An elven dragonship loaded with water had just fallen into human hands. The water harvest had been good this year. Stephen had been able to call off water rationing, which pleased the people. The quarreling factions—for the most part— thought well of each other, and the fights that broke out among them now were of the good-natured variety, resulting in bloody noses, not bloody knives.
“I am even beginning to think seriously, my dear, of telling the world that I love you,” said Stephen, leaning over his wife’s shoulder to make faces at the baby.
“Don’t go too far,” said Anne. “I’ve rather come to enjoy our public bickering. I think it’s good for us. Whenever I do get truly mad at you, I put all my anger into the next mock battle, and I feel much better. Oh, Stephen, what a dreadful face! You’ll frighten her.”
The baby, however, laughed in delight and reached out a hand to try to grab the king’s graying beard.
“So, all these years, you’ve actually meant those terrible things you said to me!” Stephen teased.
“I hope your face freezes like that. It would serve you right! Isn’t he an ugly papa?” Anne said to the baby. “Why don’t you fly up and attack such an ugly papa. There, my little dragon. Fly to Papa.”
Lifting the baby, Anne “flew” the child at Stephen, who caught hold of his daughter and tossed her lightly in the air. The baby laughed and crowed and tried again to grasp hold of the man’s beard.
The three were in the nursery, enjoying a brief and precious time together. Such moments were all too rare for the royal family, and the man who stood in the doorway stopped to watch, a sad and regretful smile on his lips. The moment would end. He, himself, would end it. But he paused to enjoy the extra few seconds of unclouded happiness that he must snatch away.
Perhaps Stephen felt the shadow of the cloud pass over him. The visitor had made no sound, but the king was aware of his presence. Trian—king’s magus—and Trian alone had permission to open doors without knocking, without being announced. Stephen looked up, saw the wizard standing in the doorway.
The king smiled at the sight and started to make some jest, but the expression on Trian’s face was more frightening than those Stephen had been making to entertain his tiny daughter. The king’s smile faded and grew coid. Anne, who had been fondly watching her husband and child play together, saw his brow darken, glanced over her shoulder in alarm. At the sight of Trian, the queen rose to her feet.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Trian cast a swift glance from beneath lowered lashes back into the hallway, made a slight gesture with his hand to indicate that people were in earshot.
“A messenger has arrived from Baron Fitzwarren, Your Majesty,” the magus said loudly. “A minor skirmish with the elves at Kurinandistai, I believe, I am truly sorry to draw Your Majesties away from more pleasant pursuits, but you both know the baron.”
They both did indeed know the baron, having received a report from him only that morning stating that he hadn’t seen an elf for weeks, complaining bitterly about the inaction— which was bad for discipline—and asking for permission to go chasing elven dragonships.
“Fitzwarren is a hothead,” said Stephen, taking his cue. He handed his daughter to the nursemaid, who had entered at a summons from Trian. “One of your cousins, my Queen. A Ulyndian.” This said with a sneer.
“He’s a man who won’t run away from a fight, which is more than I can say for the men of Volkaran,” answered Anne with spirit, though her face was pale.
Trian gave the gentle and long-suffering sigh of one who would like to administer a good caning to spoiled children, but who is not permitted to do so. “If Your Majesties would both be so good as to hear the messenger’s report. He is in my study. Fitzwarren has asked for a charm to protect against frostbite. I will prepare it, while Your Majesties interview the messenger. That will save time.”