They stare at her, down noses like the prows of the royal triremes, as they wait for the inevitable words. Even the shortest of them towers two heads above her, and they do not so much have facial features, as they have architecture. There are maybe two dozen of them, swathed in black wolf pelts, and they are giants. Trembling, she turns from the tennis-court-sized bed, and confronts the shadows gathered in a ring around it. But it is only the memory of a fire the body is still. When at last she places her head against that hillside chest to listen for a heartbeat, she finds it still hot as a stovepipe from the residual fury of his metabolism. It is an hour before even the bravest of the royal physicians dares approach the body.
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