Solemn strains, her homage must declare.
Where falls her glance, the Graces honor pay.
I would behold the luster of her hair
And seek the arms of Lady Gleamdrené!”
A gasp rushed through the hall. The last echoes of the song died away, leaving the merrymakers wide-eyed and openmouthed, and Captain Glomar looking much more like a badger than he had a moment before. Queen Bebo hid either a smile or a frown behind her hand, while her cousin’s face was a conflict of blushes and scowls.
Only Iubdan laughed.
He threw back his head and howled so loudly that even Poet Eanrin had the sense to look abashed. When he was quite done, Iubdan cried, “So that’s how it is, bard? And here I thought you were singing as fine an ode to my queen as ever I have heard!”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said the poet with a bow. “Did I misspeak?”
“Indeed you did. Where we should have heard the name Bebo sweetly sung, we heard instead that of her cousin. Don’t tell me this was a mistake?”
“If mistake it was,” said Eanrin, turning to fix his gaze upon Lady Gleamdren, “it was a mistake of the tongue, not of the heart! Can I help it if the words that burst from my lips are the truth I feel most keenly?”
Iubdan guffawed again, and this time much of the court joined with him. Even Bebo no longer tried to disguise her laughter. But more than a hundred pairs of fists clenched, more than a hundred jaws set on edge as the young men of Rudiobus turned angry eyes upon the poet. Not least among these was Glomar, who took up his lance and squeezed it nearly to the point of breaking.
Gleamdren, however, refused to look at the poet, who stood, hand upon heart, gazing up at her.
“I thank you, good poet,” said Queen Bebo at length, stilling the laughter with a wave of her hand, “for bringing such jollity to our hall. I look forward to another song when next my birthday is celebrated.”
Then she bade the musicians take up their playing again, and the dancers returned to the floor. Iubdan rose and offered his hand to his queen, and they joined the others, whirling away in time to the music. Their removal to the floor left Gleamdren momentarily alone behind the thrones. She fixed her gaze upon the dancing monarchs, refusing to look even when Eanrin climbed the stairs and bowed in a fine impression of humility. Her face was fetchingly flushed.
“Fair lady,” the poet began, “please allow me to—”
“Not another word!” Gleamdren said, holding up a hand. “Your impertinence does you no credit, Bard Eanrin. Though really, I should be surprised by nothing you say or do. But good Lumé! Must you embarrass me so in front of all the court?”
“I never meant to embarrass you, sweet maid,” the poet protested, his hands outstretched in supplication. “I intended nothing other than to sing the praises of our queen! But my heart must always dictate my tongue, and my heart said—”
“I care little for your heart and its fool notions,” said Gleamdren with a pretty toss of her head that indicated quite the opposite. She was flattered, and Eanrin knew this. “You’re a dragon-kissed fool, Eanrin, that’s what you are. And tonight you’ve proven it to everyone.”
Here she tempered her words with a smile. It was a subtle dance, this art she practiced, and she was a skilled dancer. She must discourage her beaux just enough to keep them interested, not enough to drive them away.
The poet smiled in return. “Oh, come now, Gleamdren!” he said. “I know you can’t mean that. You were watching every darting shadow for a sign of me. Admit it!”
She turned up her nose. “I admit nothing.” But she gave him a sidelong glance that spoke volumes.
He leapt at the bait. “Not one man in this room is your equal.” He took a step nearer and reached for her hand. “Not one man, save me.”
She avoided his touch with an “Oh!” and gave him an arch frown.
He ground his teeth in a smile and spoke softly. “Enough of this nonsense, fair Gleamdrené Gormlaith. You know you are bored to tears by all these fools vying for your attention. What have they to offer you compared to me? I am the Chief Poet of Iubdan.”
“You’re a silly cat, Eanrin.”
He slipped a hand about her waist. She pursed her lips, struggling to frown when her whole face longed to smile. She dropped her gaze to her goblet once more but did not resist—at least, not too much—when he drew her to him.
“I will go down in history,” he whispered. “The greatest bard of all time. The prince of poetry!”
She rolled her eyes and gave a little shrug. “For what that is worth!”