Stare met stare. But the Patriarch did not state the converse. There was a measurable difference, then, in what they dared.

He had, he hoped, just made that everlastingly clear. And he would have himself wed, and Tristen—

Tristen.

“Tomorrow,” he said. Wounds were best done quickly, thoroughly. He had no wish to contemplate the issue. And knew what he had done, in anger and what he had to do, for a winter’s peace. And did his enemies know, as Idrys knew, what Tristen was? “Tomorrow, in the Quinaltine, he will swear. Roof or no roof you will witness his oath.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good rest, Holy Father. I trust you have adequate escort. A wrap against the weather outside.”

“Completely adequate,” the Patriarch said, and took the cue, saying nothing regarding prophecies, Kings to Come, or the Elwynim Regency.

Efanor saw the Patriarch as far as the door, but he lingered. Idrys did not remotely think of leaving.

“My lord king.” Idrys broke the silence. “ Amefel?”

“Tristen has a chance,” Efanor cried, “a mere chance, to rescue his soul. And you are damning him! You are giving him over to a sorcerous province, where he has no shield but magic, when here he had a chance at holiness!”

This last was a curious proposition, the only genuine question of faith he had heard in the last quarter hour. The first was only the surface of the question that ran, at depth, Has my king taken leave of his wits?

“Where elsecan I secure him a livelihood, if you please? Ynefel and Althalen are ruins. I have him where my servants and my guards can provide for him… but that also places him near me, near Ninévrisë, near very sensitive matters. I can call him back at need. I shallcall him back, and meanwhile I provide him a banner they cannot fault.”

“Many another man in difficulty,” said Idrys, “one appoints a small pension and a village sinecure. A province does seem extravagant.”

It was perhaps the measure of his mood tonight that only Idrys could set him in a better humor. And Idrys did not say the half of what he was sure was on Idrys’ mind.

“He cannot fend for himself”Efanor said. “How can he manage a province two hundred of the king’s best troops cannot keep in order?”

“And where elseshall he be safe?” The temper rose again. “If you were less familiar with priests and more with me, brother—” No, that was not fair. “Forgive me. But this entire business is connivance.”

“The lightning stroke—”

“Bother the lightning stroke! It happened and that old fox had already planned to trot out that blaspheming coin! I’ll warrant he had one in the hoard he keeps, his own coffers.”

“Brother, that is blasphemous.”

“Mark me, mark me, that is a villainous man. You heard him. I shall have my wedding if I banish Tristen. Does that measure the true depth of his conviction? Mark the day. I shall have within a fortnight a request for his cousin Sulriggan, his reinstatement in my favor.”

“You need not grant it.”

“Did you not hear? Threats fell left and right. That is a malevolentman, who hounded our grandfather with fear of hell, our father with fear of me, and drove our father to his death with his suspicions, brother! Piece the account together, for the gods’ love! Our father would not have trusted Heryn Aswydd if he had not trusted the Holy Father first.”

“That is extravagant.” Efanor’s face was white as death. Efanor had seenthe Holy Father at his political worst and heard the truth tonight.

“Words kill, brother. They need not be sorcerous.”

“But the lightning stroke, I say—”

“Brother, —”

“My lord king,” Idrys said in his calm, even voice, “the court, meanwhile, will be in doubt.”

The hall and the dancing. He drew a breath. “Brother,” he said more moderately, even pleadingly, “open your eyes. I grant you your lightning bolt if you grant me that this coinis political, not godly, and we are in mortal danger of this man’s ambitions and his determination to keep what power he has. Your priest may be godly. But the Patriarch is no honest priest.”

“I think you provoked him too far, sir.”

“ I? Iprovoked?”

“My lord king,” Idrys said.

“We have the court to settle,” Cefwyn said, shoving aside all fruitless argument. “My decision stands. Lord of Amefel, successor to the Aswyddim, him and his issue, as they may be, in fealty to the Crown, which he will freely swear. Idrys, send a messenger to him; send to the Patriarch, officially, that tomorrow afternoon, come wrack, come ruin or a hole in the Quinalt roof, we will stand before the altar, that the banner of Amefel will stand there above those of Ynefel and Althalen, which will be all the comfort we afford His Holiness, and the court will attend in theirgoodwill on such an occasion.”

He rose, then, and in Efanor’s shocked silence led the way back through the short passage and into the warmth and motion and music of the royal ball.

He had resumed his perch on the stone-propped seat, alone, before the musicians saw him and tinkled to a stop, with the dancers.

He stood up. The dancers bowed. The one whose head only nodded was Ninévrisë, who came to his outstretched hand, Cevulirn attending her, and received his smile… on which he was conscious the whole room hung.

He handed her toward her seat: she stood beside him.

“The Quinalt roof is not as serious a matter as one might have feared,” he said, and with coldest, most matter-of-fact address of policy, he let his face frown. “But it was meant by Her Grace’s enemies to be far more serious than it was. Sorceryhas done its worst, and now, with the Patriarch’s blessing, we shall answer it. We shall ask the Lord Warden of Ynefel to march south to bring Amefel into our hand and to give these sorcery-dabbling rebels a pause for reflection the winter long. To that intent, with the Patriarch’s blessing—” How he loved taking the Patriarch’s name in vain! “—we create him duke of Amefel and grant him all titles the Aswyddim held. And, with the Patriarch’s blessing, we bid him hold the southern marches.” In the general impression, by his fondest hopes, it was now not for the Lord Warden to defend himself against charges of sorcery, but for the Lord Warden to deal with allsuch sticky questions of sorcerous attacks, as was the Lord Warden’s post when Mauryl had held it. He had, at a stroke, settled Tristen in the one place he had never considered it possible to settle any friendly lord, but where it was most reasonable to settle Tristen, in a land which would welcome him, at a moment when the court, reeling from sorcery, wished protection of a sort that might be effective, but not in their witness.

And in a place where prophecies and sorcery could do their worst: win his love, Emuin had advised him.

There was confused approbation from the young, there were far more sober looks from the old, and perhaps even looks of relief in several faces, Murandys and Ryssand chief among them, who were glad to have the Lord Warden south of them, or in hell, whichever would come soonest. They had won their assault… the king’s friend was leaving. But the king, let them realize it soon, was not pleased with them.

He sat down. Ninévrisë sat beside him.

“Are things as well as that?” she asked softly, who did not know her capital was under attack, and he held her hand and kept a pleasant face to the court, as he waved them to resume their dancing.

“Be brave. Tasmôrden has moved on the capital.”

There was silence. The fingers in his clenched slowly, but he trusted she kept her serenity, as he trusted her in all things else.

“There is no other word from the river,” he said. “Meanwhile the Quinalt roof has a hole in it and the Patriarch calls it sorcery. I am sending Tristen south for all our safety.” He almost said, until the wedding, and then with full force it came to him that, while the appointment at last gave a friend an income of his own and a living land to stand on, it entailed obligations that would keep Tristen from court for far more than a season, if he saw to them in earnest. Win his love, Emuin had advised him. And Emuin himself would not oppose the force that Called a Sihhë-lord from the grave.