But they would not daunt him, not for the principle of the thing (he had sought ways to diminish their influence) and not for his personal choices. He knew his foolish faults, that he was easily infatuated, that it lasted a time, and vanished some unpredictable morning in total disillusion. He never wanted such affairs to end, but end they would, and yet, this morning after a commitment which should have been the most calculated and reasoned decision of his reign, he was appalled to find himself slipping closer and closer to that passionate mark with a woman who, first, was capable of launching war on his kingdom and who, second, had maddening and attractive personal qualities he had to admit his light-of-loves had never had.
He perceived himself in real danger, waking with Ninévrisé in his mind, and being entirely unable to recall the number of wagons he had already dispatched to the river—or to remember the third point he had to make in argument as, dressed in his regal best (except the crown) he walked with his guard and his household around him (except Idrys and Emuin) to meet Ninévrisé and her small household, with her sworn men, on her way down the stairs.
“My lady,” he said to her.
“Your Majesty,” she said. There were bows. There was pleasantness.
Lord Tasien was glum as they continued down the stairs.
Gods, it was three months until the wedding—three months of handholding and chaste kisses on the cheek, such as he had had last night.
And he could not be thinking about a wedding. He had a ceremony to get through, a ceremony he had had to throw together, the next thing to a battlefield coronation on the day he was sending men to hold the Lenfialim against invaders—but he had seen increasingly even with Idrys that he could not continue as he was, not knowing clearly where the most loyal of his barons’ loyalties were. As importantly, he had to swear them assurances of his behavior, in the shifting of all familiar points of reference, his father gone, the Elwynim marriage—and Tristen arriving.
What he had to do and say this morning, he was certain was going to provoke controversy. Men still in some points enemies to each other had politely reserved opinions behind their teeth last night, knowing they were drunk. Today, politics would out, most coldly sober, equally as dangerous, and Lord Tasien had come here with strong reservations about any alliance. He was a relative on Ninévrisé’s mother’s side, married himself, and sonless, so he had had no designs on Ninévrisé—Lord Tasien was decidedly to win.
So was his own brother. And Sulriggan of Llymaryn. There was Sulriggan. And that damned priest of Efanor’s.
But given that Umanon and Sovrag might have severe headache, and so might Lord Ysdan, by the quantities he had seen them imbibe, this morning council at least would render them more docile and less inclined to loud argument and debate. There were no more alarms to report to them: the daily messengers from the riverside had come in with no change and no sighting of the enemy—no better news, either, meaning no hope that lightning had struck Aséyneddin in his bed.
The council of barons and the ceremony he had determined necessary-he had arranged it with Annas and Emuin in indecent haste. The situation on the border afforded little time for true deliberation: such as they could do that involved the lords—they had done the night of his father’s assassination; and to open the matter again to debate only gave the dissenters, this time with Sulriggan instead of the lord of Murandys, a chance to delay preparation he dared not delay. Granted rumors were cavorting behind every door in the Zeide—precisely because of that, matters had to be settled, today.
Ninévrisé and her entourage entered the great hall by the main doors.
He heard the herald announce them. He did not intend to give the Elwynim lords time to stand and converse in that uneasy company. Idrys clearly had the same notion, joined him from inside, by the small side entry, and prompted him with, “When Your Majesty wishes,” while he was measuring the time that would carry Ninévrisé and her lords in decent order to their place at the fore of the great hall.
If he was lucky, he said to himself, he could deliver what he had to say while the barons were still numb, have the swearing done, and have them packed off to their own tasks before they had quite waked up to the fact they were being told that war with Elwynor was imminent and inevitable.
“Her Grace of Amefel is not here,” Idrys said, as the doors were opening a second time.
Cefwyn drew a deep breath and walked in and down the aisle with Idrys at his back and his guard around him, in the echoing proclamation of His Majesty of Ylesuin. He walked to the first step, turned and acknowledged a head of state, not his bride, with a direct look, a hand outheld in invitation, and, “Your Most Honorable Grace.”
Ninévrisé was there in her own right, as she insisted—composed, not a hair out of place, clear-headed and gracious. It was infatuation, Cefwyn feared, bestowing a kiss on her hand which, with the knowledge he could not place it elsewhere, served only to distract him. He led her from her escort to the last step of the dais where only his guard and Idrys joined him besides.
“Brother,” he said, to Efanor, in the first row of standing nobles, and invited him to the same place, which his father had not done with his own brother, but he did.
Then, taking that one step higher, he turned and looked over the assembled barons and household.
Orien was, indeed, not there. One assumed that Lady Often still claimed her lordship over Amefel, but as she had not answered the general summons, they need not have the protests when he barred her at the doors, as, damn it, he would do. She might have attended in good grace last night and possibly, by a gracious show, won a step toward a royal pardon. She might have done many things besides what Idrys had reported to him she had done, and his tolerance of Orien Aswydd and all her kin was balanced on a knife’s edge this morning. He was very close to ordering her arrest before they left this hall.
Idrys had brought down the requisite, unmarked, maps. The servants had provided tables at the side of the hall, adequate to spread them out for general view. Everything was in its place. Everything was in order.
“My lords,” he said, receiving the bleary-eyed silence and courteous attention of the company. “Lords of the Elwynim, your plan to fortify a camp at Emwy Bridge has our agreement, and as some of you are aware, I have already set men and wagons moving with supplies, counting that you can quickly overtake them on horseback, today, as I believe is my lady’s wish.”
Ninévrisé inclined her head. “Just so, my lords.”
“Also,” Cefwyn said, “I am requesting those forces of the Dragon Guard which came to this town in my late father’s company stay with me, as well as the Prince’s Guard; I require that official messages now return to the heart of Ylesuin with orders for the movement of supply and the disposition of forces all along our northern border with Elwynor, as a precaution against an incursion taking an unexpected route. Also, far from least of my concerns, I am issuing orders for the arrangement of civil matters in the capital. The news of my royal father’s assassination has undoubtedly reached the city by now, and I do not wish the court convening here at this time, for reasons I shall make clear. I have had documents drawn up which provide for the transfer of authority in the capital, and I am maintaining all my father’s appointed councilors and officers pending a review of records.”
No one looked away from the King while he was speaking except the King’s guard. He saw Efanor’s face relatively complacent: a very lengthy missive had arrived at Efanor’s door this morning—he had trod all around the edges of Efanor’s religious sensibilities and superstitious fears, and wished him to stay at Henas’amef at least for two more months, until they could establish a sustained effort against Aséyneddin and secure the border. Leaving the capital without a head was one sort of risk. Leaving it to Efanor, with Efanor’s weakness toward religious appeals, was another. Idrys had urged that such was the case, and while the realm would carry on very well and stably in the care of old Lord Brysaulin, who though elderly and feeble was an iron-willed administrator, the realm would be in danger in the to-do surrounding a younger and obsessively religious prince unexpectedly turned up as caretaker of the realm, overturning Brysaulin’s sensible decrees—which had never favored the Quinalt.