That last seemed both sincere and from a lady not used to asking abject favors of strangers.
“I shall,” he said, “most gladly, and I shall advise my searchers to be careful. I must, however, advise you, Your Grace, that fifteen men hardly constitute a fortified camp, certainly none to strike fear into your enemies.”
“Fifteen men is what I have, Your Majesty. But if we could make that camp as a secure point, and send into Elwynor—”
“You can gain more men for your camp?”
“I am confident, sir.”
Confident, he believed not in the least. But it was a sensible plan, and a far better one than he had expected of a young woman in such a desperate situation. Whether or not it was her idea, she presented it with authority, used the right words—arid did know why the camp should be fortified. It was the Sihhé entrenchment, plain and simple: dig deep and hold on, then spread out.
More, she had not once appealed him in terms of the marriage proposal lying just uphill in his bedchamber, not so much as acknowledged it existed, nor asked for troops, nor requested alliance with Ylesuin. The mischief the artist had put into the eyes was all iron and fire today—gray, was the answer to what the artist had made ambiguous.
They were still ambiguous. Gray as morning mist. Gray as new iron.
The mouth had dimples at the corners, but they were part of the set of a determined jaw, which he would like to see in that other expression-gods, he knew this face. He had lived with this face. He was fascinated out of his good sense—so fascinated he had imagined beyond her proposed camp and her proposed recruitment of an unspecified number of Elwynim onto his side of the river to launch a war from his territory against her enemies—and not asking the number of men this Caswyddian and gods-knew-who-else might have across the river up there, and where his post rider might have disappeared to.
He needed to ask Tristen what he had seen. He needed to talk to the Ivanim captain about how what he had seen agreed with what the lady now Regent was saying. His leg was hurting and he was distracted by Synanna’s restlessness.
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.