“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, 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.
Ninévrisé 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 Ninévrisé’s aid, but he was grateful.
“Welcome,” he said. “Your Grace of Elwynor.” He took Ninévrisé’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 Ninévrisé 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,” Ninévrisé 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 last resort. To save my people, I would marry Aséyneddin. And put 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.”