Fortress in the Eye of Time

  “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.”

  579

  “I could be faithful. I abhor chastity. I cannot manage mod-esty.”

  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!”

  580

  “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.”

  581

  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.”

  582

  “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 t
o 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.

  Somehow, another miracle of the gods, or the Amefin ladies, the tailor personally turned up with the King’s sleeves, beautiful work, Cefwyn had to admit, of Marhanen red, with the Dragon arms in stitchery at least on the right sleeve, and the King would accordingly set a fashion tomorrow, of a cloak skewed and draped down the left arm.

  583

  It was all too much. But there was arranged a set of trumpeters—gods hope they managed, for the honor of Ylesuin, to start together: Annas had his doubts. There was arranged—not such a banquet as Guelemara would put on, but at least a selection of meats and pies and breads, which, the King was given by the cook to understand, were being done in ovens all among the Amefin nobles about the hill and in two bakeries, if the captain at the gate would let the food be brought in from the town. Cook had arranged it, the plans were about to fall apart an hour before the event, and the King had to intervene with a written order on behalf of a cart full of cheeses, let alone the meat pies—“Good gods,” he said, “if they’re to poison us, they’ll poison the whole court. Just bring mine and the bride’s from this kitchen, and the hell with it!”

  There were barrels of ale brought up to the courtyard, and tables set up for the commons in the lower town. That, the household managed on prior experience. There were musicians.

  There were entertainers for the courtyard. There was a man who offered to bring a trained bear, but in the crowded condition of the hall, Annas and Idrys alike thought this folly and the King agreed.

  The King, nerving himself and trying to numb the leg with a prior cup of strong willow-tea chased with a cup of wine, was in the main trying to decide whether he should use the stick getting down the stairs or, if he must use it, exactly where he could abandon it, and how long he might have to stand during the ceremony.

  Past the initial rounds of drink, and the bride-to-be’s maidenly withdrawal from the hall, he supposed, the King could find similar excuse and go. He was advised that Amefin betrothals were rowdy and licentious, and rowdy and licentious seemed to mean even the King could be jostled, which he did not want to be, nor wish to have the King’s presence in the hall if any fool did bring in a weapon—he gave Idrys stern orders that the guard was to be vastly lenient, that they should try to protect the Elwynim from drunken folly, and that the interpretation of death for weapons drawn under the

  584

  King’s roof should find as wide a latitude as they could contrive, including bashing an inebriate offender over the head and depositing him outside the gatehouse. He had, he told Idrys severely, no wish to have the evening marred by a death sentence. He wished to celebrate, that was all, and to have no cases before him tomorrow when he waked with whatever of a hangover he could achieve. He wished to be happy. Devil take those who disagreed.

  And with that, he did use the stick getting down the stairs, and took the back approach to the great hall, and all the lords there present, including Efanor and his bosom friend Sulriggan.

  Elwynim were there as well as Ylesuin, the greater and the lesser lords, thanes, ealdormen, whatever: Elwynor’s titles were like Amefel’s. Tristen had come, with Emuin. The ladies of the Amefin lords and of the Guelen captains and lieutenants were there, dressed for festive doings. Orien had arrived reasonably on the stated hour, decked in the green velvet of her house and outfitted with a waspish temper, which she used only against the servants, thus far.

  The trumpets had managed tolerably well on the King’s entry.

  Annas had sent upstairs for Ninévrisë the moment he was downstairs, and while the musicians played and the guests came wishing the King well, the King fidgeted and watched the faces of the guests, who were already at the wine and the ale.

  A blast of trumpets—only slightly out of agreement, and Ninévrisë swept in from the front entry, in all the glory of the new-made gown, deep blue velvet with sleeves stitched with jewels of every color, with a cream silk pulled through and puffed, and a deep blue cloak with a rose silk lining. A black ribbon was wound around the glittering gold of the Regent’s crown—that was the concession to mourning. There were ohs and ahs from the crowd as she passed, delight in the eyes of no few ladies, if only that she was beautiful, and there was a spon-taneous applause as she reached the dais and reached for his hand.

  He kissed her hand. He held it joined with his for all the 585

  company to see, and said, in a loud voice the exact words they had hammered out to bridge the gulf of religion: “My lords and ladies, I declare before you one and all I shall hold myself faithful and true and marry this woman in the sight of gods and men, in the first month of winter!”

  Ninévrisë said, “My lords and ladies, I vow before gods and men I shall hold myself faithful and true and marry this man in the first month of winter!”

  The musicians struck up. There was more applause. He was watching Orien’s face no less than Efanor’s, and found it stark, pale, and in that flare of nostril—absolutely furious.

  “Her Most Honorable Grace the lady Regent of Elwynor has agreed,” he said, gathering up all he had to say to them, “that the Elwynim conflict has already cost lives precious to her. It has cost my father’s life, the lives of men with him; attacks on my person; the burning and slaughter of Emwy village…and loyal men have died in defense of Ylesuin. It has cost the life of the lord Regent of Elwynor, who had come to treat peacefully with us; and those that killed him did so on our land. In defense of our right and our land over which the gods have granted us rule; and by the gods’ great might and by their will we shall come to the aid of the Regency of Elwynor, which has in past been a neighbor not utterly agreed with us, but which has never invaded our territory.

  “I do not aspire to rule Elwynor—as I believe Your Graces of Elwynim came here with no desire to rule Ylesuin. Let us declare, all, that we have no designs on each other’s land or lives, and that our greatest resources are not gold; they are good will on the borders and farmers reaping harvests untroubled by brigandage or war.

  “I will not have for a neighbor the man I believe conspired in my father’s death and in my bride’s father’s death. By the gods and my oath I shall maintain the rights of Ninévrisë Syrillas as lawful Regent of Elwynor and agree that the realm of Elwynor does not come to me by marriage nor by any other oath. Her Most Honorable Grace will remain Regent of Elwynor in her own name and right, as I shall remain King of 586

  Ylesuin, granting neither land nor honors save the estate of wife, and she shall bear her own titles and honors, granting none to me save the estate of husband. We shall both with the help of our loyal subjects assure a peaceful border open to trade and safe for those villages neighboring the roads.”

  The hall had grown very quiet. Men who had not expected an oath to follow at that point had fallen into a dead hush, realizing, suddenly, that their own lives and lands and those of their children were being accounted for then and there.

  “My lady? What say you?”

  “I wish that my lord father might have seen his daughter a bride. I wish that more of my lords were present and not in danger of their lives in Elwynor. But by your help, my loyal and honorable lords of Elwynor, and you gracious lords and ladies of Ylesuin, and by the gods who bless peace, I swear I will take back my land and become the just Regent of Elwynor, the friend of all peaceful and honest people of this land and a faithful wife to my husband. I swear I shall give justice and secure the rights and honors of my own faithful lords. That is what I most wish.

  That is what my father came to Ylesuin to urge. I ask you all, eat and drink together in peace and please may the good holy men here present pray
safety for all men’s houses, great and small.”

  That was a thorny question: which gods and which priests.

  A small, seemly applause attended, wildly enthusiastic from certain of the Amefin—but not from all: decidedly not from the Quinaltines and not from Orien Aswydd.

  But Emuin leapt bravely into the gap, launched forth in a loud voice with the good Teranthine brothers on either hand and in-toned a blessing on all present, mercifully brief, at which the crowd cheered; and, with the value of a small shrine in perpetuity in his purse, the local head of the Quinalt, not Efanor’s priest, forestalled briefly by Emuin’s quick action, began a state prayer clearly designed to have been first—he might, however, have elaborated it on the fly, seeing himself potentially outdone by the Teranthines; Cefwyn guessed so, at least, for it went on into blessings on the town

  587

  and blessings on the company present, blessings on the peace and blessings on the King and blessings on the lords and ladies, on their houses and their hearths, their sons and their daughters, their cattle and their horses. He had paid, and by the gods, he was going to have his prayer at rivalrous and inspired length.

  He stole a glance at Efanor’s priest, who looked to have swallowed sour milk; and in the close of it, gods save them, not to be outdone, the Bryalt cleric stood forth in a long appeal for religious harmony. Then, with the Bryalt’s signal disregard of cultic divisions, the good man threw in Quinalt blessings and Teranthine and several others the provenance of which Cefwyn was truly glad he did not know; but the Amefin minor nobility made assenting nods of their heads, called out approbations, and a few mopped at their eyes.

  Then, then they were done and the crowd applauded. He was permitted to give the bride a kiss on the cheek and he made an exchange of rings—he had had Annas buy his from an Amefin goldsmith, a simple band, and she had brought hers among her jewels, her mother’s troth ring.

  He found himself missing her finger with it, or at least feeling weak in the knees, as it suddenly struck him that he was not making a political speech, he was well and truly sworn to a treaty with Elwynor and committing himself to a household and offspring and all of it. Somehow he managed to put the damned thing on the lovely finger, gave a second kiss on the other cheek, received one, and in a moment of dizziness, all was done. The trumpets blared out wildly, not at all together, and this time there were loud cheers: the Amefin town dignitaries and their ladies who were crowding the back of the hall for the festivities clearly loved kisses far better than they understood the treaties the lords were still thinking through with suspicion, and they saw that the speeches were over and that the wine was about to flow in earnest.