Glomar’s face paled noticeably even in the shadows, and his eyes went hollow and round. “Ach, no! That I could never! Nay, I would not dream to so much as step in her slim little shadow, much less ask to hold her hand in mine! I’m not much of a dancer in any case.”
“Wise, then. Wise, indeed,” nodded the poet. He too leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. Though in breadth he could never equal Glomar, he stood a half head taller at least. The better to look down upon the captain. “You’d never have a hope with her.”
Glomar sighed. “Don’t I know it.” Then he glared up at his companion. “Nor can any man in Rudiobus hope to be fair Gleamdren’s match!”
The scarlet man shrugged. “I could dance with her. If I wished.”
Glomar snorted.
“I could,” the scarlet man said, smooth as butter. “Anytime I choose.”
“Ask her, then. I’m always game for a joke.”
“I’m not so much in the mood.”
“Not in the mood? To dance with that vision?” Glomar barked a laugh that caught the attention of several of the nearest dancers, who turned startled faces toward the darkened passage. “You amuse me, friend. Are you a bard or jester? Not in the mood, my eye. Ha! You’re more a coward than all the rest of your kind together, aren’t you?”
The scarlet man opened his mouth to give a reply, but fortunately, King Iubdan chose that moment to cry out in a voice that instantly silenced the music and the laughter of the revelers.
“Where is my Chief Poet?” he bellowed. His tones were round and rich as plum pudding, and his eyes, though black, were the merriest in the room. “Where is Bard Eanrin? Send him up to me at once! Make way, you dancers, and find my poet!”
The scarlet man stepped away from the wall, smoothing down his yellow hair, then jamming a jaunty red cap in place. “Anytime I choose,” he hissed in parting before springing from the shadows, leaving Glomar behind in the gloom.
The crowd made way for the scarlet man as he crossed the dance floor, his golden face beaming with smiles. He approached the thrones of his monarchs and swept a bow made all the more dramatic by the flourish of his gold-trimmed cape.
“Ah! There you are, Eanrin,” said the king.
“Greetings, most noble Iubdan Tynan, Dark Man of the Merry People, Lord of Rudiobus, who sits enthroned above all in fair Ruaine Hall!” cried the poet, his hand raised in salute. “And most illustrious queen,” he continued, turning a gaze of adoration upon Iubdan’s wife. “Fair Bebo, who walks among the stars and sings with the Spheres to the cheer and gladness of the Far World. My best wishes upon the anniversary of your birth!”
“Many thanks, Eanrin,” said the queen with a graceful nod.
But Iubdan shook his head and bellowed, “No, no, no! What do I keep you around for, bard, if not for barding? I won’t accept wishes to my queen spoken thus. You must ballad, Eanrin! You must versify!”
Poet Eanrin gave another bow, less hearty than the first; when he stood again, his face was full of woe, and many a lady in Ruaine put her hand to her heart at the sight of such tender feeling. “I fear, my king,” said he, “that a song is not within me this night. You see before you a man broken. And though I would fain—”
“I didn’t ask you to feign,” said his sovereign, his dark eyes snapping. “I require that you perform your duty, Chief Poet, and perform it in proper spirit. It is Bebo’s birthday, and she must have a song.”
“Pray, my Dark Man,” said Bebo with a kindly smile, “do not tax the poet. If he has no song in him—”
“When have we known our good Eanrin not to have a song?” Iubdan cried, then quickly added in a gentler tone, “Pardon my interruption, sweet one. But my Chief Poet will earn his keep! I put it to you, Eanrin. Can you dredge up a song?”
The poet raised melancholy eyes to his king’s face and replied, “I can, my king.”
“Then sing for us, will you? Sing in honor of your queen!”
Eanrin placed a hand to his heart and turned to Bebo. But his gaze strayed, if but for the space of a heartbeat, to her cousin standing just behind the queen’s throne. And Lady Gleamdren lowered her gaze to the goblet in her hand and blushed most prettily.
“Queen of my heart,” Eanrin said, a tremor in his voice, “to you I dedicate this ode, composed spontaneously here at your feet.”
Bebo gave a gracious nod. Gleamdren raised an eyebrow, and the corners of her mouth twitched in expectation, but she schooled her face into a frown a moment later. A lady must take care how much she reveals.
The poet, unaccompanied, lifted his arms and sang. His voice was so sweet and so golden that he needed no instrument to fill it out, and his song carried to all corners of Ruaine Hall, into every cranny of that vast cavern, even to places where the torchlight could not penetrate.
“Hers the voice, the look. Obey
And sing a humble, longing lay!
Within the Hall of Red and Green
Behold my sweet, my love, my queen.
With merry song and manic pleasures,
Light of foot in lyric measures,
First pursue and then retreat.
Bright upon their fiery feet,
Within the circling dancers’ meeting
In time to ancient drums a-beating