Perhaps she had shifted around a little; or perhaps it was her change in breathing; or it could have been, even, that Krelyss had learned to be alert to direct attention, however silent. Whatever the case, he took a deep, quiet breath, and his eyelids cracked open. His vibrant red gaze scanned the room first, almost unconsciously. Finding nothing amiss, he gave a contented, rumbling hum that she felt against her cheek.

Beth smiled. "I was trying not to wake you."

"I don't mind being woken," he informed her, even and indeed untroubled.

"Well, then," she said, and drew closer around him. She barely had to turn her head to kiss his shoulder warmly.

He gave her a particular look at that—not quite a smile, but one of his familiar ghosts of smiles, an angling at the corners of his eyes, a softening of the edges. He obligingly wrapped his arms around her, but not before smoothing a thumb over the flyaway hairs at her temple in a tender reciprocation. Beth gave a happy sigh so loud and unabashed that it clearly entertained him, and she considered that a kind of victory, too.

But after a long while at the height of luxury, Beth allowed, "I'm keeping you from your sleep."

"And I," Krelyss replied, still unbothered, "am keeping you from your breakfast."

Whether or not it was wise, she did feel safe in the Malaedair suite.  A private dinner for three was reassuringly close and quiet, especially after crowded luncheons and dances.  Beth made herself comfortable and did not question her hosts; the only thing she could be accused of was the occasional staring.  Unfortunately, the Malaedair looks had not been a dazzling effect of the ballroom and first impressions.  They were both gifted with strong brows, stronger jaws, and fine, aristocratic features.  The difference lay in the general’s preoccupied air of concern and his son’s sharp suspicion, which if aimed any differently could have cut her mysterious steak for her.

Given both attitudes, Beth saw no point in lingering on further small talk.  “You don’t have to tell me if I’m prying,” she began, “but is everyone else alright?”

For this, she was treated to dual appraising looks.  The young lord’s was narrower by far; he seemed to be searching for tells where Krelyss’s crimson eyes only gave an impression of curiosity.  Krelyss replied, “No one else has been ill.”

“That’s good.”  She took another hearty bite of—moss?  It was sour and spicy, and she had not yet acquired the taste for it; but so help her, she was trying.

“The incident interests you?” Zaresh asked.  His veneer of disinterest was so transparent that it was like a private joke.

Beth blinked at him.  “Well, somebody died, so yes.”

“That’s very touching,” said Zaresh.  “And here I heard you were barbarian killers.”

“Zaresh,” Krelyss warned in a low voice.

Beth waved her fork dismissively.  “No, he would have heard that from quite literally everyone else here.  It’s not a bad reputation to have, anyway.”  She focused on Zaresh, meeting his ever more piercing stare.  “But in my line of work, you fight your enemy, on purpose, and you know who’s in danger and why.  We’re painfully simple like that.”  She smiled winningly at Zaresh’s arched brow but sobered quickly.  “Which is why I’m unfortunately not cut out for murder investigations.  But we’re keeping an ear to the ground nonetheless.”

“You and Cassandra,” Zaresh clarified thoughtfully.  The way he drew out Cassandra, like the name was an interesting trinket he was turning over in his hands, took her aback.  It made her wonder whether his barbarian-killer impression extended to her sister or if Beth alone had the honor.

Krelyss appeared to be reflecting on all this, but when he spoke next, Beth saw that he had been waiting for the servant to leave the room with a small stack of used dishes.  The moment the footsteps faded, he asked seriously, “Are you offering to share what you find?”

It was too cautious a question to be founded on friendship, but too blatant for political maneuvering.  It was the question of a general concerned for his people, and in a moment of dreamy stupidity, Beth thought, If he gets any more Mandan, I’ll have to marry him into the clan.  She hastily took up her cup of bitter tea and swallowed that nonsense down.  “Yes.  It’s only right.”

Zaresh made a distinctly unimpressed noise, but that was easy enough to ignore in the face of Krelyss’s hopeful consideration.  “Thank you,” the general intoned.

She headed him off before he could possibly make her blush.  “Don’t thank me yet, I don’t know anything.”

Zaresh said something inaudible that earned him a sharp glance from Krelyss.  Beth narrowed her eyes playfully at the young lord and got a quite serious look of disdain in return.  Clearly, she would have to prove herself to Zaresh, but she didn’t mind.  Where she came from, you always had to get in with the entire family.

In an effort to wrench the conversation toward lighter topics, she commented, “I’m surprised the Natans aren’t absolutely flooded with dinner guests, considering how many people want to talk to you all outside of official gatherings.”

Zaresh stared at her with an expression that was unreadable except for the judgment in it.  “They’ve tried.  My father had to vouch for you personally for you to be allowed in.”

“Oh!”  Face warming, Beth turned with open surprise to Krelyss, only to find that he had ducked his head slightly and was attending to his tea.  Surely this solemn, composed general was not embarrassed.  They couldn’t both be off balance.

Accordingly, Cassie replied with brittle neutrality, “Thanks.”

“How could we miss it?” Beth piped up.  And because it was something she could say and mean at the same time, she added, “Your dress looks lovely, Lady Ingris.”

“You honor me, but moreso our celestial tailors,” intoned the lady, who couldn’t just say thanks, it’s got pockets like a normal person.  “Every century, they hone their craft with even more finesse.”

“I sure hope so,” said Beth.  “Otherwise, what would they be doing up there?”

Cassie’s efforts not to snort in laughter were a tangible force beside her.  Lady Ingris pursed her lips in a carefully timed silence, then offered, “As you say.  I hope you enjoy the festivities.”

Beth was wordless with chagrin, so it was Cassie who said, “And you as well!”  The genuine delight in her voice was from the muffled laughter.  Lady Ingris perhaps sensed that she would not find a better note to end on than that, and so departed, floating ethereally through the crowds.

Cassie leaned into Beth as though imparting a secret so that she could laugh inconspicuously.  “Do you know,” Beth said glumly to her quietly shaking friend, “that they sent me to help represent the Mandane because I can talk to anybody?”

Cassie patted her shoulder consolingly.  “It’s not your fault no one has a sense of humor,” she said, rather than rightly pointing out that the clan leaders had been talking about Beth’s ability with languages rather than with people.  “Anyway, they sent me, too.”

“Because,” Beth explained sagely, “you’re well-traveled and gorgeous.”

“Whatever,” Cassie huffed.  But she looked just a tad bit pleased nonetheless.  Her dark hair set off the green of her eyes, and its slight curl framed her features, which sat beautifully between elven delicateness and human definition.  Beneath her golden ceremonial armor pieces, she wore a shade of red that had caused a servant to drop an entire tray of champagne glasses.  “But I’m not a diplomat.”

“We don’t have any diplomats,” Beth pointed out.

“I know.”  Cassie gestured to the hordes of experienced politicians and ambassadors all around them.  “Lucky us.”

Beth found it easy to think of them as hordes.  No more than twenty nations and thirty or so groups—tribes, city-states, and guilds—had sent representatives to the gathering.  But each person sent had brought with them family, proteges, and attendants.  An outright caravan had arrived from Gulthasa on the coast the night before.  Meanwhile, the Mandan clan leaders had decided, after a lengthy argument, that the situation was important enough to warrant some presence.  Some days later, Cassie and Beth had arrived at the dwarven capital, just the two of them, with all their belongings packed on their worgs.

Beth couldn’t complain about the destination.  Konivald was truly the marvel its reputation promised.  Only the very heights of the city broke ground level, most notably the top floor of the embassy hall in which they were gathered.  The rest of Konivald had been lovingly and precisely carved out of the earth below.  The walls were paneled with murals and the occasional thin sheet of rare stone.  Gold and other precious metals gilded key points and sparkled in the alchemical lamplight.  The cavernous ceilings, which dwarves preferred when they were showing off, reflected every sound with soft artistry, as though it were sung by a distant choir.  Best of all, every inch of the building was perfectly symmetrical to the nearest anyone could calculate.  Beth had crafted enough—and struggled enough with measurements—to appreciate that.

The ceremonial armor plates she wore now were not her own work.  Each piece had been cut, shaped, and gilded by a specialist.  Artistic armor was the finest clothing a Mandan could have, and there was nothing more diplomatic than wearing only a few statement pieces here and there, rather than full protection.

Cassie placed her empty glass into a small, inset dumbwaiter, which descended to the kitchens every fifteen minutes on the dot.  “That’s enough mingling with Star’s Peak elves,” she decided.  “Who’s next?”

It was a fair question.  Thus far, they had spent their evening with the most obvious choices.  The Sylvan elves had peppered Cassie with friendly questions about which side of her family was elven and whether she still knew anyone in the Feld.  The orcs had warmed immediately when Beth spoke their language, though, according to them, she sounded like an old plains matron.  And the dwarven hosts had been only too glad to ramble on about the luxuries Konivald had to offer.

Cassie called Beth’s attention in Mandan, and then, remembering herself, swapped to Dwarvish.  “That looks fun.”  Beth followed Cassie’s gaze.  A few Gulthasans had drawn a crowd, and by the sound of it, everyone was entertained.  The two Mandane joined the fringes of the group.

“Trying to unhitch the horses!” a man was exclaiming.  He was older, with an easy manner and booming voice.  His layered robes were brighter and more colorful than those of his younger colleagues.  Everyone was paying him rapt attention.  “Here we are, expecting to be robbed of our treasures or taken hostage—but they had no idea whom they had stopped!  It was only fine horses they wanted.  Well!  I might have paid them pretty gold and jewels to leave the horses be.  Diplomats and gifts are no good if they never reach the summit.  But no one had any idea what to do.  Half of us had never seen a gnoll before.”

A dwarf snickered under her breath, and that was all the prompting the Gulthasan needed to say, “It’s true!  We are used to the dangers along the coast, and of course we have our river pirates.”  Here he winked broadly, and based on the low laughter, Beth could guess he’d had an interesting youth.  “But while we all sat on our hands, stunned by the appearance of gnolls, young Nefrid didn’t lose his head.”  He beamed at the younger Gulthasan beside him.

Nefrid offered a somewhat embarrassed smile.  “It wasn’t a very good idea,” he said.  His accent was not as thick as the head ambassador’s.

His colleague clapped him on the back and addressed the crowd.  “He walked right up to the biggest gnoll there was—I believe the fellow had a necklace of teeth—and asked, as if they were doing business, ‘How many horses do you intend to take?’

“The gnoll was confused, yes?  One doesn’t often get customer complaints during a highway robbery.  He said angrily, ‘All of them.’

“To which Nefrid replied, ‘Don’t you think that’s a little steep?’ and began to haggle with him!”

Everyone expressed appropriate surprise and amusement, except for a halfling, who called, “Lord Madumo, you told this story an hour ago, and it’s terrible!”

Madumo was not one to be put off by heckling, however.  He only grew more jovial and replied, “Let our esteemed peers decide for themselves, my lady!  I’ve almost finished.  As I said, Nefrid was bargaining with the gnolls, who became altogether insulted and confused.  Finally, they asked him what he thought was happening here.  And he said—”

“He said he thought it was a road tax,” the halfling put in, beseeching.

“He did not,” Madumo retorted, eyes glittering with good humor.  “He said he thought it was a gnoll toll.”

If there was more to the story, it was lost in the ensuing uproar.  The halfling groaned loudly, along with Cassie.  Beth doubled over with laughter.  As soon as there was any hope of being heard, Madumo said, “Ah, but here are two of the famed Warsmiths to shame our caravan guard.  I hope you won’t think less of us for our misfortune.”

“Not at all,” Beth assured him sincerely.

As though she were teasing one of their clan members, Cassie said, “Maybe for that joke.”

Madumo grinned at her.  “What a way to make connections, eh?  I have never had the good fortune to tell a Warsmith a joke.  Let us go around at introductions again.”

Beth appreciated his graceful way of including them.  It saved her and Cassie a good deal of meandering around the hall to be introduced to nearly a quarter of the guests at one time.  And since Madumo had already put everyone in such a fine mood, they were amenable to using the Mandan title of verd for formal address—though Beth and Cassie insisted they be called by their given names rather than their clan.  “Since we are both Verd Theron,” Beth explained.

“I like your style of diplomacy, Lord Madumo,” Cassie said.  “Is this how you’ve been spending the evening?”

Madumo waved a hand.  “This?  Oh, yes.  We’re all just killing time, aren’t we?  Waiting for the main event.”

The impact of that statement proved its truth.  It left a tangible charge of anticipation in the air.  More than one aide turned unconsciously to look at the main entrance, and Beth had to restrain herself from doing the same.  The Epardan aide, a very prim gnome who had bowed nearly to the ground when he introduced himself as Ricardi Valanse, admitted, “It’s so difficult to believe.  I still expect the Konivash to announce it’s all a joke to get us together.”

Maris, a member of the Sylvan party, let out a breathy laugh.  “Expensive joke!”

“Lord Valanse,” Madumo said lowly, as though scandalized, “you don’t trust our dwarven hosts?”

“It’s not that at all!” Valanse insisted.  “But this has never been done!  All those centuries of secrecy and warfare, with no official contact, and now they send word they want to emerge into society like a—like a youth coming into season?  To—”  He cut himself off, but they could all hear the plaintive ‘to the dwarves?’ regardless.

Nefrid certainly caught it, and gave the gnome a keen look.  “To their nearest neighbors,” he continued smoothly, “presumably since they have had no ties or favor with anyone.”

“How else should they do it?” Beth asked without rancor.

Valanse was clearly feeling beset on all sides; he whirled around like a top to face Beth.  “What?”

“I mean if they want to emerge into society,” she explained.  “Begin diplomatic relationships and join the embassies we have.  How else should they do it, besides sending a letter that says, ‘Hello, we’d like to come up’?”

“It’s a bit of a simple approach,” Valanse muttered in a tone that implied he thought the Mandane would be suited to it.

“That’s sometimes best,” Madumo said wisely.  “And regardless, here we are!”

“It begins tonight, doesn’t it?” Maris asked.

Madumo’s halfling heckler, Nicolette of House Barr, clicked her tongue.  “If they’ve arrived.”

“They arrived,” Cassie replied casually.

All heads turned in her direction.  “Have you heard something, Verd Cassandra?” Madumo asked.  “From whom?”

“I have my sources,” she said, almost smug.  Beth smiled proudly.  Cassie’s sources were that she talked to servants instead of ignoring them.  Cassie continued, “They arrived a few hours ago.  They’ve been settling in and preparing for the event.”

An excited murmur ran through the group, gaining momentum as it went.  Even Valanse glanced at the main door again.  The excitement emerged into scattered questions.  “Does anyone know what they look like?”  “I was told they’ll speak Dwarvish; is that right?”  “How many are they sending?”  “There won’t be any soldiers, will there?”

Beth couldn’t pretend to be above it all.  She was as curious as the rest of them.  Besides that, she and Cassie had a duty to observe whatever she could and make a thorough report back to the clans.  Granted, the clans would be most interested in whether there was a threat to worry about, but it was best to be nosy about everything else, too.  She just barely remembered not to shoulder Cassie in time—thus saving their exquisite ceremonial pauldrons from being clanged together like ordinary iron.  Instead, she nudged her friend’s arm to give her an eager look, one very similar to their wordless exchange before a battle.  Cassie’s expression was bright and intent.

“Esteemed guests!” called a tremendous, ringing voice throughout the hall.

Everyone fell silent and turned.  A Konivash dwarf stood by the entrance with an elaborately braided red beard and a shirt of silver chain so fine it could have been knitted cloth.  Like all dwarves, he had the trick of throwing his voice long distances through the acoustics of a place, so everyone could hear him with perfect clarity.  He bowed.  “Thank you for attending this historic event.  We hope you have enjoyed our hospitality so far.  But I won’t delay any further with pleasantries.  The time has come to announce the guests of honor.”

The silence was impenetrable.  The dwarf nodded, and the double doors opened.  Every minute catch of the hinges seemed thunderous.  No one so much as moved.

“Please welcome the representatives of Imperial Natan of the Underdark.”

A strange retinue stepped forward into the lamplight.  They were elves—or at least, they were tall and graceful, and their ears tapered to points.  But they were unlike any elves Beth had ever seen.  Each of them had dark skin in varying hues and stark white hair.  There were perhaps a dozen, and among them only three men that Beth could see.  A woman stood at the forefront, where she gave a very slight, shallow bow to the room at large.  She wore draping black clothing held together with gold clasps.  It was striking against the dark blue of her skin.

“Lady Reza Talassan, ambassador of Natan,” the dwarf announced.  “Lady Desan Vatell, her aide.”  Another woman, decorated with less gold, bowed.  And so it went—aide, interpreter, husband, child.  One by one, the dwarf called out names and titles, and the corresponding drow stepped forward to bow in greeting.  Mother Lorent was a high priestess, clad in long robes that shadowed her face.  The black of her attire was interrupted only by the occasional dark shine of rubies.  “And her acolytes,” the dwarf added, “who, for religious reasons, will go unnamed.”  Three faceless forms bowed in unison.

“General Krelyss Malaedair,” said the dwarf.

Beth could have guessed who it was as soon as she heard the title.  It seemed all cultures had similar ideas of military dress uniform, and the man who responded to the name wore practical, clean, close-fitted clothes lined at the collar and sleeves with silver.  He bowed shortly but without reserve, as if beginning a duel.

“Lord Zaresh Malaedair, his son,” the dwarf continued.  And indeed, when the final figure came to stand beside the general, the resemblance was uncanny even from a distance.  Father and son were of a height and had the same purple-toned dark skin, though the son was more slender.  The younger Malaedair was also certainly not in dress uniform, nor in the strict black that most of the other drow wore.  His fine coat was a dark blue, embroidered with silver.  The collar and sleeves of a pale blue shirt showed through.  The effect was dashing, and the angle of his chin showed that he knew it.

“Please welcome all of these guests to our embassy,” the dwarf continued.  There was a certain firm note in his voice.  “I have assured them that everyone here speaks Dwarvish and will do so exclusively.  The ballroom will open shortly.  In the meantime,” he concluded, addressing the drow party but loud enough for all, “please partake in the refreshments and enjoy the company.  We thank you.”

Lady Talassan let barely a moment pass before she moved forward, her head held high enough to rival Lady Ingris.  Beth had to respect it as a first impression.  The ambassadors of the surface had been strategizing how to get to the Natan party without mobbing them, but now they stood frozen while Lady Talassan surveyed them.  The light reflected oddly in her eyes, and as she came closer, Beth realized that her irises were a bright, unearthly red.

Those eyes fixed on a Mondian diplomat, a middle-aged human woman who moved to meet her as if called.  “Lady Talassan,” the human said in musical Dwarvish, “allow me to welcome you and your compatriots to this summit in your honor.”

Talassan nodded.  “Thank you,” she replied.  She spoke precisely in an even-toned contralto voice.  “We accept your hospitality.”

The Mondian gave off an air of quiet victory.  She turned to gesture graciously to one of the tables and said mildly, “I hope our hosts have provided refreshments according to your tastes as well as ours.”

Beth tuned out the Natan ambassador’s equally mild reply to search out the rest of the drow.  They were drifting into the gathering, quiet and alien.  She could see the moment when those nearby caught sight of their eye color.  Like their lead ambassador, none of them bent to examination or reaction.  Wariness and quick calculation rippled through the room, and it was followed by renewed determination.  No one would give up the chance to establish real contact with the drow—that, and extract vital answers from behind friendly smiles.  Beth leaned toward Cassie and murmured, “I think we’re about to get our money’s worth.”

“This was free,” Cassie pointed out.

*

Beth couldn’t help but notice that the Natan general was being crowded.  The same was true of almost all of the Natan party, of course, the exception being the religious acolytes.  The faceless trio was equally off-putting to everyone, it seemed.  But diplomatic adaptability, or perhaps sheer curiosity, had quickly cured the masses of any aversion to the drows’ unfamiliar appearance at large.  The ambassador and her aide were each surrounded, patiently sipping wine and answering questions.  The general’s son entertained a group of women with a sharp kind of smugness.  The high priestess’s interpreter was already working up a sweat trying to field both sides of several conversations.

Yet it was the general who caught Beth’s attention.  She had to admit to herself that it was in part a shallow concern; he was exceedingly handsome, and had an attractively Mandan air about him besides.  Too, he was visibly more hesitant to reply to his interlocutors.  This could have been because he was struggling with Dwarvish.  Beth suspected that the true reason was that he was being asked rather pointed questions.  After all, it wasn’t Imperial Natan’s culture and religion that had brought everyone here.  After centuries of mistrust and skirmishes, they wanted to know what kind of threat the drow might still pose.  Beth and Cassie had been sent for the very purpose of finding out.

But even Beth, forthright as she was, wouldn’t have mobbed the general with obvious suspicion over it.  For one, it made a poor welcome.  For another, it put conflict in the drows’ minds where there may not necessarily have been any.  Most importantly, Beth’s sympathy was quickly overriding what little political sense she had.

The Mandane had a brutish reputation, so a little shouldering to get to the forefront of the crowd shocked no one.  What she heard along the way confirmed her suspicions.  Innocuous words sought military numbers.

“I assume diplomatic duties are new to you?  Very different from what you’re used to, I’m sure!  What would you do ordinarily?”

“I’m curious, is ‘general’ a very high rank in Natan?  My old uncle was a general in his day, but it was only for show.  He was in charge of a mere four hundred.  No doubt you have more.”

“I hope Natan didn’t send their only general away to a party, aha!”

“General Malaedair, wasn’t it?” Beth boomed with her tried and true brand of bullish cheer.  It cut through everyone else’s chatter.  She sidled up to stand before him.  “Glad to see everyone’s getting along.  Standing shoulder to shoulder on the matter, actually.  I could hardly get over here.  Would you like to dance?”

The general studied her silently, and Beth was privately glad to have bulldozed through all that while she still had the momentum.  The red of his irises against his dark skin made his gaze seem sharper than it might have otherwise.  The weight of it, on the other hand, was no illusion.  Beth endured being gravely examined.  She gave him no prompting but to indicate the main floor of the ballroom, where people necessarily had the breathing room to perform the dances.  He took that in, too, and comprehension crossed his expression.  “Yes,” he rumbled, “thank you.”

Beth took his hand.  The other diplomats reluctantly parted for them.  Beth cocked her head, listening for the strings and horns at the other end of the ballroom.  The dancers already present were swaying gracefully.  “This is the Epardan two-step.”

The general hummed in acknowledgement, which didn’t help her any.  She informed him, “I know the basics.  Are we going to be any good, or shall we pretend at it?”

The general’s eyes angled slightly in amusement.  “I know it.”

“Oh, good.”  She tried a smile on him.  He did not return it, but she didn’t get the sense it was wasted, either.

General Malaedair took her hand, she took his opposite shoulder, and they joined the passing couples on the ballroom floor.  Beth was not by any means an extraordinary dancer, but she had enough practice memorizing footwork for fighting forms that she was passable.  It was enough skill to let her follow the general’s lead.

“I’m Beth Theron,” she said belatedly, “of the Mandane.  Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.  I hope you don’t mind my pulling you away like that, General.”

“I don’t mind.”  His voice was not supremely deep, but its timbre was.  “I appreciate it, in fact.”  He was a better dancer than her, though his skill spoke of the same militant origins.  The general moved with a grace born of precision, immovable yet never exerting more pressure on her hand and waist than was needed to lead.  “They are right.  I have no experience with diplomacy.”

“Nor do I!” Beth said in great relief.  Before she could think any better of it, she said, “So you won’t mind if we discard politics for the moment?”

He did not appear convinced, and rightfully so.  Political pursuits so rarely came handily labeled, after all.  His tone remained formal and polite.  “Of course, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she replied, feeling she had to nip that in the bud before she became accustomed to those words in his voice, “but I’m not a lady.  My only title is verd, which means ‘warrior.’”

His eyes brightened with interest.  “Are you?”

“First and foremost,” she confirmed.  “Most of us are—or are trained, at least.  It makes us a little unpopular, but I enjoy it.  I’ve even been an instructor.”

“What have you studied?”

“Hand-to-hand combat, swordsmanship, some mounted fighting here and there.  Archery, too, though to this day I need my opponent to be obligingly close and still.  That’s more my sister’s forte.”

“Your sister?”

“Cassie Theron.”  Beth craned her neck around as they slowly spun.  A flash of daring red revealed Cassie as she walked, probably getting closer to the ensemble so she could listen to the music properly.  The young lord Malaedair was following her with his eyes, too.  “There she is.  Gorgeous swordmaster and archer extraordinaire; you can’t miss her.”

Fondness wrought an incredible change on the general.  His regard warmed her suddenly, more than it should have.  “You are close?”

“Awfully.  We hardly ever have a bad idea without each other.”

General Malaedair came closer than ever to a smile.  Beth wondered what it would take to draw it to the surface.  The gathering would last three more days, so she had that long to find out.  She tried, “Your son’s very popular.”

Another glance showed Lord Malaedair scanning the ballroom over the heads of half a dozen eager ladies.  Beth returned her attention to the general just in time to witness his own glance.  Both the brief look and the slight, concerned line in his brow seemed involuntary—ingrained paternal habit.  Beth strove not to be entirely charmed by it.  “It appears so,” the general said.  “That’s… not unusual.”

His neutral way of acknowledging that his son was astonishingly handsome.  The apple didn’t fall very far from the tree, Beth thought, but thankfully she had the sense not to say it.  “Good for him,” she said instead.  “I’m glad you’re both here.  If you’ve got to come to a party full of strangers, it’s best to bring a bit of family with you.”

General Malaedair was silent for so long that Beth feared she had finally talked too much; but then the corners of his eyes creased.  Was that—?  “I agree,” he intoned.

Beth beamed.  She luxuriated in the lingering final note of the song for a moment before realizing that it meant the dance was over.  Accordingly, she dropped her hand from the general’s broad shoulder.  “It’d be rude to monopolize your time,” she admitted, “but find me if you want to avoid interrogation again, General.  I’ll tell you all about worgs, or my unfortunate attempts with a scythe.”

He took a step back without releasing her hand.  He examined her with the same weighty, patient consideration that he had first leveled her with.  Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world despite her strangled noise of surprise, he bowed over her hand and lightly kissed her knuckles.  “I will,” he said solemnly, “Verd.”

“Just—Beth,” she managed, “is fine.  Really.”

He released her hand and did not seem to see how she nervously tucked it against her stomach.  At last he decided, “Please call me Krelyss.”  He bowed slightly.

On instinct, she put her fist over her heart in a salute.  The sound of her faint echo of “Krelyss” followed him back into the masses.  Beth stood there in a thoughtful daze until an impatient dragonborn cleared his throat loudly, which was an alarming sound at the best of times.  She scampered off the main dance floor and, without making any conscious decision to do so, began looking for Cassie.

Beth had walked nearly around the ballroom, getting plenty of practice in polite Dwarvish phrases all the way, before she saw her sister.  Cassie was marching right at her, cheeks flushed and mouth in a taut line.  They met in the middle.  Before Beth could utter a single word, Cassie announced, “I’m in trouble.”

If she had meant danger, she would have handled it and made a fuss besides.  Instead, she took a deep breath and covered her face with both hands, which didn’t hide how pink her pointed ears were getting.

Beth took it on herself to lift his hand away and roll back his sleeve to expose his forearm.  There was a deep, clean gash there.  Her stomach turned.  “He got you,” she said, disbelieving.  “I thought he was just warning you away.  He really got you.”  She took a deep breath to clear her head.  “Let me take care of this.”

Perhaps, knowing what she did about Zaresh’s life, she shouldn’t have been surprised that he would lash out.  Perhaps if she were further removed from the situation, she could have foreseen it.  But she couldn’t fathom it, not knowing as she did how much of Krelyss’s heart was always with his son.  Not having watched him reach out with nothing but love, tears in his eyes.

Zaresh had been coldly sneering until that moment, as if he were above the raw sentiment Krelyss offered.  But when Krelyss had gotten close and tried to take his shoulder, a knife had appeared in Zaresh’s hand, and he had taken a wild slash like a cornered animal.

He was hurt.  She knew that.  But so help her, so was Krelyss, and it was Zaresh she was going to strangle for it.

Beth cleaned the cut carefully.  She debated for a moment while it ran blood and opted to be safe.  She brought out a needle and suture thread.  “This might scar.”

“It won’t be the first,” Krelyss said quietly.

Beth knew then that she couldn’t let it.  Krelyss had more than his share of scarring: small white nicks from fighting and handling blades, and dark, thick marks from Avenzi’s displeasure.  He could not keep a scar from his son.  She made small stitches in quick little motions and thought about what salves she would need to buy.

When it was done, she cleaned the surface of the wound again and bandaged it tightly.  Krelyss had not spoken up again, and she didn’t know what to say.  Beth stared at him helplessly for a long moment before reaching out to turn his face toward her.  He met her eyes dully, and at last, he said, “What is it?”

Her brow furrowed.  “I don’t know.  But wherever you’ve gone, come back.”

He did, slowly.  His gaze focused on hers in silence, and then he closed his eyes with a weary exhale and leaned into her hand.  Beth wanted so badly to promise—something.  But her own desires were in a conflicting frenzy.  She wanted to fight Zaresh; she wanted to shout at him until he understood what he was missing; she wanted Krelyss to forget about him; she wanted things to work between them.

She bowed her head over his hand, pressing her forehead against his knuckles to focus, to think for a moment.  “Tell me what to do,” she said.  “I’ll do it.  If you want to try again, I’ll be there.  No promises that I won’t box his ears, though.”

Krelyss was silent for a time.  And then, hoarsely, he said, “I want you to tell me if there’s any hope.”

I point at him sternly, rethink it, and then hold up that same finger in a ‘wait’ gesture.  If I ever see Avenzi, it’ll be like that old joke: what’s the last thing that went through her mind?  My hammer.  That is, unless she kills me, which might tickle Zaresh.  Or perhaps...