"There is more. The men
brought in the body and in its throat your dagger was sticking.
And my son has told me that your body was a shield to him. You
offered your life for his. I did not think to thank you - but I
thank you." She ended abruptly and still her eyes had never met
the Queen's.
"I accept your thanks. Yet a mother could do no less."
The tone was one of dismissal but still Dwaymenau lingered.
"The dagger," she said and drew it from her bosom. On the clear,
pointed blade the blood had curdled and dried. "I never thought
to ask a gift of you, but this dagger is a memorial of my son's
danger. May I keep it?"
"As you will. Here is the sheath." From her girdle she drew it -
rough silver, encrusted with rubies from the mountains.
The hand rejected it.
"Jewels I cannot take, but bare steel is a fitting gift between
us two."
"As you will."
The Queen spoke compassionately, and Dwaymenau, still with veiled
eyes, was gone without fare well. The empty sheath lay on the
seat - a symbol of the sharp-edged hate that had passed out of
her life.
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