As with all the stories of the immortals, he had discovered he could only make an ending happy by a careful choice of stopping point. This was a poem in honor of a child-blessing, after all—he could not very well go on to describe the hatred that grew between the Onyenai and Perin’s Surazemai. Tinwright did not think even Hendon Tolly expected him to celebrate young Olin Alessandros’ naming day with a poem about one set of royal brothers destroying the children of another royal wife. If Olin or one of the twins ever regained the throne, that would be the kind of thing remembered at treason trials.

Treason. As he raised his voice to begin the last stanzas, Tinwright felt cold sweat prickle his forehead again. Let Zosim, god of poets, stand beside him now! Why was he worrying about something as far away as a treason trial? He was planning to do something tonight that could get him beheaded without any trial at all!

He faltered for a moment, just as Perin was about to throw down his cruel, drunken father. Ordinarily Tinwright didn’t think much about the actual gods except as almost inexhaustible subjects for poetry, but there were moments like this when his childhood terror of them came sweeping back, moments when he stood again in their long cold shadow and knew that someday he must face their judgment.

“Great Sveros, Twilight Lord, roared in his rage,
‘How, shall sons spit into their father’s face?
My curse shall rain like blood on all this age
And pursue each whelp of my cursed race
Until Time doth all who now live erase.’
They bound him then in chains Kernios made
And cast him into dusky vaults of space
To drift unfleshed in sempiternal shade
’Til thought and feeling both should frameless fade…”

His legs shaky, as much from misgiving as from being so long on his feet, he spoke the final lines and Puzzle gave a last flourish on the lute. Tinwright bowed. As the courtiers lazily followed Hendon Tolly’s lead, applauding and calling a few words of praise, Elan M’Cory rose from her seat beside the guardian of Southmarch and made to go. For a moment Tinwright caught a flick of her eyes beneath the veil, then Hendon Tolly extended a hand and stopped her.

“But where are you off to, dear sister-in-law? The poet has labored hard to deliver this work to us. Surely you have a few words of praise for him.”

“Let her go,” growled Caradon Tolly. “Let them all go. You and I have things to talk about, brother.”

“But our poor poet, swooning for want of kind words from fair ladies…” prompted Hendon, grinning.

Elan swayed, and Tinwright had a sudden terror she would crumple, that she would faint and be surrounded by lady’s maids, the physician would be called, and all Tinwright’s careful plans to free her from her misery would be upset. “Of course, my dear brother-in-law,” she said wearily. “I extend my praise and gratitude to the poet. It is always instructive to hear of the lives of the gods, that we mortals can learn to comport ourselves properly.” She gave a half a courtesy, then reached out a trembling hand, letting one of her maids support her arm as she made her way slowly out of the room. The murmur of conversation, which had dropped almost to silence, now rose again.