Page 94 of Valdemar

:To hear is to obey,:he replied.

She sent an image of herself sticking her tongue out at him.

And his Councilors stared at him for a moment in confusion as he broke into laughter.

“Heralds,” sighed the Lord Martial, and no small number of the Council nodded, as if that explained everything.

Come to think of it—it does!

The royal family retired to the King’s sitting room, and Companions relayed quiet invitations to a few individuals to join them there. Delia sounded especially happy to, and Silvermoon asked Jonaton to bring the present the Hawkbrothers had sent for him, which he’d yet to open up.

Within the candlemark, Delia burst in with her hertasi friend, Jelavan. It turned out Jelavan had gained rank among the hertasi, who nobody knew even had ranks, and had started a family, whose long list of names he cheerily recited. Jelavan said that his people had already measured the broken windows, and would trade with Valdemar for new glass plate. “And rugs. This whole Palace could use rugs,” he added, bobbing his head.

Silvermoon arrived, moving slowly. Magically, he had the equivalent of a pulled back, and as if his physical wounds weren’t enough, the ring he’d been jabbed with held some kind of toxin that threatened to put him in a coma. Unseen, though, were the wounds inside his heart and mind. He was assisted in his walking by Herald Starbird at his side, and they took up cushions instead of chairs.

Beltran held the door for Jonaton and Hakkon to join them around a low, leafed table, set with delicacies, sweets, and teas. “The Circle sends their regrets for not attending, because they are ‘too damn busy,’” Beltran said warmly. “Rothas and Lythe are otherwise engaged. You will have to make do with us.”

King Kordas himself walked the table, well out of any illusion of royal authority by his casual clothing, pouring refreshment for the assemblage. His crown was on the table like any other dinnerware, with Isla’s and Restil’s stacked atop it. When he’d finally poured a cup for himself, he raised it and proclaimed, “My greatest moments have been through your support. My coldest nights were warmed by your smiles. My highest honor is that you all would find me worthy. You are the finest, dearest friends I could ever hope for.”

“We know,” Jonaton replied, and there were laughs. Restil cast numerous looks at Starbird.

And I am keeping an eye on you, my son. Now that Starbird has given you one of her bondbird’s feathers . . . this is going to be an interesting winter.

They swapped stories, and refilled cups. Kordas showed the remains of his Spitter around, pointing out where it had delaminated from that last shot. Praises went around for the Healing acumen of those who had attended to their many wounds. Hakkon and Jonaton passed around their cat pictures. Hakkon’s were hand-drawn and showed a remarkable talent Kordas had not expected. Jonaton’s were all images magically captured onto stiff pieces of paper.

Everyone was tactful enough not to make any mention of Cloudfall or the loss of life. Silvermoon was unusually quiet, but who could blame him, after what he’d just been through? Yet he sought the company of these people of Valdemar to feel better.

Finally, Jonaton pulled a small box from one of his many pockets and set it on the table. “Silvermoon, you wanted me to bring this?”

“Yes. Open it up,” Silvermoon replied, apparently cheered by its appearance. “Take our gift into your hands, and think of what it represents. Fondly, I suspect.”

Without hesitation, Jonaton cracked the box, unfolded it, then unwrapped the flax cloth wrapping a palm-sized object.

It was a sculpture of a particularly infamous black cat, curled up sleeping.

Jonaton choked, and his eyes watered up.

“You were in mourning for the loss of a dear friend,” Silvermoon began. “I know that sorrow. It can be brutal to bear—but much, much worse to suppress. We Tayledras, for all that we may be mythologized, are human.” He paused before continuing. “And we give strength to each other by holding our hands atop each other’s. I didn’t want you to feel so bad, so we made you this. It is as accurate to Sydney as we could craft. He is a new friend.”

Jonaton sniffled, and warmed the sculpture while everyone looked on curiously. A momentary expression of delight showed on his face when it began to move.

When he opened his palms, the cat sculpture uncurled, stood up on Jonaton’s hand, and stretched the peculiar one-foreleg-opposite-hindleg stretch that Sydney had done all his life.

Wordlessly, Jonaton set the miniature cat on the table, where he walked around as if he owned the place. He leapt onto Jonaton’s spoon, flipping it into the clotted cream—which splattered across several faces and outfits—and ricocheted the cream jar sideways into Jonaton’s cup, which dumped into Jonaton’s lap.

Silvermoon k’Vesla, Elder Adept of the fabled Hawkbrothers, in the presence of Heralds, at the table of the King, Queen, and Heir of Valdemar, had a quirk of a smile, even though he spoke in all seriousness.

“And he is an asshole.”