Her
companion nodded sympathetically. Still, though he wished her no ill, he felt
elated. He could see that going from princess to ghost was rather a comedown,
but the arc of his career was definitely upwards. Not long ago, he’d been a
lump of clay, not even dreaming of having any ambitions, for dreams and
ambitions make clay unfit for its important job of lying in the earth until
someone feels the need to make a pot. Now he had arms and legs, and a
serviceable, if rather stocky body. He had two dark eyes, a straight nose, two
ears. He wore a suit of leather armor and had a curved sword hanging at his
hip. He had half a mustache, for the hour was late when he was molded, and the
potter was tired.
“Drugashvilli,”
he said suddenly.
“No;
I was talking about Ravstasha. I don’t have a brother named Drugashvilli. I’ve
never heard of anyone called Drugashvilli.”
“I
just thought of it. It’s my name.”
“What
does it mean?”
“I
don’t know.”
“It
has to mean something. All names mean something.”
“What
does yours mean?”
“Slightly
intoxicated spider, dancing.”
“All
that in ‘Davadina?’”
“No;
I have several more syllables, but I keep them for emergencies.”
“What
does ‘Ravstasha’ mean?”
“Sword
with a few rust spots on it.”
“And
Pranyanbattishur?”
“Conquering
spirit.”
“Him?
That name doesn’t seem to fit at all.”
“Perhaps
it was meant to be ironic.”
“What’s
‘ironic?’”
If
they’d still been alive, the scene would have been clichéd. They were by a
riverbank, under a full moon. She was passably pretty, for a princess, and he
looked fierce and handsome, in a too-regularly featured way, though he wasn’t
sure if the sword by his side could come out of the scabbard, or if there was
really a blade attached to the hilt on which he rested his hand. Too, while the
princess had lived she had often walked by moonlight, and she was fairly sure
that the moon didn’t usually keep up a continual, urgent muttering in an
unknown language.
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