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That Amefin betrothal tradition had proved imprudent. There was no little wine spilled in the encounter at the tables.
“We should send a score of them up to the riverside,” he muttered to Ninévrisé. “Gods, such graces!”
Orien had somehow not come up to felicitate the marriage, but other Amefin lords and ladies were beaming. Tristen came up the step, and said in his own way, to Ninévrisé, “Cefwyn will do what he says. He is honest,” and to him, “She thinks everything is beautiful and the people are kind and she likes you more than she trusts you.”
Nin6vrisi5 was appalled and distressed. He was appalled and amused.
But Tristen went away then, as if, though able to know what he knew, he entirely failed to know the dismay he left in his wake. “Do you?” he said.
“Which?” she asked. But an elderly Amefin lady was attempting to hand Ninévrisé a charm done up in ribbons. “Children and grandchildren,” the lady said. “Hang it over your bed, Your Grace. It worked for me.”
He saw that Tristen had gotten himself some cheese and bread from the table below the dais. It was all Tristen seemed likely to secure for himself without warfare in the crowd pressing close, but Uwen was there, and, old warrior that he was, even while he watched, snatched a pair of plain, less contested cups of wine.
Dancing began, a handful of couples and a number of young gentlemen who, in the refilling of cups, felt immediately inspired—and though he had left the cursed stick propped in a side hall and had steeled himself to walk and climb steps without it, he certainly was not fit for this part of the festivities. The bride had now stayed longer than a Guelen bride would stay—though the continued line of well-wishers was adequate excuse, and would afford no gossip.
But the line had run almost to its end now, and he was thinking of passing her the hint of leaving when Efanor came up finally under the cover of the music and the noise of voices to pay a word or two.
“Your Grace,” Efanor said. “A gift, if you will.” He offered her a little book with the Quinalt sigil in gold on the cover. “For your meditations.
My priest gave it to me when I was first sworn, and I would be delighted if you would accept it.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Ninévrisé accepted it, and held Efanor’s hands afterward, at which he saw Efanor go white and then blush and look quite strange—as if, he thought, he had expected Ninévrisé to go up in smoke at the taking of the holy book. “How kind. Thank you very much. I shall treasure it.”
She let him go. Efanor went back to his priest, and excused himself along the wall and into the crowd, doubtless for fresh air. Dancers came between.
“That was very nice of him,” Ninévrisé said. “Is it a magical book?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Tuck it away. —Not there. Somewhere reverent. I’ll explain later.”
“Is it malicious?”
“Oh, no. I think actually very well-meant. Even a sacrifice. But you have to understand Efanor.” “I don’t see him.”
“He’s rather shy. We’ll see him in the morning. I fear he’s had a cup or two. He’s given away something dear to him.” “Then I should give it back!”
“No, no, keep it. He’ll never retreat from his generosity. And now that he’s been generous he’ll not know how to change the rules. Be generous to him. Trust me in this. It will do him ever so much good.”
An Elwynim lord was talking with Pelumer, gods bless the old man.
An Elwynim this very evening made gentry, Palisan, an excruciatingly handsome lad, was the quarry of Lord Durell’s plump daughter, and Lady Orien was nowhere in sight. Probably she had resented acutely the matter of the cups. But it seemed to him it was fair enough, the forgiving of a few taxes.
Probably she had resented most of all his inviting her—for which he was actually sorry, because he had not meant ill. But he plucked Ninévrisé’s sleeve and said to her very quietly,
“Dear lady, the King, who is very tired, is about to withdraw upstairs.
By proprieties the bride-to-be should precede him, since I’m told the party will grow so rowdy that only the Guard is safe. Will you do me the grace?”
She laid her hand on his and said, only for his ears, “Thank you, my lord.” And squeezed his hand with a little glistening in the eyes. “Thank you.”
He thought her very brave, seeing how things had been thrown together, and she had none of her friends, only Margolis and a couple of the Amefin ladies to attend her: very brave and very gracious, under the press of circumstances and ladies with fertility charms and his brother’s prayer-book. He gave the word to Idrys, who sent to the musicians and the trumpeters, and the music stopped and the trumpets blared out. He let Ninévrisé leave the dais first, with Margolis and with her own guard, and watched Ninévrisé accept words from Tasien and Haurydd and Ysdan, words and an avuncular embrace of each, since she would not see them before their departure for the border—in Haurydd’s case, tonight.
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 ca
“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 i