Haurydd would go with Sovrag’s 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 Ninévrisé 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 Ninévrisé 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 Heryn’s 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 can’t speak here. I daren’t. 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.” “I’m 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 brother’s 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 King’s 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. I’m 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 Cefwyn’s men. I will not talk with Cefwyn’s men. Only with you—please.”
He gave a step and two, and he saw the guards move, too, following them: they were Cefwyn’s 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 Cefwyn’s 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 Ninévrisé 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 don’t 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 couldn’t 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.”