Fortress in the Eye of Time

CHAPTER 28

Gossip had run the halls all evening and it had had twins by morning, so Annas reported.

And mostly it was true what the gossip was saying, simply that there was rebellion in Elwynor, Emwy village was burned to the ground — and the King was marrying the Regent of Elwynor. Cefwyn looked at least to have an hour or two before he had to refute wilder elaborations on that report. He had had a late night of questioning Cevulirnʼs captain, and discussing matters with Cevulirn — a later night, with the pain in his leg keeping him awake. But he had not finished his morning cup of tea when Efanor came bursting past the confused guards in a high fit of temper.

“You cannot be serious,” was Efanorʼs opening plaint. “You cannot do this. You dare not do this.”

“I can, and I can and I dare,” Cefwyn muttered over the rim of the tea cup. He felt a sort of triumph to have set Efanor so thoroughly aghast. It was good to have some forces of nature predictable. “Name me a disadvantage, brother, and do sit down, have a cup of tea. Shush! You know I hate uproars before Iʼve waked.”

Annas brought another cup, and Efanor settled. There were smiles. There were nods. The door shut.

“The woman is a heretic!” Efanor cried.

“Iʼll ask her whether she is. If she consents to my suit.”

“The King cannot marry a heretic! He cannot blaspheme against the gods! He cannot make light of them!”

Do you really think they notice? he was almost tempted to say. His leg was hurting this morning and he was quick to temper. But he could be at least as crassly self-serving as Efanorʼs priests, and cold-bloodedly larded his own unreligious philosophy with priestly cant. “I believe the gods send us chances, Efanor, I do believe that chances to do great good are rare, perhaps one in a lifetime, and this is mine.” Luck was the way he personally thought of it. But, inspired to one impiety, he proceeded to an outright fabrication: “I had a vision, night before last night, and I saw the sun shining on the far side of the Lenúalim. I think itʼs the godsʼ providence that Tristen came to us instead of across the river where Aséyneddin, who is truly faithless, would have seized on him and used him ill, and I think itʼs the godsʼ good providence that they have given me a chance to bring the realms together.”

“Theyʼre heretics.”

“Good loving gods, Efanor! Whom else can one rescue from sin? The pious? The gods already have them. Itʼs the heretics the gods have to court! Itʼs heresy to deny the godsʼ providence, — is it not? These are clearly providential events, absolutely unprecedented, tumbling one upon the other! And surely the good gods want converts and influence in Elwynor, which the lady can give to them, — if the godsʼ pious Guelen worshippers make a good impression and donʼt offend the lady by arresting doddering trinket-sellers in the market. Let us have a sense of proportion, here, brother, and give affairs their sensible importance! What matters more to the gods? Scaring some old woman? Or having peaceable relations with Elwynor and the chance to secure a border? Leave the gods to take care of the old women in their good time and let us do what they clearly have set before us, in the matter of this border, and the Regent, and a chance that has never ever come to any king, not for a hundred years. If we fail — if we fail, we shall stand accountable for thousands of lives. We shall lose all we hold dear and defeat the godsʼ own purpose. And I would not have that on my soul, Efanor, I would not!”

Efanorʼs mouth opened, and shut, and maybe Efanorʼs wits had begun, however belatedly, to work. Efanor had gone from sincere childhood fears of things going bump in the stairwell at night to a fierce belief that supernatural things had kept him from the good in life and could be cajoled into working better for him in the hereafter. Efanor had had his wits fairly well about him until his desertion of Emuinʼs easygoing Teranthines to the more rigid orthodoxy of the Quinalt, with their rules and abstinences — and their course of atonement for faults. Efanorʼs self-doubts and his demand for a solution he himself could apply had brought him to a sect that instilled doubts of the morality of his every thought, every thought of a thought Efanor had, and taught him then how to atone for those sinful thoughts and search for more fault in himself — which took an increasing amount of Efanorʼs attention from what was going on in the world.

Probably, Cefwyn guessed, it was the effect of growing up with a grandfather who knew he was damned to some unguessed hell and an uncle whoʼd said something prophetic about his demise the day before he died. Efanor was clutching at straws of salvation in a flood of the increasingly inexplicable.

But the brother he had loved had owned a keen wit once upon a time; and it seemed to him on an odd provocation that a surfeit of inexplicable ideas, complex beyond that damned priestʼs limited wit, might be his best chance to rescue his brother.

So he sipped tea and sat discussing the notions he had of matters military and matters involving Elwynor, and he saw that his brother was pleased — his brother, he saw in a vision at least as thunderous as the one he claimed to have had about the sunlight and the river, hated to be ranked down among the other lords, and hated to have his information when they received it.

So he would have to make time to see that Efanor was not surprised by matters of state. Efanor relaxed over that cup of tea and a second and a third, and, granted he must be very, very careful of the new-sprung and thorny hedges that defended Efanorʼs religion, Efanor positively expanded, and considered, and even advanced a rational thought or two.

Efanor had always liked to know things others did not — and once Efanor knew there was a complexity of reasons, rather like Umanon, but with more wit, Efanor was haring off down the ramifications and thinking up ideas — which could not be state secrets if he told his priest.

In that tactic, Cefwyn thought, he had his best chance to rescue his brother: get Efanor so deep in state intrigues, little ones at first, that Efanor would lean to him and keep his secrets rather than the Quinaltʼs.

Then beware the Quinalt, he thought, foreseeing trouble of a dangerous sort once the Quinalt saw Efanor slipping from their grasp.

He was rather pleased with the outcome of that conversation. His leg ached less. He felt he was on top of matters, at least starting the day, as he saw Efanor out the door.

But no sooner had he gone back to the table and his morning agenda, than Emuin was at the door, craving admittance of his guards.

And on two more cups of tea — Emuin spilled another web of less divine scheming, with secrets to tell him.

“Our young man,” Emuin said, among other pleasantries, “is aware of Maurylʼs enemy and in occasional communication with him.”

“Here?” he was moved to ask.

“Occasionally. But Place is important. Magic clings to places, and places once built mark the earth for a long, long time. He and the late lord Regent sought to take Althalen from Hasufin. I believe he did at least give good account of himself. He has prevented absolute disaster in that precinct, and wizardry of some sort called him up there. But I do not know whose maneuver it was and I do not know whose maneuver the lady Regent may be in coming here. I am not confident itʼs Tristenʼs doing. Heʼs young, heʼs sometimes unaware — I donʼt know but what the enemy could instill an idea in him. Certainly I canʼt. But I donʼt put it beyond Hasufin to do so.”

“This is the dreadful Barrakkêth. This is the wizard capable of turning the Zeide into Ynefel! Now youʼre saying heʼs a feckless child open to malign and subtle influences!”

“Heʼs not a wizard. And I am saying Mauryl did not Shape him as he was at his height of power. Mauryl — the gods know what Mauryl did. Mauryl certainly didnʼt capture all of him.”

“Glorious! Half a wizard.”

“Donʼt make light of it! There is every chance he is simply — young, as I said from the very beginning.”

“And getting older by the day, master grayfrock.”

“Be careful of him. Only be careful. He may have done you a great and very wise service at Althalen. I think, perhaps, since things are quieter, that Hasufin may have gotten his fingers burned. — Did I mention the lord Regent had Sihhë blood? You distracted me with your questions, young King.”

He swallowed the tea he had in his mouth. “No, you did not mention it. Iʼve proposed to marry his daughter — Did I mention that, sir? And the lady has gray eyes.”

“It was wizardry, however, that the lord Regent used. Wizardry, as I strongly had the impression. I donʼt say Sihhë canʼt become wizards, and I think the lord Regent was, if Your Majesty wishes, my considered opinion, both.”

“Good blessed gods, old master, I am speaking of marriage with this woman. I have deliberated marriage with this woman for months. Do you just now report this small fact? Damn it!”

“First, I didnʼt know about the lord Regent until Tristen told me. There are wizards about. They do make rustlings in the world. Second, that blood is very thin, very thin, or the lord Regent himself could have fulfilled the prophecy. He could not. He was nothing to what Tristen is.”

“Will Tristen inherit Elwynor?”

“Iʼm sure I donʼt know.”

“Should I marry her?”

“If you fancy her, why not?”

“Why not? Good gods, spare me. Give me advice, sir.”

“I confess I donʼt know. I could never select a wife for a man, being celibate, myself.”

“Another reason not to trust wizards.”

“Itʼs not a requirement. It does seem to work out that way. But I have told you what I came to tell you.”

“What shall I do, damn it, sir? Where is your advice?”

“Idrys knows far more of worldly things than I. You might ask him.”

With which Emuin took his leave, off to, Emuin declared, his devotions.

“Hell!” he said to the four walls.

“My lord?” Annas asked, having arrived from the other room.

“Hell and damnation.” He went and stared out the window, at the roof slates and the morning sky. The breakfast dishes were vanishing behind him. He heard the quiet clatter.

And a page slipped up, diffidently to hand him a note.

It was sealed with wax, with a seal of a Tower and quarterings.

Her seal. Of course her seal. They had carried the banners. Packhorses with bundles aboard. Certainly the Regentʼs seal — which he lifted with his thumbnail, and unfolded the note.

I accept your offer, it read. I shall marry you.

The sun was well up and the household about its dayʼs business when Tristen waked — staring at the ceiling of his own room, lying in his own bed, in uneasy comfort.

He hardly wanted to face the day. He had far rather lie still and cause no one any more difficulty.

But he could not, lying there and staying quiet for fear the servants would rush in, keep his thoughts from wandering over where he had been and what had happened, and, worst of all, to Cefwyn, and Cefwynʼs reasons for being angry at him.

He supposed it was a fault in himself that he could not leave it at that, that he needed desperately to make peace with Cefwyn. He was not even entirely certain Cefwyn was angry. But it seemed at least that Cefwyn had every right to be.

That was what finally drove him out of bed.

He had his breakfast, which pleased his servants; he dressed deliberately in clothing his servants somehow found for him — black — and, resolved to mend his behavior, talked pleasantly with Uwen, who had been able to sleep late, too, which Uwen almost never could. He took a little bread and opened the square of window that would open and set it out for the pigeons, which he would do every morning he had leisure — he wanted to have his life quiet and the same again, and he did all those things he would do when his life was at its most even.

But after breakfast he excused himself to Uwen and said he was going across the hall. “I promise, Uwen,” he said. “I do most earnestly promise to go nowhere else without coming back for you. Rest. Do what you care to do.”

“I donʼt distrust ye, mʼlord,” Uwen protested.

“I deserve your mistrust,” he said. “And I am going to do better, Uwen. I promise I am.”

“Mʼlord,” Uwen said, seeming embarrassed. But there was little more he could say than that.

It was clear by the number of guards at Cefwynʼs door that Cefwyn was in and most likely alone: at least no other lordʼs guards were standing about. He went across the corridor, trailing the two members of his guard that were obliged to go with him even this distance, and asked entry to Cefwynʼs apartment, half-expecting that Cefwyn would not grant it, and dreading the meeting if he did.

But the guards passed him through on standing orders, it seemed, which had never been revoked, and he passed through Idrysʼ domain between the doors, finding that vacant, and so on into Cefwynʼs rooms, where Cefwyn sat at the dining table which he had had pulled over to the light of the window.

“Mʼlord,” he said faintly.

“Tristen.” Cefwyn started to get up, and it cost him pain. Cefwyn settled again with a sigh, and beckoned him.

“I didnʼt know that youʼd see me,” Tristen said, and came and took the chair Cefwyn offered. “Iʼm truly sorry, sir.”

Cefwyn reached out across the table and caught his wrist. “Tristen. I would have called you last night but they said you were abed.”

“I was, sir. What did you want?”

Cefwyn laughed and shook his head, letting him go. “Constant as the sunrise. ‘What did you want?ʼ I wanted you alive, you silly goose. I wanted you well.”

“Thatʼs very kind, sir.”

“Kind! Good gods. Whatʼs ‘kindʼ to do with it? I might have known youʼd turn up unscratched.”

“I stole. I lied. I went where I knew danger was.”

“That fairly well sums it up.” Cefwyn shook his head and seemed amused instead of angry. “I knew every damn step of the way youʼd taken. Uwen knew. I knew. Idrys knew, the moment you turned up missing, and you still got away from us.”

“It took Uwen a while to get a horse.”

“To get six squads of cavalry. Uwen had the sense not to go alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You should not have seen,” Cefwyn said soberly then, “what you saw that night. You shouldnʼt have gone outside.”

He had half-forgotten the start of the business, or what had prompted him to the meeting Cefwyn was holding.

“Yes, sir,” he said, accepting Cefwynʼs rebuke.

“Heryn,” Cefwyn said, “was responsible for my fatherʼs death. It turns out — for Elwynim deaths as well. Heryn Aswydd was on every side of the business, and he was seeing that messages went through him. If the message didnʼt suit him — that messenger died. He was dealing with every Elwynim faction, dealing with me, informing my father with lies about my doings, informing my brother and informing any lord of any province who would listen to his poison. He was guilty, Tristen. And if there is war, as I fear there will be, he is in no small part responsible for that.”

“I think that he listened to Hasufin.”

“Your bogeyman in the tower. I donʼt know who he listened to, my friend. But his own greed — and his panic when I began going through his tax records — made him desperate. He was, I am almost certain, directly behind the attempts on my life. Certainly he indirectly instigated them and possibly secured safe passage of assassins to get near me. Certainly with his men on patrol up by Emwy, it was easy for that bridge to be rebuilt and for any number of Elwynim to come across that route: his so-called guards passed them through like a sieve.”

It certainly made sense of a great deal that had happened. “I believe youʼre right,” he said.

“You do.” Cefwyn seemed faintly amused, and then sober again as he leaned back in the chair and shoved it back a little to face him across the corner of the table. “Lucky for everyone you were able to get the lady Ninévrisë to come to Henasʼamef. I dislike encouraging you to your folly, but I think there would have been a far worse issue without you. — Emuin did explain that you felt something was about to happen, and that you went for that reason.”

“I couldnʼt defeat him.”

“Who? This Hasufin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Forget the ‘sir.ʼ Forget ‘mʼlordʼ while weʼre talking in private. Tell me the absolute truth. Tell me every detail you know and I shanʼt interrupt.”

He did try. He began with stealing Petelly, and ended with their coming to Henasʼamef; and once a guard came in to say a councillor wanted to see Cefwyn and once to give Cefwyn a note, for which Cefwyn excused himself a moment and wrote a brief reply, but Cefwyn would not let him go on until he had seated himself again and heard everything. Cefwyn made him tell about the Regent and the gray place. He made him tell about Ninévrisë meeting him there, and about what he had told Ninévrisë about his having the portrait. It was the longest anyone had ever listened to him, except Mauryl, and he was less and less certain, when he came to the business on the road, that Cefwyn wanted to hear him in that detail, but Cefwyn said leave out nothing. He was not certain that his talking to the Elwynim about the portrait might not make Cefwyn angry; but Cefwyn gave no sign of it. Cefwyn kept all expression from his face.

And when he had finished, and said so, Cefwyn nodded and seemed to think for a moment.

“You dream of this Hasufin. But you say heʼs very real.”

“Very real, sir.”

“And can cause harm?”

“I think that he could. I think certainly that he moves the Shadows. And the wind. He made the door come in. He cracked the walls. He made the balconies fall.”

“Certainly substantial enough,” Cefwyn agreed. “But he canʼt come here.”

“The lord Regent said he could come where he had something to come to. Someone who listened to him. I think Heryn listened to him. Not well. And not the way the lord Regent did, because I donʼt think Heryn was a wizard. I think itʼs most dangerous if wizards did it.”

“But to some extent, Hasufin could come here.”

“If we began to listen to him, he could, yes, sir, thatʼs what I think.”

“Very good reason not to do that, is it not?”

“I agree, sir. But heʼs much stronger. Much stronger. And we should go there.”

“To Ynefel.”

“Yes, sir. We should stop him.”

“How?”

Tristen bit his lip. “I donʼt know. I tried.” He felt the failure sharply. “If the lord Regent had been stronger, maybe the two of us could have driven him back. We did, for a time.”

“Could you and Emuin do so?”

He did not want to say the truth. But Cefwyn had expected him to be honest, and Cefwyn was listening to him. “Emuin is afraid,” he said. “Emuin is afraid of him. — And the lady canʼt help. Sheʼs only just able to hear me when I speak to her. She could be in great danger. Sheʼs not as strong as the lord Regent. Maybe she could learn — but I couldnʼt say.”

Cefwyn seemed to think that over a time. “Tell no one else about the lady.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have offered to marry her. Sheʼs accepted. I expect to meet with her — in not very long. Should this wizardry of hers prevent me?”

It was loss for him. But he could not mislead Cefwyn from what was good. “I donʼt think so, sir.”

Again Cefwyn gazed at him a long time without speaking. “I donʼt think it should, either. You donʼt affright me. You dismay me at times, but you have no power to frighten me, not when I have you close at hand. Itʼs when youʼre gone that Iʼm afraid.”

“Of me, sir?”

“No, not of you. Of your not being here. No matter what, Tristen, always be my friend. And, damn it all, donʼt say ‘sirʼ to me.”

“Iʼm sorry.”

“You mustnʼt steal horses, either. If I gave you a horse — which would you?”

“I donʼt wish you to give me a horse.”

“Well, you canʼt be stealing them, either. How is that to look, the Kingʼs friend, a horse-thief? You have an excellent eye for horses. I should like a foal of that red mare, I do tell you. You may have Gery, if you like, though. Look over the horses I have. Take the one you want, except Danvy. You should have at least three or four.”

“I should like Petelly,” he said. It did not console him. But that Cefwyn wished to give him something said that Cefwyn wished to please him. That was something.

“Which is Petelly?” Cefwyn asked.

“The one I stole. I like him.”

“Thatʼs not very ambitious. I have far finer.”

“Petelly is a very good horse.”

“Well, Iʼm sure. And if you picked him out I should have another look at him. But heʼs not enough for heavy armor. And I shall ask you to do several things for me.”

“What are they?”

“First—” Cefwyn marked the item with a finger. “Go down to master Peygan. Do you know him? Uwen does.”

“The master armorer.”

“Exactly. These are chancy times, and if you ride off again into a fight, by the gods, youʼll go wearing more than you wear about the halls. Choose anything you like. Iʼll give the armsmaster his orders. And youʼll want a horse that can carry you wearing it. I have one in mind. One of mine, in fact, out of a mare I have.”

“I would be very pleased,” he began, and intended to say he hardly knew what to do with such an extravagant gift. From abandoned — he found himself smothered in gifts he supposed proved Cefwynʼs forgiveness — perhaps even Cefwynʼs determination not to abandon him. But Mauryl had given him things just before — just before the balconies fell down.

“Good!” Cefwyn said. “Thatʼs settled. Youʼll join me this evening. Will you?”

“I would be very glad to.”

“Then—” Cefwyn gathered himself up, leaning on the table, and Tristen understood it was dismissal, perhaps business disposed of with that. But unaccountably Cefwyn embraced him, and held him at armsʼ length and looked him close in the face. “My friend. Whatever happens, whatever you hear of me, whatever I hear of you, no one will ever make us distrust one another. Youʼll take another oath, do you see, in a few days — but I shall not ask you this time to swear to obey me. Only tell me now youʼll take me into your confidence. Kings should not be surprised. Kings should never be surprised. Thatʼs all I ask.”

“I have promised Uwen, too. But I might have to go.”

“Do you know that already? Damn it, what do you know?”

He didnʼt know how to answer. Cefwyn reached toward him, toward his collar, and pulled at the chain he wore, of that amulet Cefwyn had given him.

“Does this,” Cefwyn asked, “—does this give you comfort?”

“That you gave it comforts me.”

“Does it protect you?”

“I havenʼt felt so.” He had never looked for it to do so. “But Iʼve never looked at it in the gray place.”

“The gray place.”

“Where Shadows live.”

“Tell me. You can tell me. What gods do you serve? Emuinʼs?”

Gods should, perhaps, be a Word. Men seemed to hold it so. But he found nothing to shape it for him. He reached for the chain and slid the amulet back within his collar. “I donʼt know. I donʼt know, Cefwyn.”

“And, with you, not knowing…encompasses much, does it not? — Can you say what the Elwynim are doing, up by Emwy?”

He shook his head. “But they will know that the lady is here. Aséyneddin listens to Hasufin. I am sure he does. He will dream it. He most likely knows.”

“Is he a wizard?”

“I donʼt know. I havenʼt met him.”

“I heed you,” Cefwyn said at last. “You are free. But I ask you, wait and ride with us. Will you? — We shall ride to Emwy and deal with the Elwynim rebels. If you learn anything, by whatever means, you will tell me. Promise me that.”

“I promise it.”

“And donʼt keep me wondering where you are, or what you think. I am fond of you, damn you. I need you. I shall be sad all my life if you leave me.” Cefwyn shook at him a little. “I shall have to be a king. Iʼm obliged to. Itʼs a damned boring thing to be. — Join me tonight. Will you?”

It was a dismissal. But Cefwyn embraced him a second time, and with a fierceness that said he was welcome, and wanted, and would not be abandoned, and he held tightly to that embrace, his heart beating hard even while he asked himself was it only kind, what Cefwyn did, and did it hide what Cefwyn knew he would do.

There had been a time he would have been sure that Cefwyn would know what to do. There had been a time he had been sure that Cefwyn would protect him.

Now, if nothing else, it seemed quite the other way about. In the lord Regent he had lost someone who might have stood with him against Hasufin, had his Road led him there instead of here — so certainly so he had to ask himself whether he had indeed mistaken his way in the world; for he knew now with clearest sight that Emuin had the knowledge, but lacked the courage to begin a fight, and that Cefwyn, who did have all the courage anyone could ask, was helpless against this enemy as they all were helpless to stop Cefwynʼs pain, or turn aside the danger that was coming against him.

Mauryl might have helped Cefwyn. Mauryl could have worked a healing on him, and Cefwyn would not be in such unremitting pain as was beginning to mark his face.

But none of them, not Uleman, not Emuin, not Cefwyn, were what Mauryl had been. He himself knew reading and writing and horsemanship; he knew the use of a sword. He knew things about buildings that no longer were, like what he now knew was an older state of the lower hall.

But he knew nothing of what he most wanted, which was to be what Mauryl had wished him to be, and to make Cefwyn happy and safe and free from his wound.

“Thank you,” he said to Cefwyn in leaving, and wished to the bottom of his heart that he were better than he was, and stronger than he was, and wiser than he was; and he wished that there were indeed some wise old man to take care of him and tell him his fears were empty.

The fact was they were not empty. And would not be. He had to do something. He did not imagine what that was. But that was what Mauryl had left him to do — even if his worst fears were true, and he had been mistaken in coming to Cefwyn, he had to find a way to make things right; or, if he had been right, to turn things as they were…into what they had to be.

The stables had sent in their accounts — Haman did not write well, and the scribe who had taken them down from Hamanʼs dictation had a florid hand clearly Bryalt in style, which he was trying to puzzle out, when Idrys came to say that the lady had answered his last missive, among missives they had been exchanging with increasing frequency since breakfast.

In fact, the lady was at the door.

“Damn!” Cefwyn cried, and looked for a place to bestow the border reports, the maps. “Here.” He shoved maps at a passing page. “In the map-cabinet, for the good godsʼ sake. — Annas!” More pages were running. He handed them the maps and the sensitive documents. “Put them in the bedchamber.”

“Where in the bedchamber, Your Majesty?”

“On the bed! Put them somewhere. — Idrys, let the lady in.”

He did not want to use the stick. He set that in the corner. He had put on the cursed bezaint shirt under the russet velvet, as Idrys insisted, and carried a dagger, which was not his habit: he counted that precaution enough against murderous Elwynim intentions and subterfuges of marriage.

“Are you quite ready, mʼlord?”

“Open the damned door, Idrys!” He forced the leg to bear his weight naturally. It would do so once the initial pain passed. He walked toward the door, and was prepared for an informal meeting such as he had requested in the last note he had sent upstairs.

Ninévrisë wore darkest blue velvet, with silver cord — was in mourning, by the quiet black sash she wore; she wore velvet sleeves, and wore the Regentʼs crown. Her hair was modestly braided now, with a black ribbon — and answering the provenance of it, Margolis was with her, Margolis, the armorerʼs wife, a matronly woman of a constitution undaunted by relocation to the least civil province in the realm; Margolis could bring order to any situation — and if that gown had not been in the packs the Elwynim had brought, he could well believe that Margolis had stitched it up on a momentʼs notice. He did not know who had enlisted her to Ninévrisëʼs aid, but he was grateful.

“Welcome,” he said. “Your Grace of Elwynor.” He took Ninévrisëʼs offered hand, and after it, Margolisʼ stout one. “Dear Margolis. Thank you. Gracious as always.” The last was for Margolis; but his eyes were for Ninévrisë whose demeanor was reserved, and whose mourning sash was a reminder to sober propriety. “After a day of messages — thank you for coming. I would by no means press your attendance—”

“My father is not lost,” Ninévrisë said firmly, and walked past him to look about the room. “Lord Tristen said so. So I do not mourn him for lost. Nor do I count my war lost before it begins. May we dismiss our guards, Your Majesty, and speak frankly?”

“Lady,” he said to Margolis. “Lord Commander.” The latter to Idrys, who offered the armsmasterʼs wife a gracious retreat, likely no farther than the outside room.

The lady of Elwynor was so beautiful, so — unreachable, so unattainable by any wile or grace he had ever used for any other infatuation he had had, offering herself to him — and yet not to be had, ever, if he made her despise him. He had felt as attracted to a lady, but never so unsure of the ladyʼs reasons in accepting, and never so unsure of acceptance when he had committed himself this extravagantly.

“I was delighted by your acceptance,” he said, “and now—”—devastated by your coldness, he could finish, in courtly fashion. But it would be a mistake to enter that ground with this woman, he thought, because she would not quickly abandon the manner he set between them. “Now,” he said, with utter honesty, “I see that you have reservations that did not at all enter todayʼs messages. Constraint upon you was never my wish, Your Grace. I swear I shall keep my word. I am sad if you think so badly of me. And I assure you I shall be your ally in war. Common sense constrains that. So — you are not obliged to accept my suit.”

She was not a woman, he had thought, who would use tears. But she turned away in the best tragic style and wiped at her eyes furiously.

He was angry, then, seeing her set upon him with such common tactics.

She stayed with her back turned. Wiped at her eyes a second time. “Forgive me,” she said. “I had not intended to do this.”

“Please,” he said coldly. It had not yet reached him, how many of his plans were affected by her refusal of marriage, and how many more were threatened if he insulted her pride. He felt more than angry. He felt, rejected, the ground giving way under his feet; he was desperate for the peace that he might yet salvage, and he could not, like a man stung in his personal hopes, answer in temper. “If not your love, Your Grace, at least I hope to win your good regard. I never wished to imply a condition to my help. What do you ask of me?”

She looked slowly around at him, and turned and stared at him as if she by no means believed it.

“That you grant us the camp,” she said. “That you aid my men to cross to Elwynor and gain what help they can.”

“I grant that. Freely.”

“Why?” she demanded of him.

“Your Grace, your enemies as well as your friends will cross the river to find you. They have killed my lord father as well as yours, and just as recently. If your men will hold them at the bridge and remove their legitimacy with their supporters, that would be a great service.”

“And you would let me go.”

“I promised safe-conduct. I give you alliance.”

“I shall not support any claims of territory, Your Majesty of Ylesuin.”

“Nor shall I make any. As I recall, you came to me. I did not seek this. I did not seek the war which you have graciously brought with you. But it is here, it would have been here eventually on any account, and I had rather support your legitimate claim and far more pleasant countenance than have my fatherʼs murderers as neighbors. So you see — my offer was well thought. I am sorry to have conveyed any other impression. I thought, yesterday, that we understood one another.”

She heaved a small breath, and another, and the tears were still on her face, but her face was calmer.

“Yesterday we did. But—” Another perilous breath. “I thought all night — what your reasons might be.”

“And then sent the message?”

“It seemed a way to be done with it.” She ducked her head, bit her lip, and looked up. “I have no better suitor. And I find you not the devil I thought. With many worse waiting in Elwynor — who would also take arms against Aséyneddin.”

“Pray donʼt consider me a last resort, mʼlady. I do have some pride. You are free to go.”

“I might like you. I think I do like you. — And I donʼt consider you a last resort. To save my people, I would marry Aséyneddin. And put a dagger in him. That is my last resort.”

“Good gods, do you consider putting one in me? I hope not.”

“No.” She walked toward him, hands folded, and looked up at him. “I do think I like you far better than I thought I would.”

“Thatʼs very gratifying.”

“Perhaps a fair amount better.”

“Still more so.”

“But do you like me at all?”

“I find you—”

“If you say beautiful I shall like you much less, sir.”

“I was about to say, remarkable. Outrageous. Amazing. Gentle. Gracious. Intelligent. A good match for my own outrageous qualities, not least among which they tell me are my looks, and my intellect.”

“You are outrageous.”

“So my accusers say.”

There were the very ghosts of dimples at the corners of her mouth — an attempt at restraint.

“I am accounted,” he said, unwilling to be defeated by a reputation, “a fellow of good humor. Not quarrelsome. Not meddlesome.”

“My cousins say Iʼm forward. Moody. Given to pranks and flights of fancy.”

“My grandfather was a lunatic.”

Her eyes went wide.

“I am,” she said, “faithful to my promises, chaste, — not modest, however.”

“I could be faithful. I abhor chastity. I cannot manage modesty.”

The dimples did appear.

“Gods, a smile. I have won a smile.”

“You are reprehensible, mʼlord.”

“But adoring.”

“Gods save me. I am a heretic to your Quinalt. I have heard so.”

“I am a heretic to the Quinalt did they know the opinion I hold of them. I may desert them for the Bryalt faith if they annoy me.”

“Six months of the year I shall reside and rule in Elwynor. On my own authority.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “My lady, if I cannot make you wish to shorten that time, I shall account myself at fault.”

Her face went an amazing pink. Her hand rested in his. He kissed three fingers before she rescued it. “I insist on six months.”

“I shall at least make you regret them. Is that yes to my suit? Or shall we commit venial sin?”

“Sir,—”

“I said I was not chaste.”

She escaped a few paces, around the edge of the table. “As regards the defense at Emwy—”

“Yes?”

“Caswyddian is dead, or most of his men are, by whatever means — I think so, at least.”

“Your fortified camp is well thought. But undermanned.”

“What else can I do?”

“Send more men. Iʼll lend them.”

“Guelenfolk? Alongside Elwynim?”

“Amefin. A Bryalt priest, if I can pry one out of sanctuary — at least in hopes a priest is worth something. Thereʼs too much wizardry loose. He might be more use than a squad of cavalry. But you arenʼt going.”

“I command my own troops!”

“Gods, it seems the fashion of late. Listen to me, mʼlady. These are very brave men who came with your father, if I understand accounts, and I believe I do. These are men who had determined to stand by their oaths and give their lives for your father; who are prepared to give them for you — but best for them if the Regent stays safe and lets these good men do what they can, until my men are ready to carry an assault. If the bridge is decked, they will dismantle that decking. If they bring more timbers, the camp as weʼll set it up will have a garrison sufficient to hold that bridge against any force attempting to cross out of Elwynor. Weʼll have watches on all the other crossings, including those that might be made by boat. And if we are to go to war, my gracious and wise lady, I command all the forces, unless you can tell me on what fields you have fought, and prove that one of your men has experience to order your forces without me. Otherwise, leave matters to me. Iʼll be accommodating of your command in civil matters. Not in this, and not where a noviceʼs mistake can expose other forces to danger.”

She did listen. He saw comprehension, however unwilling, in her eyes.

“Are we to be married?” she asked. “I would marry you.”

“I am still willing.”

“Willing?” Clearly that was not enough.

“I said yes, my lady. What more do you want?”

A faint, a diffident voice: “A nicer yes.”

He saw that there was here no exact rationality — nor one called for. She was alone. She was uncertain at best. He came around the end of the table and took her hand.

“Yes,” he said, and in lieu of kissing the hand, snatched her by it into his arms and kissed her, long and soundly, until with her fists she began to pound his shoulder.

She did not find words immediately. She was searching after breath. Finally: “You are a scandal, sir!”

“I would not have you in doubt, my lady. And would not marry a statue. I donʼt think you are a statue. You give no evidence of being. And I think you know that I am none.”

She was breathing quite hard, still, and again put the table between them. “You must not do that,” she said, “until there is ink, sir, abundant ink. And agreements sworn and written down.”

“I donʼt think you could list the points of negotiation. I know I should miss a few.”

“If we are to be married,” she said, between breaths, “we should be betrothed immediately — before my folk go. I have no one here but them. And I would like them to be present.”

“Shall we be betrothed, then?”

“Yes.”

“Soon?”

“Yes, good gods. Give me peace.” She set herself all the way around the table, for safety. “I have put on mourning. But my father would well understand what I do. I have no hesitation on that account. Have you, sir?”

“None. Our custom is against mourning.”

“I shall try to love you. I think I would like you — if we met by chance. I do wish to love you. But do me the grace of courtship. I should like to be courted — a little, sir.”

There were tears, at least a glistening in her eyes; it was not an extravagant request, nor, he thought, false: she was very young, and still possessed of romantic notions.

So, he admitted to himself, was he.

“My lady, marriage is my duty and yours. But a little courtship—that, I have no difficulty to promise, an extravagantly scandalous courtship, which—” he said, “I do count on winning. But for now, my hand, my respectful attention.” Wherewith he offered his hand, and she was about to take it, when:

“You have not,” she said, “—not mentioned the lord of Ynefel.”

“Tristen? What of Tristen?”

“The succession.”

“Ah.”

“And I insist we shall not merge our kingdoms! I shall be sovereign over Elwynor, and through me, there will be one child to inherit Ylesuin, one for Elwynor.”

“Hardly something we can achieve holding hands, my lady.”

“And if Tristen — if Tristen is our King—”

“Tristen is happiest as he is.”

“He is your friend. Is he not your friend? You cannot dismiss his rights — you would not, would you? We should settle that question in the nuptials.”

“Tristen would not wish it. Believe me.” He walked around the table and took her not unwilling hand. “Ask him if you like. His concerns are elsewhere. But if he reaches a point that he wishes to declare himself, then I trust that he will do that and I shall free him from any oath that stands in his way. One does not prevent or protect Tristen from what he decides to do, gods save us all. You will discover that first of all things you know about him.”

The tailor had entered collapse — the oath-taking for tomorrow and a royal betrothal this evening: to save his reason, the King promised him a coronation to come; and the coat, if not the cloak, was ready. And even a king did not need to outshine his bride — who had come with her jewels, he was informed by a distraught Margolis, but not a betrothal gown. The tailor had risen triumphantly to the occasion, declared he knew where was the very shade of velvet, and gods only knew how, in details the King decided were far beyond his competency, Margolis had turned up a score of petticoats and the jewels had turned up stitched, the tailor interrupted his work to say, to sleeves and bodice, as a veritable army of Amefin ladies had invaded and barricaded the lesser hall to stitch and stitch and stitch for the lady Regent.

Somehow, another miracle of the gods, or the Amefin ladies, the tailor personally turned up with the Kingʼs sleeves, beautiful work, Cefwyn had to admit, of Marhanen red, with the Dragon arms in stitchery at least on the right sleeve, and the King would accordingly set a fashion tomorrow, of a cloak skewed and draped down the left arm.

It was all too much. But there was arranged a set of trumpeters — gods hope they managed, for the honor of Ylesuin, to start together: Annas had his doubts. There was arranged — not such a banquet as Guelemara would put on, but at least a selection of meats and pies and breads, which, the King was given by the cook to understand, were being done in ovens all among the Amefin nobles about the hill and in two bakeries, if the captain at the gate would let the food be brought in from the town. Cook had arranged it, the plans were about to fall apart an hour before the event, and the King had to intervene with a written order on behalf of a cart full of cheeses, let alone the meat pies—“Good gods,” he said, “if theyʼre to poison us, theyʼll poison the whole court. Just bring mine and the brideʼs from this kitchen, and the hell with it!”

There were barrels of ale brought up to the courtyard, and tables set up for the commons in the lower town. That, the household managed on prior experience. There were musicians. There were entertainers for the courtyard. There was a man who offered to bring a trained bear, but in the crowded condition of the hall, Annas and Idrys alike thought this folly and the King agreed.

The King, nerving himself and trying to numb the leg with a prior cup of strong willow-tea chased with a cup of wine, was in the main trying to decide whether he should use the stick getting down the stairs or, if he must use it, exactly where he could abandon it, and how long he might have to stand during the ceremony.

Past the initial rounds of drink, and the bride-to-beʼs maidenly withdrawal from the hall, he supposed, the King could find similar excuse and go. He was advised that Amefin betrothals were rowdy and licentious, and rowdy and licentious seemed to mean even the King could be jostled, which he did not want to be, nor wish to have the Kingʼs presence in the hall if any fool did bring in a weapon — he gave Idrys stern orders that the guard was to be vastly lenient, that they should try to protect the Elwynim from drunken folly, and that the interpretation of death for weapons drawn under the Kingʼs roof should find as wide a latitude as they could contrive, including bashing an inebriate offender over the head and depositing him outside the gatehouse. He had, he told Idrys severely, no wish to have the evening marred by a death sentence. He wished to celebrate, that was all, and to have no cases before him tomorrow when he waked with whatever of a hangover he could achieve. He wished to be happy. Devil take those who disagreed.

And with that, he did use the stick getting down the stairs, and took the back approach to the great hall, and all the lords there present, including Efanor and his bosom friend Sulriggan. Elwynim were there as well as Ylesuin, the greater and the lesser lords, thanes, ealdormen, whatever: Elwynorʼs titles were like Amefelʼs. Tristen had come, with Emuin. The ladies of the Amefin lords and of the Guelen captains and lieutenants were there, dressed for festive doings. Orien had arrived reasonably on the stated hour, decked in the green velvet of her house and outfitted with a waspish temper, which she used only against the servants, thus far.

The trumpets had managed tolerably well on the Kingʼs entry. Annas had sent upstairs for Ninévrisë the moment he was downstairs, and while the musicians played and the guests came wishing the King well, the King fidgeted and watched the faces of the guests, who were already at the wine and the ale.

A blast of trumpets — only slightly out of agreement, and Ninévrisë swept in from the front entry, in all the glory of the new-made gown, deep blue velvet with sleeves stitched with jewels of every color, with a cream silk pulled through and puffed, and a deep blue cloak with a rose silk lining. A black ribbon was wound around the glittering gold of the Regentʼs crown — that was the concession to mourning. There were ohs and ahs from the crowd as she passed, delight in the eyes of no few ladies, if only that she was beautiful, and there was a spontaneous applause as she reached the dais and reached for his hand.

He kissed her hand. He held it joined with his for all the company to see, and said, in a loud voice the exact words they had hammered out to bridge the gulf of religion: “My lords and ladies, I declare before you one and all I shall hold myself faithful and true and marry this woman in the sight of gods and men, in the first month of winter!”

Ninévrisë said, “My lords and ladies, I vow before gods and men I shall hold myself faithful and true and marry this man in the first month of winter!”

The musicians struck up. There was more applause. He was watching Orienʼs face no less than Efanorʼs, and found it stark, pale, and in that flare of nostril — absolutely furious.

“Her Most Honorable Grace the lady Regent of Elwynor has agreed,” he said, gathering up all he had to say to them, “that the Elwynim conflict has already cost lives precious to her. It has cost my fatherʼs life, the lives of men with him; attacks on my person; the burning and slaughter of Emwy village…and loyal men have died in defense of Ylesuin. It has cost the life of the lord Regent of Elwynor, who had come to treat peacefully with us; and those that killed him did so on our land. In defense of our right and our land over which the gods have granted us rule; and by the godsʼ great might and by their will we shall come to the aid of the Regency of Elwynor, which has in past been a neighbor not utterly agreed with us, but which has never invaded our territory.

“I do not aspire to rule Elwynor — as I believe Your Graces of Elwynim came here with no desire to rule Ylesuin. Let us declare, all, that we have no designs on each otherʼs land or lives, and that our greatest resources are not gold; they are good will on the borders and farmers reaping harvests untroubled by brigandage or war.

“I will not have for a neighbor the man I believe conspired in my fatherʼs death and in my brideʼs fatherʼs death. By the gods and my oath I shall maintain the rights of Ninévrisë Syrillas as lawful Regent of Elwynor and agree that the realm of Elwynor does not come to me by marriage nor by any other oath. Her Most Honorable Grace will remain Regent of Elwynor in her own name and right, as I shall remain King of Ylesuin, granting neither land nor honors save the estate of wife, and she shall bear her own titles and honors, granting none to me save the estate of husband. We shall both with the help of our loyal subjects assure a peaceful border open to trade and safe for those villages neighboring the roads.”

The hall had grown very quiet. Men who had not expected an oath to follow at that point had fallen into a dead hush, realizing, suddenly, that their own lives and lands and those of their children were being accounted for then and there.

“My lady? What say you?”

“I wish that my lord father might have seen his daughter a bride. I wish that more of my lords were present and not in danger of their lives in Elwynor. But by your help, my loyal and honorable lords of Elwynor, and you gracious lords and ladies of Ylesuin, and by the gods who bless peace, I swear I will take back my land and become the just Regent of Elwynor, the friend of all peaceful and honest people of this land and a faithful wife to my husband. I swear I shall give justice and secure the rights and honors of my own faithful lords. That is what I most wish. That is what my father came to Ylesuin to urge. I ask you all, eat and drink together in peace and please may the good holy men here present pray safety for all menʼs houses, great and small.”

That was a thorny question: which gods and which priests. A small, seemly applause attended, wildly enthusiastic from certain of the Amefin — but not from all: decidedly not from the Quinaltines and not from Orien Aswydd.

But Emuin leapt bravely into the gap, launched forth in a loud voice with the good Teranthine brothers on either hand and intoned a blessing on all present, mercifully brief, at which the crowd cheered; and, with the value of a small shrine in perpetuity in his purse, the local head of the Quinalt, not Efanorʼs priest, forestalled briefly by Emuinʼs quick action, began a state prayer clearly designed to have been first — he might, however, have elaborated it on the fly, seeing himself potentially outdone by the Teranthines; Cefwyn guessed so, at least, for it went on into blessings on the town and blessings on the company present, blessings on the peace and blessings on the King and blessings on the lords and ladies, on their houses and their hearths, their sons and their daughters, their cattle and their horses. He had paid, and by the gods, he was going to have his prayer at rivalrous and inspired length.

He stole a glance at Efanorʼs priest, who looked to have swallowed sour milk; and in the close of it, gods save them, not to be outdone, the Bryalt cleric stood forth in a long appeal for religious harmony. Then, with the Bryaltʼs signal disregard of cultic divisions, the good man threw in Quinalt blessings and Teranthine and several others the provenance of which Cefwyn was truly glad he did not know; but the Amefin minor nobility made assenting nods of their heads, called out approbations, and a few mopped at their eyes.

Then, then they were done and the crowd applauded. He was permitted to give the bride a kiss on the cheek and he made an exchange of rings — he had had Annas buy his from an Amefin goldsmith, a simple band, and she had brought hers among her jewels, her motherʼs troth ring.

He found himself missing her finger with it, or at least feeling weak in the knees, as it suddenly struck him that he was not making a political speech, he was well and truly sworn to a treaty with Elwynor and committing himself to a household and offspring and all of it. Somehow he managed to put the damned thing on the lovely finger, gave a second kiss on the other cheek, received one, and in a moment of dizziness, all was done. The trumpets blared out wildly, not at all together, and this time there were loud cheers: the Amefin town dignitaries and their ladies who were crowding the back of the hall for the festivities clearly loved kisses far better than they understood the treaties the lords were still thinking through with suspicion, and they saw that the speeches were over and that the wine was about to flow in earnest.

After that, thank the gods, the musicians struck up a merry country dance, and the crowd made for the tables where wine and bread and cheese were set, with mugs of ale and the little pies, a tower of which the guests rapidly demolished.

“You seem truly happy, my lady,” Tasien came to say, taking Ninévrisëʼs hand, while Cefwyn was busy with a well-wisher from the town. “Are you? Dare you say?”

“I think I may well be,” she said, and Cefwyn, overhearing, drew in a breath of very heady nature. “I do think I could become so. Only take care. Do take care at Emwy.” She let him kiss her hands, then, and Tasien passed on to him.

“I am greatly taken with her, Your Grace,” Cefwyn said quietly to Tasien. “I shall send troops to reinforce you. But I made help to you no part of our agreement. The early betrothal—she asked the haste, so that you might be here, to stand as her father would have.”

“Your Majesty,” Tasien said, only that, and bowed, clearly not taking it for the truth, and managed to preserve a stiff and misgiving demeanor. So he knew he had not won Tasien, nor, he thought, the rest of the Elwynim.

But eat and drink they would, and so with the common men with them, who had put on their best, and whom Ninévrisë had wished admitted to the hall and seated in honorable places, because, she had said before they came in, she had given every one of them a modest if currently landless title and promised them rewards from the Crown when they reached Ilefínian in Elwynor, they, or, if they fell, their next of kin.

So he congratulated each of them as they came to pay their lady their good wishes, and, a trick he had learned from Emuin, knew their names and their new titles, which won astonished looks and no small good will for himself, he hoped. So it was at least one half-score of Elwynim who were happily celebrating tonight, and, perhaps their natural wary bent, or perhaps some sense of new responsibility, they were more modest in their attack on the wine-bowl than some ladies of Amefel, to look on the scene — and not participant in the handing-out of the diverse cups, none of a set, which he had declared the guests might take away with them.

That Amefin betrothal tradition had proved imprudent. There was no little wine spilled in the encounter at the tables.

“We should send a score of them up to the riverside,” he muttered to Ninévrisë. “Gods, such graces!”

Orien had somehow not come up to felicitate the marriage, but other Amefin lords and ladies were beaming. Tristen came up the step, and said in his own way, to Ninévrisë, “Cefwyn will do what he says. He is honest,” and to him, “She thinks everything is beautiful and the people are kind and she likes you more than she trusts you.”

Ninévrisë was appalled and distressed. He was appalled and amused. But Tristen went away then, as if, though able to know what he knew, he entirely failed to know the dismay he left in his wake.

“Do you?” he said.

“Which?” she asked. But an elderly Amefin lady was attempting to hand Ninévrisë a charm done up in ribbons. “Children and grandchildren,” the lady said. “Hang it over your bed, Your Grace. It worked for me.”

He saw that Tristen had gotten himself some cheese and bread from the table below the dais. It was all Tristen seemed likely to secure for himself without warfare in the crowd pressing close, but Uwen was there, and, old warrior that he was, even while he watched, snatched a pair of plain, less contested cups of wine.

Dancing began, a handful of couples and a number of young gentlemen who, in the refilling of cups, felt immediately inspired — and though he had left the cursed stick propped in a side hall and had steeled himself to walk and climb steps without it, he certainly was not fit for this part of the festivities. The bride had now stayed longer than a Guelen bride would stay — though the continued line of well-wishers was adequate excuse, and would afford no gossip.

But the line had run almost to its end now, and he was thinking of passing her the hint of leaving when Efanor came up finally under the cover of the music and the noise of voices to pay a word or two.

“Your Grace,” Efanor said. “A gift, if you will.” He offered her a little book with the Quinalt sigil in gold on the cover. “For your meditations. My priest gave it to me when I was first sworn, and I would be delighted if you would accept it.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Ninévrisë accepted it, and held Efanorʼs hands afterward, at which he saw Efanor go white and then blush and look quite strange — as if, he thought, he had expected Ninévrisë to go up in smoke at the taking of the holy book. “How kind. Thank you very much. I shall treasure it.”

She let him go. Efanor went back to his priest, and excused himself along the wall and into the crowd, doubtless for fresh air. Dancers came between.

“That was very nice of him,” Ninévrisë said. “Is it a magical book?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Tuck it away. — Not there. Somewhere reverent. Iʼll explain later.”

“Is it malicious?”

“Oh, no. I think actually very well-meant. Even a sacrifice. But you have to understand Efanor.”

“I donʼt see him.”

“Heʼs rather shy. Weʼll see him in the morning. I fear heʼs had a cup or two. Heʼs given away something dear to him.”

“Then I should give it back!”

“No, no, keep it. Heʼll never retreat from his generosity. And now that heʼs been generous heʼll not know how to change the rules. Be generous to him. Trust me in this. It will do him ever so much good.”

An Elwynim lord was talking with Pelumer, gods bless the old man. An Elwynim this very evening made gentry, Palisan, an excruciatingly handsome lad, was the quarry of Lord Durellʼs plump daughter, and Lady Orien was nowhere in sight. Probably she had resented acutely the matter of the cups. But it seemed to him it was fair enough, the forgiving of a few taxes.

Probably she had resented most of all his inviting her — for which he was actually sorry, because he had not meant ill. But he plucked Ninévrisëʼs sleeve and said to her very quietly,

“Dear lady, the King, who is very tired, is about to with draw upstairs. By proprieties the bride-to-be should precede him, since Iʼm told the party will grow so rowdy that only the Guard is safe. Will you do me the grace?”

She laid her hand on his and said, only for his ears, “Thank you, my lord.” And squeezed his hand with a little glistening in the eyes. “Thank you.”

He thought her very brave, seeing how things had been thrown together, and she had none of her friends, only Margolis and a couple of the Amefin ladies to attend her: very brave and very gracious, under the press of circumstances and ladies with fertility charms and his brotherʼs prayer-book. He gave the word to Idrys, who sent to the musicians and the trumpeters, and the music stopped and the trumpets blared out. He let Ninévrisë leave the dais first, with Margolis and with her own guard, and watched Ninévrisë accept words from Tasien and Haurydd and Ysdan, words and an avuncular embrace of each, since she would not see them before their departure for the border — in Hauryddʼs case, tonight.

Haurydd would go with Sovragʼs men, and cross the river into Elwynor, to some landing they swore was safe. Haurydd would try, so the plan was, to reach loyal lords who would attack Aséyneddin by whatever means they could.

It was a mission he did not at all envy Lord Haurydd.

Cefwyn and Ninévrisë were leaving. Tristen watched from over the heads of the crowd, evaded a young lady evading a young gentleman, and decided the wall was a far safer place. But a plump and rather pretty lady was talking to Uwen, who was looking at her with close attention.

He thought tonight he understood. He had touched the gray place or Ninévrisë had, he was unsure who had done it first; Emuin had stopped it quickly, but not before he had felt ever so strange a shiver go through him, and ever so good a feeling that he had never felt, so much excitement and a little edge of fear and heat and cold and a great deal of desire for what he could not put a Name to. He found himself disturbed, now, by the sight of Uwen and the plump lady dancing together, and by the sights and sounds of so many, many couples doing the same. It seemed that all the world was paired, male and female, and the whole room was full of warmth pressing in on him, a Word trying so hard to be heard—

Someone plucked his sleeve, and he looked down at Lady Orien. “Please,” she said. “Come.”

He no longer knew where right and wrong was with Orien Aswydd. She was Lord Herynʼs sister, and once upon a time Cefwyn had said not to speak with her — but she went immediately out the door and into the outer hall, where there were many other people.

It seemed foolish to be afraid of such an invitation, and perhaps there was indeed something he should hear. He walked along the wall, weaving his way among those watching the dancing, and went out among three or four others, into the well-lighted hall.

Orien was waiting along the wall outside.

“Lord Tristen.” At once her lips were a thin line and her chin showed an imminence of tears. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“What do you wish, lady?” He was distressed by her distress. “What troubles you?”

“I must speak to you. I must. I canʼt speak here. I darenʼt. That man is watching. I have so few chances to see anyone. And I am not a traitor. I am not! I have proof. I know things — I know things I would say if only the King would hear me. But I cannot speak to him. You must do it for me!”

“I would carry a message to him, most gladly, lady. Tell it to me.”

“Even my friends are afraid to speak to me. I have no allies left. They have all, all deserted me, and Cefwyn has sent my cousins and even my sister away out of Amefel to exile. I miss her so.”

“Iʼm very sorry.”

“No one — only a handful of my women — can pass my guards; and they can do nothing. Please come. I have proof I was innocent. I want you to see what I found in my brotherʼs records. Please. I know that you will be fair.”

“What do you wish to tell Cefwyn? I shall have no hesitation to tell him.”

“No! I will not beg him, sir, I shall not beg him. I only ask you come and see and listen to me and see a letter I have. Will you listen? I am desperate. I think he means to kill me as he killed Heryn, and I am not guilty! I am so afraid, sir. You can pass my guards. The Kingʼs friend can walk through any door. And I trust you, but none of them. Please!”

He thought it was possible for Cefwyn to have made a mistake. The lady had smiled at him, from his earliest days in the Zeide. She had baffled him and puzzled him — though Emuin had said she was among the principal ones he should not speak to, in those days they had wished him not to speak to anyone. But he did not know that it was true now.

“Please,” she whispered urgently, and gave a glance sidelong and back. “They are with me. My guards are always with me, do you see them?”

He did. They were standing where Orien glanced.

“Come with me. Come with me now. Iʼm afraid to go back to my rooms alone with them. They frighten me. They threaten me. Please come with me.”

“I should tell Uwen.”

“No!” she said fiercely, and pulled on his hand. “None of Cefwynʼs men. I will not talk with Cefwynʼs men. Only with you — please.”

He gave a step and two, and he saw the guards move, too, following them: they were Cefwynʼs guards, so there was very little trouble he could get into, and he followed the lady as she led him by the hand down the hall and up the stairs of the east wing, then down the corridor to a door where more of Cefwynʼs guards waited.

By then she was not leading him by the hand: she walked with her arm linked in his, as men and women walked together. It was pleasant to walk with a lady in that way — it made him like other men. It seemed right enough, and the guards without a word opened the door and let them in.

And when they were inside, in the foyer room where there was no one waiting, no light but a single candle, and very heavy perfume wafting from the inner rooms, Orien embraced him.

He was surprised, but he thought she was afraid, and embraced her gently in turn. But she put her arms about his neck and pulled his head down so their lips met. Then he realized what she intended, and they kissed, but not the way Cefwyn and Ninévrisë had kissed, on the cheek. Lips met, and mouths met, at her instigation, which was a very strange and dizzying sensation. She was trying to undo his clothing, he realized, and Words came to him which had hovered about his awareness, disturbing Words, which had all to do with men and women.

But it seemed to him — it seemed to him that he was being rushed headlong toward a familiarity he did not feel with Lady Orien, and he had been warned, and she had spoken of proofs and messages none of which he saw in this darkened foyer.

He attempted to step back and remove her hands gently. She would not, and he caught her elusive hands and brought them down perforce.

“Are you my enemy?” she asked, with the tears welling up again. “Are you my enemy, too?”

“Where is this proof you wished to show me?” he asked.

“In there,” she said. He had her hands prisoned. She nodded her head toward the inner rooms. “I will show you.”

He was surer and surer that this was not as she had presented things to him in the hall. And he had no wish to go further than he had already gone, with feelings running through him that confused him. “I think,” he said, “that you have lied to me, Lady Orien.”

“I have not lied!” she said. “How can you treat me this way? How can you be so cruel?”

“Lady.” He found his breath short. “Show me your proof. Now.”

Immediately she began unlacing her bodice, which showed him a softness and whiteness he found quite disturbing and quite fascinating — he wished and did not wish to see more, which provoked the same feelings her hands had provoked, and he thought that it was the same attempt to confuse him. So he said, however difficult words were, “No, Your Grace,” and laid his hand on the latch and opened the outer door to leave.

“Damn you!” she cried, and other things besides, which he had only heard among the Guard.

The guards outside gave him a questioning look and, feeling somehow ashamed, he put his clothing to rights. “Her Grace said she had a message. But I donʼt think it was true.”

“Lord Warden,” one guard said, “we heard the message story before. We sent a man for the Lord Commander, begging your pardon, on account of we couldnʼt stop you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “It was very kind of you. It was what you should have done.”

He walked down the hall, embarrassed and angry at himself. He met Idrys and Uwen both on the stairs coming up, and said to Idrys, glad at least that Idrys had not had to come in to rescue him:

“I excused myself, sir. I believe she was lying about a message.”

“I believe that she was, yes, Your Lordship.” Idrys was perfectly composed, perfectly sober. “Good evening, and good rest.”

Idrys continued up the stairs. Uwen turned and went back down with him, saying not a word. Tristen still felt foolish, and deeply embarrassed, and could feel the touch of the womanʼs hands.

“You know,” Uwen said, “that widow, the nice-looking one? She dances nice, but I do think sheʼs in a mind to marry, and I damn well ainʼt, mʼlord. So I ʼscaped, meself.”

“I shouldnʼt have believed her. I knew better, Uwen. I did know better, and Iʼd sworn I wouldnʼt go off like that, and there I did. Iʼm very sorry.”

“Oh,” Uwen said, “well, mʼlord, I was worried, but ye had the rare good sense to come back. Remember me coming down the hill, a couple of nights back? I swear I was that glad to see ye coming down them stairs. I was sure me and the captain would have to go battering at the door, and gods know what all, and there ye was, bright as brass and onto her tricks.” Uwen put an arm about his shoulders, however briefly, before they entered the trafficked area where the musicians were still playing and the crowd was busy and thick. “Thereʼs many a man wouldnʼt have had the good sense, lad.”

He thought he should be pleased he had understood, but he felt disturbed all over, and wished in some sense that he had stayed and found out those mysteries, and was glad he had not, because he did not think he would have liked to have had such an experience with Orien.

“I think I shall go home, though,” he said.

“Seems a fine idea,” Uwen said. “I got me a flask of summat nice and warming, and we can sit by the fire, you and me, like the wise fellows we are, and have a drink and go to bed.”

So the two of them sat by a very comfortable fire in his apartment and had the drink, and Uwen told him about courting girls and his village and where he met his wife.

It was a very enlightening story. He became sure there were nicer ladies than Orien, but it made him feel a little lonely.

“I think your wife was a very fine lady,” he said, and Uwen grinned and said,

“A fine lady she werenʼt, oh, but a damn fine woman and a brave one, a brave, brave woman.”

“I would wish to have met her,” he said, and Uwen wiped his eyes and coughed and said he was for bed, now.

So was he. He lay down in the cool sheets and shut his eyes, seeing first Orien, and feeling only discomfort in the memory; but seeing Ninévrisë too, how she had sparkled in the candlelight — how her face was when she laughed, how her eyes were when she was grave and listening. There was nothing about Ninévrisë that was not wonderful, and nothing about her heart that was not good.

He knew. He had touched it, in that gray place this evening. And Emuin had quickly intervened, and told him it was dangerous, and he must not.

He went on feeling what he had felt with Orien, who had lied to him, who was not in the least like Ninévrisë; he went on thinking of Ninévrisë and thinking that marriage meant that Cefwyn and Ninévrisë would share a bed and share their lives, and love each other. Cefwyn gave him gifts and asked him to be his friend — and perhaps he would not lose Cefwyn. Perhaps he would have a chance to speak often with Ninévrisë as he wished, and things would work out.

There was a knot in his throat. It was a hurt, he thought, to which he told himself he had no right, since their being married was long since arranged.

Meanwhile they were going to war against the men that Hasufin brought against them — which, with the skill he had at arms, must be something Mauryl had intended, at least it seemed so now, in the evidence of things tumbling about him.

But Mauryl had been in a hurry, and had brought him for a purpose that mattered, and not thought much, he supposed, about anything else, such as things he might discover and things he might come to want for himself that had no place in Maurylʼs purpose. He remembered in little things it had been that way: he might have been exploring the loft or discovering something he had never seen before — he might just have found the most wonderful thing in Ynefel; but if Mauryl wanted him, he had to leave it at once and answer when Mauryl called, that was what Mauryl had always insisted; and it mattered not that he was older and that both his distractions and his self-will were stronger — it was still true.

He would go where Mauryl had wished. He had gone to Althalen. He had come back again. He could see no one and nothing standing against Maurylʼs purpose for him — not standing against it successfully, or scathelessly: such were his deepest fears for what he loved — and he dared not let them try to oppose what Mauryl had intended.

It was not Maurylʼs fault, of course: he was brought into the world because of Maurylʼs need, and that he inclined in other directions was not Maurylʼs fault. He wished he could speak with someone who understood Mauryl. But he could not reach into the gray space after Emuin tonight: he feared he could not touch the gray space without troubling Ninévrisëʼs dreams, and he would not do that. Most of all, he dared not risk that tonight, and with the strange things he was feeling toward her.

He lay watching the fire-shadows dance around the edges of the walls, and once he heard a thump and rattle, as if the latch of the window were disturbed.

If that was Hasufin, he said to himself, well that Hasufin did not trouble him tonight, because he was suddenly very angry — and wished he had somewhere to put that anger.

But no one else he remotely knew deserved it, except Orien. And he had been close enough to wizards he was afraid to stay as angry as he was. He was afraid to dream, or to skim close to that gray place so long as he was in a state of hurt, and anger.

So he got up and tried to read, sitting on the hearth, long into the night, until he fell asleep over his Book, and waked with his neck stiff and his legs cramped and the fire long since gone to glowing ashes.

He waked — with a sense of apprehension. Not the window, he thought. There had been no sound. There had been no breath of wind.

But something had changed while he slept, he thought. Something — perhaps in the gray space he dared not visit, what other men called dreams — had become much more dangerous and much more urgent tonight, and that change seemed to have a sharp edge to it, a point at which it suddenly became true. He did not know whether it was because of his mistake with Orien, or perhaps something Emuin had done in his prayers, or something Ninévrisë herself might have done in the gray space, with him all unaware—

But he was increasingly afraid, and knew no one he dared tell. He thought of waking Emuin — and knew if he did, he might say and hear things that might make him more disturbed and more in danger of making a mistake than he was now. He sat there still in the dark with the embers aglow beside him and with the dry, blind parchment of Maurylʼs Book in his hands, and he thought to himself with sudden realization: Orien wanted to harm Cefwyn.

It wasnʼt myself she wanted. It was Revenge.

I was very, very foolish to go there.