The High King of Montival

EPILOGUE

Edain Aylward Mackenzie looked up from where he was about to throw the dice onto the inside of the buckler lying on the floor. There shouldn’t be any noise-the ceiling above this ready-room was tall, and good and thick to boot-but suddenly there was, beyond the subdued buzz of voices and the hoot of the night wind around Castle Corbec’s towers.

“Quiet!” he said

The conversations died instantly. Men and women froze where they were, sitting at the tables or leaning against walls between the racks for spears and bills. Some reached for weapons, and then froze at his upraised hands.

The sound grew, faint and haunting, like the bridle-bells of the Fair Folk heard through trees on a moonless night. Then it rose to a peal like a silver carillon, and white light flooded down the stairwell. The skin at the back of his neck crawled a little in awe, and he heard whispered prayers and saw signs made.

“The jewel in the Sword. It must be as bright as the Sun itself,” he whispered, and then it died away.