But it was toward late afternoon, the lady herself was the potential source of a great deal he wanted to know about the intentions of Elwynor, and he could hardly ask the Regent of Elwynor to camp in the orchard next the lord of Lanfarnesse, in the mud and the midst of apple harvest, with—he could see—no tents and a couple of horses with very scant baggage.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I shall consider your proposition. May I ask an indelicate question? Are you aware of a proposal and a medallion that your father sent to me?”

Her cold-stung cheeks were already blushed. The pink reached the rest of her face, and the frown stayed. “Since our messengers did not return to us, Your Majesty, and since you mention it, I can only surmise it did reach you, and that your silence spoke for you.”  “The messenger did not return to you.”

“No, sir. As others did not. Do you say this was not to your knowledge? That there are no Elwynim heads above your gates?”

Heryn, he thought, and damned him to very hell. “Lady, on those terms your courage in dealing with me is amazing. Will you marry me?”

The color fled. The lips parted—and clamped tight. “Sir.”

“Will you marry me?”

“You are mocking me.”

“On my most solemn oath, Lady Regent. I by no means mock you.

Your state cannot be more desperate. On the other hand, the bloody Marhanen does have troops at his disposal and wishes to assure peace on this frontier. What terms would you wish?”

The lips had relaxed, as if she were about to speak one word, and then another, and finally, on a deep breath: “I would agree to nothing, Your Majesty, without the advice of my own lords. They have given up their safety and risked their families to come here.”  “Their advice, but not their consent?”

“Majesty, I am in my own right Regent of Elwynor. And if you ask my terms, sir, they are that I be Regent of Elwynor, in my own right, and not subject to any authority of yours.”

“You have the most extravagant eyes.”

The eyes in question widened and sparked fire. “I am not to be mocked, sir.”

“I am a King more absolute, and can agree without my advisers, who will damn me to hell if I take such terms from you.”

“I shall take my safe conduct and ride to the border!”

“I said I agreed.”

The remarkable eyes blinked. Twice.

Cefwyn asked: “Did you talk to the lord of Ynefel? Do you find him pleasant, agreeable—somewhat mad?”  “You are mocking me, now.”

“I mock myself, dear lady; I see war inevitable if your rebels have their way, and wizardry is already with us. Things will not be for us what they were for our fathers. Mauryl Gestaurien is dead, my friend yonder is beyond all doubt Sihhé, and possibly your King—some do think so-who may be bent on having his kingdom, if he does not tomorrow take a fancy to some other pursuit.”

She took a large breath. “Sir! I—”

“But should you find yourself in that event without a realm to rule, I shall be glad to reconsider our pact of separate rule.”

“You are the most outrageous man I ever met!”

“Since you’ve met Tristen, I take that for a sweeping statement. —Do you accept?”

“You are mad, sir!”

“And?” He had almost seen the dimples. The look was in her eyes.

“I—shall consider it, with my advisers.”

“Your name is Nin6vris& Am I right?”

She stared, in deep offense. Then she laughed. “You know that!”

“One should always be sure. —In the meantime, while you’re considering-” He left all banter, and turned completely serious. “Will you and your advisers be my honored guests? I swear to your safety.”

Her anxious glance traveled to the heights and back again. “I put you on your honor, sir.” She gathered up the reins, began to turn her horse.

And looked back. “—Cefwyn. Is that your name?”  With which she rode briskly back to her men.

He shut his mouth, and rode back to his—to Idrys, in the main, but Umanon and Cevulirn were moving in.

“I’m going to marry her,” he said.

“My lord is not serious,” Idrys said.

“Tristen’s upstairs room for the lady—Tristen’s belongings are all downstairs, are they not? The adjacent quarters for the lords, the men disposed with them or elsewhere at their wish. Send ahead of us and set reliable servants to work on the details. The betrothal within a day or two, I swear to you.”

“My lord King,” Idrys began, and, in the presence of witnesses, fell prudently quiet.

“Oh, I’ve thought about it, Idrys. I have most seriously thought about it. The woman demands sole title to the Regency of Elwynor. I have more imminent concerns.” He cast a look at Umanon’s frowning face—and Cevulirn’s, but Cevulirn showed no more expression than usual. “I am not mad, sirs. This lady is an ally who has importunate suitors raiding our territory to have the better of each other. That will stop. I had far rather, if I must go to war, go to war to settle a permanent peace on this border, and if a marriage is the price of that peace, I shall.”  “They are Elwynim!” Umanon said.

“Patently. That is their use, Your Grace. A pious Quinalt lady will not get me a peaceful border. This lady will.”

Cevulirn had never batted an eye. As for Umanon, he knew how to reason with him: make it a plot, a scheme, a stratagem. Then Umanon understood.

He had thought, however, that shadow in the wind and sound of a horse moving quietly up beside him was Idrys’ standard-bearer. It was a different horse. It was Tristen on him, Tristen unshaven, mud-flecked and shadow-eyed.

“Gods,” Cefwyn said. “You startled me.”

“You will marry her,’ Tristen echoed, as if assuring himself of what he had heard. Tristen’s eyes were unwontedly opaque to him. Guarded.

Gray as the lady’s: he had never thought it until that instant, and a chill went with that awareness.

“I shall indeed marry her. —Ride with me. Tell me later what happened.” Whatever Tristen had been up to, he did not think it a story for Umanon’s sensitive ears and gossip-prone mouth. He wanted nothing of any of Tristen’s doings or the lady’s until he had Tristen in private. “Are our Elwynim going to ride with us, or not?”

There was apparent consternation among the Elwynim bunched together on the road. He could guess that at least one of the three lords was unconvinced of their safety and argued for a camp outside the walls.

“Lord Tasien is anxious about coming here,” Tristen said with his accustomed bluntness. “But she will do what she wishes to do.”

“And what is that?” he asked, before he remembered he wanted no news.

“To find men to fight the enemy, sir. Mauryl’s enemy.”

There was consternation on Umanon’s face. Even Cevulirn gave Tristen a troubled glance.

“A matter for council,” Cefwyn said quickly. Religious anxiety would be far more potent among the common soldiers than among their lords, but their lords’ response forecast the commons’. A moment ago he had been half in love. Cefwyn, the lady had said, as if their meeting were chance and he were any would-be lover with not a thought in his head but that pretty face.

The fact was she need not have been pretty. She needed to be the Regent of Elwynor. Better yet if she were at least publicly Quinalt.

Best for his peace of mind if he had not found those eyes suddenly so familiar, and so disturbing. He could not imagine why he had not realized in their ambiguity even in the portrait, that they might be gray—or recalled, when he had fallen under their spell and offered himself in marriage, that they were reputed, like that mass of black, black hair, as a Sihhé trait.

It was nothing he need fear, but, gods! how the whispers would run, even in Amefel, even by this evening.

The Elwynim joined them, and names were named, Lord Tasien of Cassissan; Lord Haurydd of High Saissonnd; Lord Ysdan of Ormadzaran ... names hitherto belonging to aged parchment and crooked trails of ink.