He cleared his throat. “Your grace, my conceit, often, has been to pretend I am making my bequests as I die. I offer…mocking gifts to those I have deemed deserving of mockery. And have sometimes been…crude with that. Tonight…tonight, your grace, there will be no mockery. I feel grateful beyond anything I can say to see you here. To be here to see it.”

He paused, but the words had begun in his head. He was all right. This was what he did. He said:

To the golden king of Ferrieres,

What can a tavern poet bequeath?

A clear blue eye, a sharpened mind,

A strong arm to defend his people,

An awareness of how much loved he is.

And it was there for him now, all of it, already. Because sometimes a verse came to you whole, flowing like a river. Even as you began it, you knew where it wanted to go, to carry you, and that was so this night. He felt a different gratitude, a kind of joy—that this was what he did, what he was. He went on:

And this poet vows that if, before he dies

And is vouchsafed a glimpse of light,

Any sword passes through his life,

It belongs to the king. Whether given to me,

Or wielded by another. Badly by a tavern poet,

Or with skill by…anyone else

In the world given to us by Jad!

My gift, if I have any at all, is only for words,

But they, too, are yours, your grace,

To the end of all my days.

A silence. That sometimes happened in a tavern after he was done. This was longer than that, and was different. People were waiting. Of course they were.

The king of Ferrieres, golden-haired, blue-eyed, alert, and with them, said, “Oh dear. A sword poem? Very serious, Messire Villar. We were told you were amusing.”

But he smiled, saying it. The queen laughed aloud.

“Apologies, your grace,” Thierry managed. “I can be earnest at times, I fear. And feel, as I said, grateful tonight. We all do, I will venture to say.”

“So do we,” the king said to him. “You will be rewarded, Thierry Villar. For this, and for what you evidently did while we were…away.”

He lifted a hand, in benediction. And with this, there finally came the applause, as if those in the room had needed that gesture to unlock them. It continued. A release throughout the chamber.

Thierry lowered his head. He bowed. He wasn’t formally dismissed, but when he straightened he saw Marina make a small gesture with one hand, and he walked back to his seat along the table, past the giant stag head again. He collapsed on the bench, reached for his wine cup, drained it. It was refilled by a servant instantly.