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.”

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.”

“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 to 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.

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 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 Ninévrisé 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 Ninévrisé 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 spontaneous applause as she reached the dais and reached for his hand.