Fortress in the Eye of Time (65 page)

“Are you quite ready, m'lord?”

“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 Regent's crown. Her hair was modestly braided now, with a black ribbon—and answering the provenance of it, Margolis was with her, Margolis, the armorer's 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 moment's notice. He did not know who had enlisted her to Ninévrisë's aid, but he was grateful.

“Welcome,” he said. “Your Grace of Elwynor.” He took Ninévrisë's offered hand, and after it, Margolis' 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 armsmaster's 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 lady's 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 today's 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 father's 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 don't consider me a last resort, m'lady. I do have some pride. You are free to go.”

“I might like you. I think I do like you.—And I don't 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.”

“That's 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 I'm 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, m'lord.”

“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. I'll 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. There's too much wizardry loose. He might be more use than a squad of cavalry. But you aren't going.”

“I command my own troops!”

“Gods, it seems the fashion of late. Listen to me, m'lady. 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 we'll set it up will have a garrison sufficient to hold that bridge against any force attempting to cross out of Elwynor. We'll 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. I'll be accommodating of your command in civil matters. Not in this, and not where a novice's 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 don't 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 don't 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.