7
Beware, Oh Take Care
Korendil, Knight of Elfhame Sun-Descending, squire of the High Court, Magus Minor, and Child of Danann—
Fine titles, but will any of that aid me now?
Korendil sighed, gathered borrowed hope about him like his borrowed finery, and stepped out into the crowded hall of the place called “Diverse Pleasures.” Hope was such a fragile thing—and it rested upon such fragile mortal shoulders.
He watched the young Bard, Eric, follow the lovely witch to their places on the stage. Such frighteningly fragile mortal shoulders . . .
The Bard hardly looked his part. Taliesen—or so Korendil’s elders had told him—had been as skilled with blade and bow as with his harp. Eric was small and thin, with a face that would have been sweet, had it not been so wary, so marked with distrust. A very attractive young man—
But not a warrior, nor anything like one. And just now, a hesitant man, one uncertain about what he had just agreed to.
A very young man.
Korendil knew exactly how he felt. Korendil was a very young elf, scarcely two hundred years old as the mortals counted time. There was only one younger than he in all of the High or Low Courts of Elfhame Sun-Descending and Elfhame Misthold, and that was his cousin to the north. There were too many times when he was uncertain; too many times when he felt a fool. Especially of late.
But I cannot just give up. I cannot allow this to happen—
He glanced about at the Dreaming elves, scattered through the crowd like so many exotic butterflies. I could conjure my own garments, he thought absently, while counting the number of elvenkind who had somehow gathered here, and marking those who seemed by their eyes to be the least lost in Dreaming. I would not look so out of place in them here. Then I could give Bard Eric his property back . . . He recalled the Bard’s resentful stare when the young man thought that Korendil was not aware of his glances. They take possessions so seriously, these mortals—
But if I did that, I should only need them again before I left—and besides, I have already altered them to my own use. Would that I knew them well enough to conjure duplicates. I suppose I could try kenning them now, so that I could duplicate them later.
He took stock of himself, first, and decided against the idea.
A distinctly foolish notion. I am no kind of a mage, not really. Subduing that madman expended enough of my magic as it was. I have little power to waste on kenning. Not if I am going to have any hope of Awakening any of the others.
Perhaps the Bard’s music will help. That is surely what drew them all here this evening. Although he scarcely seems to believe it himself.
Korendil smiled to himself, remembering Eric’s shocked expression when he had first seen the warrior-elf in his place-of-dwelling. So young, so eager to disbelieve. Would that this Bard was a Taliesen, older and powerful, ready and willing to do battle with our Enemy. But if Bard Eric was as skilled as Taliesen, Perenor would have learned of his existence before this, learned of him and taken steps to dispose of him . . . No. Better this way. At least now, I can have hope that he will quickly learn what he must do to save us. And perhaps, if we are very careful, Perenor will not be able to find us.
He moved out of the little space by the hallway and into the milling crowd. His goal was a table near one wall, with three brilliantly-costumed elfmaids on tall stools about it, like three bright tropical birds upon their perches. Two of the three he knew, both of the High Court: Variel and Mayanir, sisters; and both—at least ten years ago—Awake enough to know what was happening to them.
Awake enough to have begun to fear.
And that was before the danger to the nexus, he thought soberly, easing between two chattering groups of mortals who seemed as oblivious to the presence of elvenkind as the elves were to them. If there are any that I can Wake—surely that will be Vol and Mai.
Loud, discordant laughter made him wince as he passed the bar. His sensitive hearing was suffering in this place. I cannot see how the Bard can tolerate it. The mortals’ world seems to have changed so very much in ten years—but then, that is the way of their world. He sighed. And the world of Elvenkin is different as well. I cannot say that either of them have changed for the better.
He politely declined the advances of a very drunk mortal woman, one with too much flesh crammed into too little clothing. Moments later he declined again—with more grace, and a touch of sympathy—the advances of a shy and bespectacled young mortal man. He was equally drunk, but Kory could read in him that he had so indulged out of unhappiness, and in an attempt to bolster his nerve.
These mortals were all so rawly open. It was hard to move among them and feel their thoughts and emotions jostling his mind as their bodies jostled his.
And so few of them were here out of joy. That was the saddest of all.
The elves were still, deep pools of silence in this jungle. Too silent—but a relief from the screeching of the mortals. Unless you needed, as Korendil needed, to rouse them.
Finally he reached his goal, the three elfmaids poised beneath an overhead spotlight. In other times they would have been lit softly by their own magic. But that was before the magic was choked off by so much cold iron about us. He stood beside the table, patient in the shadow, waiting for one of them to notice him.
None of them did.
Their eyes were bright but vacant, like all the others he’d seen here this night. They sipped at drinks, listened with half an ear to the music playing, and giggled conversationally to one another, weaving a circle of attention that closed them inside and Kory out.
He decided to violate protocol. “Val—” he said, touching her blue-silk-clad arm, sending a little tingle of carefully hoarded power from himself to her. “Val—”
She blinked, turned very slowly, and looked into his eyes. She blinked again, and licked her lips. “Hi,” she said, uncertainly. “Hi. I know you—don’t I?”
“It’s Korendil, Val,” he replied with emphasis, trying to get her to focus on him. “Kory. You certainly do know me.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, blinking again. “Hi, Kory. You haven’t been around for a while. Have you been away somewhere?”
He reined in his temper, and refrained from swearing.
Is this the depth to which we’ve sunk?
“Perenor and that half-Blooded daughter of his trapped me in the nexus grove,” he said as forcefully as he could. “It’s been ten years, Val.”
“Oh, wow,” she said, a little more interest stirring in the back of her eyes, focusing a little better on him. “Ten years? Gods. That long? Like—you were trapped?”
“Yes,” he replied fiercely, fighting with Dreaming for her attention, spinning out his feeble magic to try and pull her back to something like the maid he had known. “That long. Val, listen—” she started to gaze off past his shoulder and he touched her arm again to bring her back. “Listen. This is important. The nexus grove is in danger. Someone is going to destroy it un—”
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Beth Kentraine’s voice called over the babble of the crowd. “We are Spiral Dance. We’re back and ready to rock!”
Kory cursed in every language he knew. The moment the first note resounded, he lost Val completely. She was off her stool and onto the dance floor; every word, and even his existence, completely forgotten.
He tried again, with another elf he recognized. Eldenor a warrior of the High Court, who currently sported a purple mohawk and a black leather jumpsuit so tight he must have magicked it on.
Eldenor was alone, sitting in a two-person booth near the bandstand; his eyes fastened on the Bard, drinking in every note the young man played. When Beth began singing a traditional Celtic tune, and Eric built a foundation for her voice to soar over, Eldenor’s eyes began to take on a glow of hereness. A sense that he was at least focusing on something. Kory slipped into the other side of the booth.
“Eldenor?” he said, when the other took no note of his presence.
“Yeah?” The eyes didn’t waver from the bandstand.
“Eldenor, don’t you remember me?”
“Shit no, man.”
Kory closed his eyes, asked for patience, and tried again.
“Eldenor, it’s Kory. Korendil. You helped train me. To be a warrior. Remember?”
The eyes flickered briefly from the stage to him, returning to the stage. “Oh, yeah. Kory. You went away.”
Kory reached out and seized the other by the elbows, sending power in the kind of shock he’d used to rouse the Bard this afternoon. “Eldenor, I didn’t go away. I was imprisoned. By Perenor and his daughter—” The shock brought only the barest of responses, and Kory lost his temper. “Damn you, Eldenor,” he cried, shaking the other. “This is important! The power nexus is going to be destroyed!”
As if to underscore his words, the lights flickered briefly. Kory sensed that a storm had begun outside.
Eldenor shook his head, and looked at Kory, a faint hint of puzzlement in his expression. “Hey man, chill out,” he said. “Nothing’s all that important—”
Then Eric began playing a solo, and Kory lost him completely.
He tried several more, but all with the same lack of result, and all the power he used to try and shock them back into an understanding of their peril vanished without a sign of any reaction. They were so drained of magic that it just trickled into them without making an impression. Any glimmer of hope began to fade before despair, and the depression that failure after failure left him with. How can this be, that they are so completely lost? What has happened to them in the ten years since I was imprisoned?
The lights flickered again just as the band finished the Celtic song, and flickered a third time as they began a rock number. And in the moment between those flickers of light, Kory caught a familiar lift of a head, a high, proud profile—and his heart raced.
Blessed Danann. He’s here. My prince—
He shoved his way through the crowd, paying scant heed to those who swore at him or cast angry glances in his wake. He fought to reach the table at the rear where he’d seen that glimpse of majesty—
Only he reached it to find just how ruined the majesty had become.
Kory could feel something dreadfully wrong as he forced his way between packed chairs to the table at the back where the Prince was sitting alone. He knew that the wrongness went deep when he saw the way the Prince was sitting, slouched down in his chair, with his eyes blank and his hand wavering a little as he reached for his drink.
But when he recognized just what it was that Prince Terenil was drinking he froze in horror. Dark brown, effervescent—
Coca-Cola.
There was a pitcher of the stuff on the table, and it was three-fourths empty.
An elf could drink any five mortals under the table. An elf could shrug off the effects of most of the drugs that left mortals paralyzed or insane. But this—this stuff that mortals imbibed with such careless ease—this was another thing altogether.
Caffeine. Soft drinks, coffee, tea.
To the Old Blood it was deadly.
It enhanced Dreaming; induced hallucinations. Destroyed will and removed the elf that indulged in it from any semblance of reality.
And Prince Terenil, the pride of the High Court on this side of the Hill, was sitting in a mortal nightclub, his eyes glazed, his hands shaking, and most of a pitcher of cola plainly inside him.
Kory was not even certain that he could hear the Bard’s music, much less Feel his magic as the others so clearly did.
He had thought he had seen despair at its worst when he had first awakened, and heard the talk of the place-of-festival. How at the festival’s end the place would be leveled, the groves of oaks destroyed—including the one that anchored the magic nexus to this side of the Hill. He had thought that there was nothing that could possibly be worse—
Until now.
He looked at the ruin of his liege and lord, and wanted to howl his despair to the four winds.
Instead, he sat himself carefully by Terenil’s side, and used most of the last of his magic to try to touch the Prince’s mind.
By Danann, I don’t know if I can even find it, much less touch it!
He could only imagine one reason for Terenil falling to this state. The Prince had given up any hope of Awakening his people. It must have happened soon after Kory, his friend and closest advisor, had fallen prey to that traitor Perenor, and vanished from the ken of the elves. Perhaps that vanishment itself had triggered the Prince’s fall.
“My lord?” he prompted verbally, holding his despair at arm’s length.
The Prince gave no sign that he had heard.
Blessed Danann—is there anything left of the warrior that once held us all in awe? And if he has sunk so low—what hope is there of saving the rest?
“My lord, it is Kory. I’ve returned to you, my lord.”
The Prince stared at his hand, and slowly raised the glass of sparkling poison to his lips.
And drank.
Kory restrained himself from slapping the foul stuff out of his hand, and spoke again, as gently as he could.
“My lord, I have news. I have found a Bard, a human Bard. A true Bard, and one of such power as I have never seen. He has agreed to be our Champion, my lord. He has said he will help me Awaken the Dreamers and save our magic.”
Still no sign that Terenil even knew he was not alone.
“My lord, I did not leave you willingly. The traitor Perenor imprisoned me in the Grove, after his daughter had lured me there and struck me down with trickery. This Bard that I have found—he loosed the spells of lock and ward, and woke me out of my spell of slumber. He freed me from Perenor’s power, and he is untutored! Just think, my lord, when I have taught him to use his Gift—”
Terenil made no response, none at all.
If Kory had been alone, he would have put his head down on the table and wept.
I still may, he thought, swallowing hard. Only let me be by myself—and I shall weep and not be ashamed. Oh my lord, my beloved lord—
“We have a chance, my lord. With the help of this Bard, we have at least a chance.”
He stood, as Terenil continued to stare at his hand, the one holding the glass. Blinking slowly, but showing no other sign that he was still conscious.
I cannot stay here, and still remain sane, he whispered to himself. Perhaps I should go and wait for the Bard to complete his work—
He began to make his way back across the room, when he felt eyes upon him. Eyes with power behind them, watching him with scarcely-concealed venom and contempt.
He stopped, as the lights flickered once again; stopped and turned, scanning the room with all his senses, looking for the one who radiated such power and menace.
The enemy obligingly displayed himself; moving from the shadows to the edge of the dance floor. The light fell clearly on him, flickering blues and greens illuminating his malicious smile.
Kory’s despair was quickly forgotten in a wash of something far more personal.
Fear.
Just as there was no mistaking the Prince, no matter how low he had sunk, there was no mistaking this face. Carefully arranged silver hair, hooded, brilliantly green eyes, high cheekbones—and power coiled within, power that showed Kory’s magics to be the amateur efforts that they were.
Perenor.
Exiled traitor from Elfhame Sun-Descending. Showing himself arrogantly to the young elf who had been his prisoner for so many years, and now was the only functional Champion in the mortals’ world.
The supremely powerful, saturnine elf had avoided elvenkind since his banishment. Perenor hadn’t even gone after Kory himself; he had sent his daughter, Arianrhod, to lure him into his hands.
But here he was—and there could only be one reason that he showed himself so plainly.
He knew that Kory had escaped from his imprisonment.
And he was hunting for him.
Kory stood silent, staring at Perenor, unable to look away.
And he knows I’m here. He’s searching for me. He knows that I escaped, he knows about the Bard, and he’s here, searching for both of us—
As he stared at Perenor, the older elf’s eyes continued to scan across the crowd, until they rested upon the object of their hunt.
Perenor smiled at Kory.
:Good evening, Korendil. What a pleasant surprise to find you here.:
Kory froze; and found a single phrase echoing frantically around in his head, a phrase borrowed from mortals—
Oh shit—
* * *
Eric stood silently on the stage, the flute held lightly in his hands, listening to Beth Kentraine’s warm, rich voice, singing the lyrics to an old Gaelic song. To his annoyance the lights flickered again, briefly plunging the Dive into darkness, cutting off a half-second of the music as the PA system blinked off and on again.
Great. The thunderstorm must be playing games with the electrical grid. I sure hope we don’t have a blackout in this club. That’s all we need—ten million drunken idiots trying to run for the doors. And who knows how many drunken elves doing whatever it is drunken elves do in the dark.
The dancers on the floor didn’t even seem to notice.
Hell, don’t worry about it, Eric. Worry about the solo coming up next verse instead. Bethy’s already given me The Look.
This is the next-to-last song. Thank God. Just a little more, then we’ll be done for the night, I can crash—
—go home, drink a few, and think about all of this. About Korendil. An elf, for Chrissake, asking me to save his people.
I’m still not certain whether I really believe all of this or not. Maybe I’ll just wake up tomorrow morning, and all of this will have been a dream . . .
Yeah, right. Not bloody likely.
Eric lifted the flute to his lips, a quick breath before the phrase. It’s a beautiful song, needs some nice ornamentation. I’ll just play with it see where it takes me . . . He closed his eyes and began to play.
The notes were pure and clear, a delicate line slowly growing stronger, like a kite tugging at the string, trying to break free. A little more, holding that high C for just an instant longer, then letting go, falling away, fading. Good. Now Beth is taking the vocal line again—
He opened his eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness of the stage lights. I like that song. We’ve been doing a lot of the old trad tunes tonight, more than Spiral Dance usually does. Last gig, we only did two slow ballads, the rest was hard rock. Tonight, it’s almost half and half. Very strange.
He looked out over the audience, seeing the colorful costumes past the glare, the dancers moving in swirling, regal patterns amid the colored lights. No, not strange at all, not for tonight. The whole evening has been like this, mysterious and—and magical. Well, I guess that when half your audience is non-human—
—strange things are bound to happen.
I wonder where Korendil is? I can’t see him out there in the crowd.
Thinking of the elf made him flush slightly, uncomfortably. Maybe I should apologize to him. I’ve been a real bastard to everybody these last few days. And I took a lot of that out on him. Sure, I thought he was a nut case, but still, I could have been more polite about it. Of course, he did steal my clothes and he did knock me into a wall, but still—
Then he heard it. A soft whisper, a strange female voice, low and breathy, barely audible.
:Bard. Look at me.:
Eric immediately glanced up at Beth, singing with her eyes closed, intent upon the last verse of the song. Bethy? No, she’s not even looking my way. Must have been somebody else—
A faint whisper, lightly pulling at him, like—Like a kite on a string—
:Look at me, look at me . . . :
He looked out at the crowd, too far away for a low whisper to carry that distance. What in the hell? Who said that?
God, no. I’m starting to go crazy again—
Then he saw her, at the edge of the stage. Watching him.
Oh my.
Red silk. Tailored, expensive, and very tight around the right curves. Blond hair, slightly curly, perfectly framing that face, those vivid blue eyes.
What is someone like her doing at The Dive? She looks like a fashion model, the kind of lady you see in Westwood or Beverly Hills, escorted by some handsome guy wearing a five-hundred-dollar suit. Not the kind of lady you see alone in a sleazy nightclub in Van Nuys!
She’s beautiful. Very beautiful.
And she’s staring right at me.
Oh my God.
Eric forced himself to look away, trying to remember what song he was supposed to be playing. Oh yeah, the Gaelic song. Right. Shit, where are we? Last verse?
He saw Beth looking at him, puzzled. Then her eyes moved past him, to the woman standing in the shadows.
Beth’s eyes narrowed.
The song ended, just as Eric remembered what key it was in, and was about to start playing again. He stopped himself, just in time.
Terrific. What’s happened to my brain? I think it’s turned to guacamole. Thank God, we’ve only got one more song in the show. I don’t think I could deal with anything else tonight.
A moment of applause, then Jim started the intro for the last song, a subtle, light pattern on the rim of the snare drum. Beth joined in a moment later: rough, resounding chords on the Fender. Then Allie on synth, a quick run, leading into the melody. Eric smiled at the intensity of the music, fierce and demanding, building with each moment. Damn, but I like this one.
Then Beth’s voice, breaking through, taking over . . .
“Starlight and shadow, end to begin,
Balancing, changing, losing to win.
Make the choice, take the chance,
Reach for dreams and more.
And in that moment you will know
The spiral dance won’t ever let you go!”
First solo was Allie on synth, starting quiet, then letting it rip into a jazz run, her fingers moving almost too fast to see over the DX7’s keyboard. The audience roared as Jim took the next solo, pounding on the drums like a wild man, his hair flying, looking like it was glowing in the glare of the stage lights.
He’s wrapping it, about to hand it to me—now!
Eric hit a high D, a rasping trill, wailing descant down the scale. A moment later, he heard Beth echoing the flute line on the Fender, following him down. He smiled to himself, starting a fast jazz break, which she caught and held. Then they went into a counterpoint, the electric guitar and flute fighting each other, each striving to hit harder, higher, then finally blending on the last note, harmonizing matching each other perfectly. Eric tossed in a final trill, unresolved, a ringing defiant cry.
The last note faded into silence.
The lights suddenly cut out, leaving them standing in shadow. A moment later, the screams and cheers of the audience began reverberating around them.
Now that was a nice bit of work . . .
The lights came back up. From across the stage, Beth grinned at Eric, then leaned closer to the mike. “Thank you, and good night.”
The stage lights faded down again, to be replaced by the normal club lights. Eric wiped the sweat off his forehead, glancing back to see Beth hugging Allie and Jim, then starting to help them disassemble the stage gear.
A terrific gig. I should play with Bethy and the Spirallers more often. This was a fun night. Definitely weird, definitely wired, but fun.
Eric looked out at the club, the emptying dance floor.
I wonder where Korendil is? I thought he’d be here, waiting for us at the end of the gig.
Oh, what the hell. I’m too tired to deal with all of that “save the universe” stuff tonight, anyhow. Might as well pack it up and head home. Maybe I can hitch a ride with Bethy—
A soft murmur, insinuating into his thoughts.
:Yes. You are the one.:
Eric looked around in surprise. Say what?
Shit. I’m hearing voices again. Dammit, I had myself convinced that I’m not crazy. This isn’t fair.
“No. It isn’t. Look at me.”
Slowly, he turned to the side of the stage, to the blonde woman that he somehow knew was still standing there.
He dazedly shook his head. Who is she? I wonder if—if she—she looks like she might want to meet me. Talk to me. Maybe—maybe she does . . .
Eric walked several steps towards her, then hesitated. I’m imagining things again. This time, instead of an elf, it’s a beautiful blonde, making eyes at me from across the stage. Reality check, Eric. You are not her type.
But her eyes—blue eyes—it’s like she’s calling to me—
He took another step, and another, moving towards the blonde woman, unable to look away from that electric blue gaze.
Blue eyes—reaching out to me—drawing me to her—
Something was wrong. Eric tried to remember what it was. Something about being on the bus, looking out the window, and—something—trying to remember—this has happened before. Hasn’t it? I—can’t remember—
Then the woman smiled, and held out her hand to him.
:Look at me, Bard. Look at me, and dream . . . :
Eric stepped off the stage, his eyes never leaving hers for a moment. He took her hand in his, and touched her fingertips to his lips. He was not certain if it was his thought or hers, that echoed through his mind, low and seductive, beckoning.
:Yes—you are the one—:
Kory glanced around the shadowed alley, the rain misting down on the dark asphalt, turning everything before him to gray.
I must lead the traitor away from here, away from the Bard. If he realizes that Eric is here—if he realizes that Terenil is here—
Eric undefended, Terenil completely lost in Dreaming. Blessed Danann, how did everything go so wrong so quickly?
The alley was dark, even to elven eyes, but promised a path to safe retreat.
If I can lead him off, then lose him, I can come back to this club and spirit the Bard away to safety.
He could feel the traitor behind him, the menace, the carefully controlled anger—and above all, the power.
How is it that he has such power when the rest have been magic-starved into Dreaming? How—
Oh. Fool. He was High Court, and not tied to the groves. And he has his daughter. She must be keeping him very . . . prosperous. I wonder if she even realizes that he’s using her—using all of us—
Anger surged in him, and lent speed to his feet. The heavy rain flattened his hair into his eyes, and soaked him to the skin in a few moments. He ignored the clammy, clinging fabric, ignored the chill.
I have fought in worse circumstances. I have fled in far worse.
He stumbled against something he hadn’t seen in the darkness, and went to his hands and knees. He picked himself up immediately, but the power that was Perenor behind him had gained a few precious yards.
If he catches me, that will leave Eric open to him. He uses the mortals, that was the whole centerpiece of his defiance of Terenil; uses them, and discards them. He would take Eric and twist him—turn him into something foul and shadowed, as evil as himself—
Gods. Not the Bard. Anything but that.
The icy rain slashed at him, and he stumbled again on the slippery pavement. Then a flash of lightning from above showed him the end of the alley.
The end of the alley.
A dead end. All too literally, a dead end.
The passage ended in enormous loading-dock doors set into the otherwise blank wall of a two-storied building. To Kory’s right, another blank wall. To his left, a building with some few windows set too high above the street to reach from the ground, and a few feet of tall privacy fence.
If I had a minute, I could climb that fence, vanish into the maze of this city.
I don’t have that minute.
Kory whirled, just as he heard the slow, deliberate footsteps behind him, putting his back against the wall of the building.
Perenor had brought his own light with him. It illuminated him softly, and Kory saw that he hadn’t so much as a single drop of rain marring the careful arrangement of his hair or the expensive gray suit. He was making it quite clear that he had power to spare. Power to waste, if he chose.
He extended a finger and lit Kory in merciless detail as well. Kory was all too clearly aware of how he looked: hair straggling in soaked, tangled strands dripping into his face and down his back, clothing plastered to his body. He drew himself up proudly, anyway—
Pride is all I have left.
“Well, it is young Korendil, after all,” Perenor said, his voice subtly mocking. “You used to have better manners, youngling. Aren’t you going to offer me a civil greeting?”
He is going to kill me—and destroy everything with me. Unless I can keep him occupied long enough for Eric to finish the show and leave—and when he leaves, the others will follow. Perhaps. But “perhaps” is all I have . . .
I must give Perenor something to amuse him, to delay him long enough for Eric to escape.
“We did not have a civil parting, Lord Perenor,” he replied as coldly, and dispassionately, as he could.
He may kill me now, but I won’t let him take Eric and the others as well.
Perenor shook his head. “Ten years asleep and no wisdom learned in all that time. Korendil, you disappoint me.”
I am not going to answer that—except with this—
He used the last of his power to Call his sword. In an instant, the shimmering weapon was in his hand, ready for battle.
Perenor laughed. “Korendil, that is exceptionally foolish even for you—”
And the elf-mage extended his hand again—and the sword vanished in a shower of sparks from Kory’s hands, leaving him staring stupidly at the air where it had been. Then Kory moved, drawing light and power from the air, condensing it into a weapon and hurling it at the traitor.
The older elf easily warded off the attack with a single gesture, a snap of his fingers. The magic dissipated harmlessly, leaving Kory and Perenor in the glimmer of witch-light, staring at each other.
Perenor’s smile faded, and his face darkened, a moment of calm before the fury.
Kory swallowed. I think that maybe I don’t amuse him anymore . . .