THE Hall of Swords admitted very few without ceremony, and THE Mirthful Antiquity walked in as though she owned a quiet share of it.
THE Queen Regnant allowed her through, the gateway parting for the slender woman with the wild easy smile, and she crossed the ancient hall past the shrouded personages and the confined Swords, the golden-dark light of the place sliding over her, and she stopped before the throne of woven blades and bowed. It was a graceful bow, fond rather than formal, the bow of someone who had earned the right to a little informality across a very long time.
