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great concentration of will to sample each dish as if I were pleased
by it; and that discipline schooled me to master myself in other ways. As the
servants fanned away from me to the long tables, bearing rich fare and rare
delicacies to the guests of the manor—not my guests, though Wallin had
termed them so—I became better able to play my part with proper grace. Let
those who studied me for signs of apprehension see what they willed.
    Yet
whenever I felt Queen Damia’s gaze come toward me, I did not meet it. I was
prepared to outface all the rest of the gathering if need be; alone or
together. But I was not a match for Lodan’s queen.
    So the
banquet passed. No toasts were proposed to me—a breach of good etiquette, but
one easily forgiven, considering the vulnerability of those here who wished me
well—and I offered none in return. Hostility and tension were covered by the
gracious music, the plenty of the feast, the flow of superficial conversation
and jests. And then the musicians set aside their instruments to make way for
the minstrels.
    The
minstrels were perhaps the only people in the hall with nothing at hazard
except their reputations. War provided them with material for songs; peace
gave them opportunity to sing. As did this night, whatever the outcome of my
Ascension. So they had come to the manor from around the Three Kingdoms, that
they might establish or augment their fame, their standing in the guild. In consequence,
their singing was exceptional.
    Custom
declared that the minstrel of the manor must perform first; and she regaled the
guests with an eloquent and plainly spurious account of how the Basilisk-Regal had
wooed and won the daughter of one of Canna’s farmers, in defiance of the man’s
deathly opposition to all things Magic. Then came the turn of the minstrels of
the three rulers. However, only two men stood forward— Count Thornden had no
minstrel with him, either because he had none at all, or because he had not
troubled to bring his singer here. King Thone’s representative took precedence
by virtue of his ranking in the minstrel’s guild, and he delivered himself of
an elaborate, courtly ballad, highly sophisticated in its manner but rather
crude in its intent, which was to flatter the monarch of Canna. I felt no
offence, however. I was willing to listen to him as long as possible. Even
crude minstrelsy beguiled me as though it had power to hold back the future.
    But
Queen Damia’s singer gave the banquet a song, which caught in my throat. It was
one I had not heard before, and it was at once passionate and poignant, fiery
and grieving, as only the best songs can be. In brief, it described the slaying
of the last Dragon by the Basilisk-Regal, my grandmother’s grandfather.
    That
thought was frightening: Creature at war against Creature, kind-murder which
bereft the world of something Real and therefore precious. In the known
history of the realm, only the Mage made images of the ancient Creatures fought
and slew. The Magic beings themselves lived lives of their own, apart and
untouched, ruled by interests and needs and commitments, which took no account
of that which was not Real. But Queen Damia’s minstrel sang that the
Basilisk-Regal went out to rid the realm of the last Dragon because that great,
grim Creature had conceived a corrupt taste for unReal flesh and had begun to
feed upon the folk of the Three Kingdoms. Thus for the sake of his chosen
people the Basilisk-Regal was forced to take the blood of one of his own kind,
and the stain of that death had marked his hands until his own passing. It had
soaked into his flesh until at the last he was compelled to keep his hands
covered because they had become too hideous to be looked upon by ordinary human
eyes.
    When
the song faded from the hall, I found myself with tears on my face and a hot
ache in my heart. It is only a song, I protested against myself. It has no
power over you. Do not act the girl in front of your enemies. But