A Marriage of Swords
Makil felt the old, familiar walls inside him rise, higher and thicker, their stones mortared with the memory of his brother’s broken eyes.
“A fair audience,” he said, standing. “Of course, Father. I shall be the very picture of chivalry.”
He left before the King could see the ice forming in his soul.---The Sun Parlor was a misnomer today. Late afternoon light, weak and diluted by high, thin cloud, strained through the tall leaded windows, doing little to lift the room’s oppressive grandeur. Gilt edged everything. Tapestries depicting mercifully bloodless victories hung between shelves of leather-bound books no one ever read. It was a room for show, and today’s show was a farce.