The Warden

Chapter 40

The cheering had died, but Lady Kyla still shook her head while working her jaw up and down in an attempt to clear away the ringing.

It kept on.

She shoved a finger into one of her echoing canals, digging this way and that. Nothing changed. A grumble throbbed in her throat for an instant.

"I need a drink." Her nose guided her toward the fermented air of alcohol.

Winding through the milling crowd, cursing as she again tread on the hem of her gown, Kyla skidded to a halt in front of the refreshments. Cups brimming with amber liquor sat on tables the servants had erected and covered with green table clothes as soon as the hullabaloo had subsided. She drew a breath to settle herself, her mindeye clogged with swirling, shifting, chaotic lifelight. Too much to track individually. Like counting stars in the night sky, while searching for falling meteors, Kyla kept her attention broad, taking in the general currents of the room without drowning in the minutia of each individual.

The three black holes, the nightlings, furrowed her brow the most. They floated through the sea of lifelight, but without disturbing the individual bodies. Their fearful gravity made some flicker with hesitation for a moment. But only a moment. They would quickly stabilize, flash with recognition, even excitement, and then normal conversations would ensue. Mundane, typical, and boring conversations.

Kyla rubbed her temples, pushing back the pressure that had built up between them. She snatched up a glass from the table and took a large gulp. She gagged and spewed some of the liquid back into the cup.

How did I ever drink this horse piss? she wondered, scraping her tongue on the roof of her mouth, forcing the fermented burn down her throat.

The cup found its way back onto the table with a thunk and a plop. Simmering meat fat tickled her nostrils next. Before she could reach the correct tray, a voice from behind stopped her in her pursuit.

"I hope you're not offended, Lady Kyla," said Queen Brishwyn in a hushed tone. It barely came over the general hubbub of the crowd.

"Offended?" asked Kyla, facing her.

"For not declaring you properly. I know We discussed it with you previously, but I would hate for you to feel underappreciated."

"I don't," said Kyla, with no hint of a reciprocating smile. "Quite frankly, I agree. Best to keep this as uncomplicated as possible."

"Thank you for being so understanding," said Queen Brishwyn, retrieving Lady Kyla's discarded glass of mead. She sipped. "That's what I needed. Can I help you to some refreshment of your own? Wilo knows you deserve it after what you've accomplished."

"Thank you, but I rarely indulge," replied Kyla. Instead, she snatched up a rack of lamb and began to take large bites. Barely chewing, grunting with more annoyance than satisfaction at the cook's treatment of the meat, great hunks choked their way down Kyla's throat. Grease painted itself over her chin and lips, a savory gloss lubricating her ravenous mouth.

Queen Brishwyn, cup hesitating half-way to her lips, stood rooted in place, eyes goggling at the sight. She quivered before, gingerly placing her glass back on the table.

"You know... I'd almost forgotten, but there are a few individuals here that you simply have to meet." She scurried off before her last word had cleared her throat.

Kyla shrugged, hardly noting the queasy rise and fall of the queen's beige lifelight. The joys of courtly introductions. Oh, goody!

She went in for another bite but stopped short as a familiar voice drifted into her ear: Masis' baritone cadence—warm, unwavering, well-pronounced. Rack of lamb forgotten, tongue working at dislodging the bits stuck between her teeth, Kyla shifted her gaze toward her young protégé, swallowing the last remnants of meat.