolen her away and left this -- this woman -- in her place. Keleios had one consolation: there was a knife in a thigh hilt under all the finery. Not that she could get to it in time, but it was comforting.
She flexed the muscle, feeling the familiar restraint of the sheath. She was not gone or swept away; Keleios Incantare, called Nightseer, was still under there somewhere.
Her only comment aloud was, "It will do."
The maids exchanged glances, but it was not their place to criticize.
Groghe came closer and put out a tentative claw. "Shining," he said, "shining."
She smiled down at the imp. "It is that."
Keleios lifted the moonflower from the table. "Please have this put in water." The brown-haired serving girl bowed and took it.
Methia stepped in the door wearing the same blue dress she had worn earlier. "It is time."
"Groghe, you stay in the room while I'm gone."
He nodded and leapt upon the rocking horse. "I will do as you say, Master." Keleios followed Methia out with the serving girls crowding behind, not wishing to be left alone with the demon.
Keleios said, "It was very generous of you to move the rocking horse in my room. Groghe is pleased with it."
Methia sniffed. "The demon would not leave it alone. I found Llewellyn and that thing playing together. It can have the rocking horse, as long as it stays away from my child."
Keleios smiled behind the golden veil.
In front of the castle were four horses. Two were pure white. One was black with a white blaze down its face and one white foot. The last horse was a light golden cream with a white blaze down its face and one white foot. The cream stallion had a side saddle on it as did one of the white horses.
Tobin came down. His tunic was cloth of gold and caught the first torchlight in coppery reflections. His auburn hair looked golden-red tonight. Behind was the black healer. The silver thread in his tunic caught the light. His hair fell long and free past his shoulders, and it shimmered with a light of its own. A plain silver circlet like a prince's crown adorned his head.
Tobin and Methia stood to one side, and Lothor took Keleios' hand. A great cheer went up from the people lining the torchway. He helped her mount the cream stallion, then mounted his own black. Tobin and Methia mounted the white horses, and the procession began.
The people shouted and exclaimed over the beauty of the princesses and the exotic but handsome consort-to-be.
The temple of Urle lay in the east of the village. The procession stopped and dismounted. Lothor helped Keleios down. If he felt her reluctance, he said nothing. They walked with her left hand placed lightly on his right and entered the temple door. The only light was a fire at the far end of the darkened central room.
The rustle of silk and the tramp of booted foot was loud as they approached the priest. He was tall, broad shouldered, with a full brown beard streaked with grey. His eyes were blue, but he was not a native of the island. He wore a priest garment that draped to his feet. It was orange trimmed with brown, the colors of Urle. On the front of it was an embroidered flame and a hammer over it.
"Who has brought them to this joining?"
Methia and Tobin answered in unison, "We have."
"You have done your duty; you may go."
Lothor and Keleios stood, not touching before the priest, and he smiled down at them. "Is this a wanted joining?"
"No."
"Yes."
They glared at each other. The priest said, "You do wish to be joined?"
They both answered yes.
He stepped down and to one side, exposing the roaring pit of flame. "As fire is strengthened by each flame, let you be strengthened one by the other. As two pieces of metal are forged into one and made stronger, let it be so with the two of you. As the hammer pounds its message to the apprentice without need of words, let you both hear what the other truly means.
"It is time to give the gifts of yourself."
Keleios unwound the gold chain from her right wrist and held it out to the priest. The shell dangled small and lovely from it.
Lothor held out a ring of some kind.
The priest grasped them both and prayed, "Let these gifts be a joyous thing. Bless this joining, Urle, our god, as two of your followers join together. Let these gifts be a token of your vows to each other." He held the chain out to Keleios and she took it. Lothor had to bend down for her to slip it over his head.
"It will allow you to breathe under water for a time."
He thanked her and took his own present from the priest. The ring was woven of his platinum hair; for a jewel there was a pale red dot of his blood. She gasped as he slipped it down her finger and stared at him. He had put his life in her hands. With such tokens an herb-witch could steal the life from a man. "My hair and my blood to prove that I will never willingly hurt you."
"Join hands." They did, and he had them kneel. Then he bound their hands together with a strip of leather. If it had been a marriage, it would have been a length of chain. "Rise; you are joined."
He unbound their hands. They walked out still hand in hand, for the crowd would expect it.
The crowd gave a mighty cry, and they were pushed apart by the crush of people. Two sedan chairs had come from somewhere, and they were carried on the backs of the crowd toward the feasting. The peasants had always had more freedom here on the isle. There were people in the crowd who had known Keleios when she was a babe. They remembered when she and Belor had gone around ambushing the island bullies for what they did to the budding illusionist one autumn. They yelled bawdy jokes and suggestions for the night to come.
Keleios caught a glimpse of Lothor's outraged face over the crowd. At least he held his tongue and did not insult them for their impudence.
Tables had been set out on the grass outside the castle, and the entire village had come to feast and dance. The crowd carried them to the dance area. It was strung with bright ribbon and marked off by white-painted poles. The ground was well trampled and nearly clean of grass. All day as Keleios and her companions had slept and washed, there had been festival. The crowd was half-drunk and already well fed. There had been much to buy and see today. There had been sacrifices of the best fruits of the field, the best catch of the day. Now the laughing throng set the new-made couple on the dance grounds and yelled for music.
When it came, it was a haunting melody, a series of rising notes that tugged at the mind but not at the feet.
Lothor frowned. He was forced to shout in her ear to be heard. "I did not know I would have to dance. I do not know how to dance."
"It does not matter; you would not know this dance." She took his left hand and led him to the dance floor. She told him, "Think of it as a fight. Follow my moves, echo me." He followed her stiffly, all the grace and speed of a fight somehow mooted with his discomfort. It was a dance of fingertips and half-promised kisses. He smiled with relief when the dance ended. Keleios laughed, a full-throated sound. He looked puzzled until a lady stepped up to him and dragged him into another dance. A man grabbed Keleios' hand, and she, too, joined the dance. This was a night for peasants to dance with princes. Many, as a sacrifice to the All-Mother, had forgiven old debts, old grudges. The Mother would take a harvest of the soul as happily as a harvest of the earth.
Lothor swirled through giggling throngs of peasant-bright skirts. Keleios was grabbed by hands reddened from hauling rope and casting nets. The blacksmith, without an ounce of magic, wrapped her in a grip like the iron he worked with, still smelling faintly of the forge's burning stench. Keleios saw it all through a glory of golden spots. The veil whirled about her face, strangely hot and close. Finally, they sat down for the feasting. The tables groaned under the torchlight. There just might be enough people to eat all the food, but Keleios doubted it.
Lothor was seated at her side. A thin sheen of sweat made his skin glisten. Like some very pale human folk, he had become red with exertion. His pale skin flushed pink, and his eyes glittered from underneath near-invisible white brows. He caught her looking at him and stared at her. Keleios did not look away. He smiled, half-leering, and said, "Let us retire for the night, my princess."
She stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. A knot of tension started in her belly and climbed upward, threatening to choke her. He offered her his arm, but she refused it. They walked close together without touching, and when the crowd realized their destination, a great cheer went up.
When Keleios stumbled on the long skirt, he stead led her and she did not pull away. Good-natured cheering and rowdy jokes followed them to the horses.
She allowed him to help her mount the side saddle. She punched at the mound of skirt angrily. He raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. "Jitters, my beloved?"
Keleios chose not to answer but pushed her horse forward without waiting for him to mount.
He galloped up to her, laughing.
"You're drunk," she said.
He laughed some more. "Why, my beloved, I believe you are nervous."
"It is traditional before going to the bridal bed."
His face sobered, and he grabbed the reins of her horse. "Keleios, have you ever been with a man before?"
She jerked free of him and galloped for the castle. She heard him mutter, "Loth's blood, a virgin."
He did not chase her. She raced through the raised gates and threw the reins to a waiting squire. Somewhere in the race the golden veil had been lost. Keleios picked up the voluminous skirts, ran for her room, then stopped. He would be there eventually. She had sworn to bed him. There was really no turning back. Yet a part of her was still struggling with the idea. Until the joining ceremony, there was always hope of escape, but now, now there was nothing to do but submit.
"I won't, I won't. I'll see him dead first, no matter what the cost."
Someone stepped from the shadows. It was Magda. She spread wide her arms and said, "My Keleios, my little warrior girl." Keleios went to her and allowed the arms to hold her to Magda's plump bosom. She soothed the girl's hair. "All these years of playing with boys and housing with the warriors and you have never been with a man?"
Keleios pulled away from her and straightened. "No."
"All the talk about you being wild when you were young, all the talk, but I knew it for envy, envy of power, position, and beauty."
She whispered, "Magda, what am I to do?"
"You will do what women through the ages have done. You will go through with it."
"But how? I am so angry. He trapped me, and I can't get free this time. No sword or spell will help me now."
"Poor Keleios, you have never had to learn the womanly art of patience."
"I have learned some patience."
"But you are like a man accustomed to action and controlling your own fate. Joining with any man would have been hard, but now . . . You must do your best."
"But what is my best?"
The woman put an arm around her shoulders. "I will give you some advice, my dear, advice from a woman who has borne five children and raised a few more."
Keleios smiled at that. They walked down the halls with Magda's quiet voice whispering against the stone walls.
Magda had gone and taken the servants with her. Keleios waited alone in the room. The imp was gone as she ordered him to be. She hoped he did indeed stay out of trouble this night. A white dressing gown stirred along the floor as she paced. It left her arms bare but hid everything else. Keleios had decided to take Calthuian custom to heart. It was Magda's advice, for she was Calthuian. It would be a searching for body under the voluptuous cloth. She need not stand naked before him unless she wished.
Keleios felt stretched thin. Her nervousness and anger had translated into sorcery. Small things levitated near her. She was like an apprentice again, trying to control strong emotion and power.
Lothor entered with a soft tap at the door. He paused just inside the door. The air was charged, something waited like a coming storm. "Do you intend to do me a mischief?"
She laughed, and the laughter had a wild ring to it. A hand mirror floated off the night stand. She said, almost gasping, "I am on edge tonight, Lothor. Do not toy with me."
He smiled a perfectly angelical smile. "I, toy with you? Never."
"Lothor."
"My beloved, I am a little drunk, but not so much that I would try your patience too greatly. This is, after all, the night we will bed."
She clinched a fist, and the mirror fell, shattering. "Urle's forge."
"Allow me." He waved a hand, and the broken glass vanished.
He, too, had been bathed and clothed. He wore a nightdress of white, showing no more of him than did hers. Even his arms were hidden. He bent and pulled the gown over his head in one easy motion. He was naked underneath it.
"Lothor!" She turned her back on him.
"Yes," he said mildly.
"You are not clothed."
"No, I am Loltun. We do not go to our beds trapped in cloth."
"Well I am half-Calthuian, and we do."
"A difference of opinion so soon -- how sad."
She turned to glare at him and quickly turned back.
"Keleios, be reasonable. You have seen me unclothed before."
"But not in my bedchamber."
"That wasn't for lack of trying on my part."
She let out an exasperated sound, and a small vase hurled near him to shatter on the wall.
He said, "If you want to play rough, we can."
"My control is not what it should be tonight."
"These last few days have tired us all."
"Yes, I am tired."
"Then let us to bed." She heard him flop down on the bed. She turned tentatively, but he lay on top of the covers. Seeing her peek, he grinned and slipped under the mound of blankets.
She stood indecisive, hands hugging her elbows. The covers rustled, and a hand touched her arm, tentatively. "Only a sorcerer could bed you tonight. Your skin crawls with magic." The grip tightened. "Feel my magic, Keleios, feel my sorcery."
She did. It mingled, and the power crackled quietly between them. He pulled her gently to the bed, and where he touched her, magic merged and grew.
She gasped and said, "Magic."
"It will always be a matter of magic for us, Keleios. No mere rutting, no matter what you have heard of Loltun men."
There was a slight smell in the air. Keleios asked, "Do you smell sulphur?"
He tested the air. "Yes."
They looked at each other and rolled off the bed, he to one side and she to the other.
A blinding flash of light, and through spot-clouded eyes, they saw something in the room.
It was taller than a human but not much. As Keleios' vision cleared, the shape took form. There was no time for weapons as the Demon Goddess Elvinna stalked toward Lothor. He saw his danger, but his eyes were not clear. His hand went out, and an energy bolt shot from it. It went wide and fell sizzling on a tapestry.
She came on, golden sword upraised. Her voice was low and melodious. "I always keep my promises, half-elves."
Keleios closed her eyes from the distraction of her ruined sight and began to build a spell. She pulled her scattered magics inside, and Lothor yelled, "Keleios."
She went flat along the floor and felt the heat rush overhead as a wave of fire consumed the wall hanging behind her. The spell was ruined for now, but her sight was back, somewhat blurred but good enough. Bolts of power shot from the other side of the room.
The succubus screamed as some hit home, but a bedpost collapsed at a blow from her sword. Lothor tumbled near the door. A wave of flame crawled up the door before he could reach it.
Keleios crawled away from the burning tapestry. The fire, being magic, consumed the hanging but did not spread. It sputtered and died when its target was consumed. Keleios knelt and tried something simpler but more dangerous. She called sorcery to her hands without forming it in her thoughts first. It was quicker but much more dangerous. She hit blindly with power, not really sure what she would call to her hand. A ragged bolt of lighting thudded into the demon's side and knocked her backward. Keleios followed it with another, letting the lightning spill out of her hand like water. That gave Lothor enough time to reach his ax. A soul-bound enchantment could never really be separated from its maker. He had needed only a moment to call it to him.
Fire crawled up the ceiling hungrily.
A bolt of ragged white blasted from the end of his ax and drove the demon to its knees. She screamed and raged at him. A hand, shaped like a talon, struck at him. Tiny bolts of sickly green danced along Lothor's body, and he shrieked.
Keleios had drawn her spell complete, controlled and whole. Having internalized the succubus's nature, she understood now. She drew cold, not of winter winds, but of man. The coldness of an empty bed, a lonely room. The winter gale howling outside and you alone. No arms to hold you, no one to lust after you, alone. No followers to worship you. When she threw the spell, there was no icy bolt, only a faint shimmering round the demon.
Elvinna shrieked. She threw back her head and howled. She forgot to attack the man. She forgot everything but loneliness. Her cries echoed as she faded away. With her leaving, the magic flames began to die, leaving charred ruin behind them.
Lothor stayed on hands and knees, shaking his head, his ax still loosely gripped in his hand.
Keleios knelt beside him, touching his sweating shoulder tentatively. "Are you all right?"
He nodded and said hoarsely, "What was that last spell?"
"It was something against the true nature of a suecubus."
"How would you know the true nature of a succubus?"
"I killed one with Ache silvestri and absorbed it."
He grinned, a pale version of his usual leer. "You absorbed the nature of a succubus. Now that should add spice in the bedchamber."
She was surprised to feel a blush creeping up her cheeks.
There was a pounding on the door. Madga's voice yelled, "Keleios, Keleios, don't kill him. You're liable to bum the whole place down." The tramping beat of guards' boots were loud in the corridor.
Someone asked, "Where is the key?"
Keleios looked around the ruined wreck of the room. All the tapestries were scorched, and one, in tattered ruins. The bed was half-collapsed and fire touched.
His smile broadened. "If bedding you is always this exciting, I shall not live out the summer."
She smiled and a giggle escaped her lips. His own lips trembled. And they began to laugh. It was good, healthy laughter, and it bubbled out of both of them. Tension flowed away on a sound of laughter.
Keleios thought enough to hand Lothor his nightshirt to cover his lap, and the door opened.
Guards rushed in and found nothing to fight. Methia strode in and nearly screamed when she saw the room. "Verm's Wyrms, sister, can't I trust you not to destroy every room I give you?"
Lothor stood and tried to explain, but the nightshirt fell to the floor and left him bare. Methia screamed, "Cover yourself!"
Lothor said, "There is no reason to shriek." Keleios handed Lothor his nightshirt, eyes shining with suppressed laughter. He began to explain, and Methia, to yell. Keleios tugged a piece of charred bedpost from under her gown, and the laughter bubbled up full throated. Lothor and Methia turned at almost the same time.
Methia yelled, "What are you laughing about?" Lothor winked at Keleios, behind her back. Keleios fell backward on to the scarred floor and laughed until she cried.