“Would they,” Kurt said, cruel to the embarrassed nemet, “would children like that be such monsters, Kta?”

“I,” said Kta hesitantly, “ Icould love a child of my friend.” And the inward shudder was too evident.

“Even,” Kurt finished, “if it looked too much like my friend?”

“I beg your forgiveness,” Kta said hoarsely. “I fear for you and for Mim.”

“Is that all?”

“I do not understand.”

“Do you want her?”

“My friend,” said Kta, “I do not love Mim, but Mim is dear to me, and I am responsible for her as my honored father is. He is too old to take Mim; but when I married, I should have been obliged to take Mim for a concubine, for she is chanand unmarried—and I would not have been sorry for that, for she is a most beloved friend, and I would have been glad to give her children to continue Hef’s name. When you ask her of Hef, you see,—that is a terrible thing. Hef is childless. Mim is his adopted daughter, but we had agreed her children would remain in Elas to carry on his name and give his soul life when he dies. Mim must bear sons, and you cannot give them to her. You are asking for Hef’s eternity and that of all his ancestors. Hef’s family has been good and faithful to Elas. What shall I do, my friend? How shall I resolve this?”

Kurt shook his head helplessly, unsure whether Kta thought there could be an answer, or whether this was not some slow and painful way of telling him no.

“I do not know,” Kurt said, “whether I can stay in Elas without marrying Mim. I want her very much, Kta. I do not think that will change tomorrow or for the rest of my life.”

“There is,” Kta offered cautiously, “an old custom—that if the lechan’s husband dies and the house of the chanis threatened with extinction, then the duty is with the lord of the house nearest her age. Sometimes this is done even with the lechan’s husband living, if there are no children after such a time.”

Kurt did not know whether his face went very pale or flushed, only that he could not for the moment move or look left or right, was trapped staring into the nemet’s pitying eyes. Then he recovered the grace to glance down. “I could even,” he echoed, “love a child of my friend.”

Kta flinched. “Perhaps,” said Kta, “it would be different with you and Mim. I see how much your heart goes toward her, and I will plead your case with Hef and give him my own pledge in this matter. And if Hef is won, then it will be easier to win my lord father and lady mother. Also I will talk to Mim about this custom we call iquun.”

“I will do that,” Kurt said.

“No,” said Kta gently. “It would be very difficult for her to hear such words from you. Believe me that I am right. I have known Mim long enough that I could speak with her of this. From her own betrothed it would be most painful. And perhaps we can give the matter a few years before we have concern for it. Our friend Hef is not terribly old. If his health fails or if years have passed without children, then will be the time to invoke iquun.I should in that case treat the honor of you and of Hef and of Mim with the greatest respect.”

“You are my friend,” said Kurt. “I know that you are Mim’s. If she is willing, let it be that way.”

“Then,” said Kta, “I will go and speak to Hef.”

The betrothal was a necessarily quiet affair, confirmed three days later at evening. Hef formally asked permission of lord Nym to give his daughter to the guest of Elas, and Kta formally relinquished his claim to the person of Mim before the necessary two witnesses, friends of the family; Han t’Osanef u Mur, father of Bel; and old Ulmar t’Ilev ul Imetan, with all their attendant kin.

“Mim-lechan,” said Nym, “is this marriage your wish?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And in the absence of your kinsmen, Kurt t’Morgan, I ask you to answer in your own name: do you accept this contract as binding, understanding that when you have sworn you must follow this ceremony with marriage or show cause before these families present? Do you accept under this knowledge, our friend Kurt t’Morgan?”

“I accept.”

“There is,” said Nym quietly, “the clause of iquunin this contract. The principals are of course Mim and Kurt, and thou, my son Kta, and Hef, to preserve the name of Hef. Three years are given in this agreement before iquunis invoked. Is this acceptable to all concerned?”

One by one they bowed their heads.

Two parchments lay on the table, and to them in turn first Nym and then t’Osanef and t’Ilev pressed their seals in wax.

Then lady Ptas pressed her forefinger in damp wax and so sealed both. Then she took one of the phusmeha,and with a bit of salt slipped it into the flames.

She uplifted her palms to the fire, intoning a prayer so old that Kurt could not understand all the words, but it asked blessing on the marriage.

“The betrothal is sealed,” said Nym. “Kurt Liam t’Morgan ul Edward, look upon Mim h’Elas e Hef, your bride.”

He did so, although he could not, must not touch her, not during all the long days of waiting for the ceremony. Mim’s face shone with happiness.

They were at opposite sides of the room. It was the custom. The nemet made a game of tormenting young men and women at betrothals, and knew well enough his frustration. The male guests, especially Bel and Kta, drew Kurt off in one direction, while Aimu and Ptas and the ladies likewise captured Mim, with much laughter as they hurried her off.

The bell at the front door rang, faintly jingling, untimely. Hef slipped out to answer it, duty and the normal courtesy of Elas taking precedence over convenience even at such a time as this.

The teasing ceased. The nemet laughed much among themselves, among friends, but there were visitors at the door, and the guests and the members of Elas both became sober.

Voices intruded—Hef,—Hef, who was the soul of courtesy, arguing; and the heavy tread of outsiders entering the hall, the hollow ring of a staff on polished stone, the voices of strangers raised in altercation.

There was silence in the rhmei.Mim, large-eyed, clung to Ptas’ arm. Nym went to meet the strangers in the hall, Kurt and Kta and the guests behind him.

They were the Methi’s men, grim-faced, in the odd-striped robes that some of the townsmen wore, hair plaited in a single braid down the back. They had the narrowness of eye that showed in some of the folk of Nephane, like Bel, like Bel’s father Han t’Osanef.

The Methi’s guards did not take that final step into the rhmei,where burned the hearthfire. Nym physically barred their way, and Nym, though silver-haired and a senior member of the Upei, the council of Nephane, was a big man and broad-shouldered. Whether through reverence for the place or fear of him, they came no further.

“This is Elas,” said Nym. “Consider again, gentlemen, where you are. I did not bid you here, and I did not hear the chanof Elas give you leave either.”

“The Methi’s orders,” said the eldest of the four. “We came to fetch the human. This betrothal is not permitted.”

“Then you are too late,” said Nym. “If the Methi wished to intervene, it was her right, but now the betrothal is sealed.”

That set them aback. “Still,” said their leader, “we must bring him back to the Afen.”

“Elas will permit him to go back,” said Nym, “if he chooses.”

“He will go with us,” said the man.

Han t’Osanef stepped up beside Nym and bent a terrible frown on the Methi’s guardsmen. “T’Senife, I ask you come tonight to the house of Osanef. I would ask it, t’Senife—and the rest of you young men. Bring your fathers. We will talk.”

The men had a different manner for t’Osanef: resentful, but paying respect.

“We have duties,” said the man called t’Senife, “which keep us at the Afen. We have no time for that. But we will say to our fathers that t’Osanef spoke with us at the house of Elas.”