Round and round they went, one dance and another, until the music ran down, quite, until the dancers were out of breath, and he and his bride were in the center of the floor, all eyes toward them.
He had stolen an acorn from an oak bough, in the festoons and boughs about the columns as they passed. He gave it to his bride, with a bow, the finish of the dance, a Guelen peasant’s gift to his lass in autumn, a wish for prosperity and children. The onlookers, those that could see, hung upon the gesture; and Ninévrisë, knowing or not (though he thought she knew) tucked it in her bosom to the applause of those around.
Applause spread, and whispers. The gesture was unexpected, it was common, daring, and native to their land. The dreaded Elwynim cherished the seed of a Guelen oak, the hope of children, and the old wives and the lords of Marisyn and Marisal and Isin nodded together, smiling, whatever glum thoughts Murandys and Ryssand might hold. The talk among certain lords of the middle provinces would denounce the act, and their ladies would say, Oh, but did you see how they love one another…
Then the lords would be more glum. Nor could he convince himself that he would bend the like of Nelefreíssan, Ryssand, Murandys. The ladies of those provinces might laugh and applaud with their sisters of the middle provinces, but they were Guelen, and more skilled than their menfolk at dissembling.
They would have to say to themselves, with barbed jealousy, How beautiful she is!
But later they would say among themselves—his eye caught the unanticipated presence—Did you mark the Patriarch’s stare?
Gods, when had the Patriarchdecided to attend? And for that exhibition…
Did you see the look on the Patriarch’s face? The word would run the whole town by morning, along with: The king’s brother was not smiling.
Efanor was worried, that was certain.
And when Cefwyn drew Ninévrisë back up the two steps to sit and take a sip of wine, he stared at his younger, his pious Quinalt brother in glaring disapproval of the stiff-backed Quinalt priest who dogged him everywhere; at the Patriarch he dared not glare.
Efanor stared back, but not so fiercely; worried indeed, and seeking to signal him with that glance.
Something was wrong. Cefwyn gave a lift of the chin, a look. Efanor came up the step and bent close. “The Patriarch is here,” Efanor said in a quiet voice. “The Quinaltine. A lightning bolt has struck the roof. And a Sihhëcoin has turned up in the offering.”
His wits were still reeling from the dance, from the touch of Ninévrisë’s hand, still resting in his, his so-ready distrust of his brother, his repentance of that failing. The significance of the lightning strike was appalling… expensive. A donative for roof repair indeed, at a time approaching winter.
A Sihhë coin. Omen, on penny day. The other words had reached him late.
“What damage to the roof?”
“The roof? The sheeting is burned clean through. But the coin…”
“It was not Tristen’s. However it came there, it was not Tristen’s!”
“However it came there, the lightning struck, brother, and the penny offering is tainted. His Holiness has come here…”
“Someone has done this against meand against him.” Temper had not served their father well. Efanor visibly flinched back, the hapless servants stood appalled; voices stayed scarcely in whispers, as the musicians played a stately madannel.
“They could not manage the lightning!” Efanor said.
“They had already done the other! This is treason. This is treason, and His Holiness damned well knows the likely hands that put that coin there.”
“Brother,” Efanor said, urgently, pleadingly… like looking into a mirror, Efanor’s close presence, the two of them bearded, blond, blue-eyed and royal; but there was only a princely circlet on Efanor’s brow, not the weighty, galling crown, which at this instant was pressing on a throbbing vein. Efanor’s face was going red. So, likely, was his. “In nowise could a cheat manage the lightning! That is somewhat beyond a mortal man, you must admit it. And do not say damnedwith His Holiness!”
“Tristen did not do this,” Cefwyn said through gritted teeth. “If it is wizardry, would he damn himselfand leave a coin to prove his guilt?”
“I admit I would not think it.”
“No sane man would think it!”
“But what enemy of his in Guelessar would touchsuch a thing? The Quinalt? And there is the lightning. They had turned out the offering. And the lightning struck, just then.”
“Not every enemy of the Marhanen is a Quinalt painted saint, brother, and I would not exclude Sulriggan from this act.”
“He would not! And there is the lightning!”
“Sulriggan would sell his mother’s bones as relics, never mistake it.” He saw, behind Efanor’s shoulder, His Holiness, Sulriggan’s cousin, ready to approach him, in public. “What have we? A damned procession? Fly the banners, shall we?” The musicians still played, but the conference on the dais had drawn all attention, and conversation and dancing flagged throughout the hall. The king’s dancing was over if he attended this importunate storm of priestly anguish now.
And if he withdrew prematurely to face some controversy over ill omens and sorcerous miracles, he knew exactly the kind of flutter ready to break forth, the gossip of servants and minor priests who were always in the fringes with ears aprick, and who had stood just near enough, in the way of things. Even his Guard, his faithful Guard, was not immune.
More, he would leave a roomful of the very lords and ladies no other event of the season would assemble until the wedding, lords and ladies who would talk, of course, about the only thing worth their speculation: what the Patriarch had wanted that was so urgent. And about his bride. And about the country dance. And about Tristen… and the coin. And the weather. Give them the space of a single dance to have the news out of some servant and give them two dances more to have the tale embroidered into sorcerous manifestations over in the Quinaltine, with the smell of Althalen’s haunted fire and his grandfather’s ghost.
He beckoned with a crooked finger, a finger that bore his father’s ring, now his, as the whole burden of Ylesuin was his, and only his. Efanor supported him, yes, had come to him in this, but Efanor had not used his wits to keep the Holy Father from bringing the matter here, oh, gods, no, Efanor’s ordinarily keen wits scattered to the several winds when His Holiness willed this or wanted that… yes, Your Holiness, gods preserve Your Holiness… kiss your robe, Your Holiness. A year younger than he, Efanor was in his period of youthful credulity, of piety, of devout belief riding hard for a fall: he had spent his own time of easy belief, thank the gods, chasing women and believing himself all-wise, to far greater profit to the realm.
“Your Majesty,” the Patriarch said, trembling: well he might tremble.
“Your Holiness.” He kept his voice low. Even yet, despite the hush, only the servants might hear; and Efanor, leaning close; and Ninévrisë, whose hand he must abandon, sitting beside him, she could hear it all.
“There was…” A monk had attended His Holiness as far as the dais, unbidden, and the Patriarch summoned him—which was no one’s damned right, to summon someone else into the king’s presence; but His Holiness, being overwrought, had the gods to excuse his lèse-majesté. His face remained white and thin-lipped as the monk came near and unfolded a small white cloth which, indeed, contained not the king’s bronze penny, but a silver coin of some age and, indeed, Sihhë origin. The Star and Tower were quite clear to see, age-worn and bright on tarnished metal.
“Distressing,” Cefwyn agreed, “but in nowise attributable to the lightning.”