Knowing Tristen as he did, yes, Tristen would indeed take those obligations seriously. When had Tristen ever failed an obligation, once he had taken it up? It came to him, among other, more tangled considerations, that he might not so easily get his friend back once he had sent him out—and that thought afflicted him with a sudden melancholy.

Of course he had Tristen’s friendship. Of course he had his loyalty. That was unquestioned. Of friends he had ever had, there was none so sudden, so close, so maddening… none had made such a place in his heart as Tristen had, none ever let him rest so confident as he did, that he could neglect Tristen even a little and take him up again, as bright, as faithful as in the summer— or send him into the heart of wizardry and get him back again untarnished. Of course he could rely on Tristen. Of course they would always have their friendship. Of course Tristen could come back again, when court was gathered about the king—and if Tristen did rise to rule Elwynor, why, what loss? His bride, all his, her home unharmed, but her loyalty turning entirely to him. That, with Tristen for an ally, a loyal man. It was beyond planning, now. He had advanced the first piece on the board.

But if Ilefínian fell easily to Tasmôrden’s forces and left time before the snows, and if Tasmôrden had some notion of securing southern bridgeheads to outflank Ylesuin’s incursion from the north—two curs chasing each other’s tails, yapping and snapping—why, that lightning strike, if it was Elwynim-sent, had just put Tristen square in Tasmôrden’s path. Then let wizardry do its worst; he had no more effective weapon and no stauncher friend.

It still had a cold feeling about it, to have done it all at a stroke, loosing Tristen to do what he would in the south, when he had before this had warnings from Emuin that what Tristen willed to do subtly bentthe affairs of other men. Tristen willed very little and had his desires generally satisfied by feeding pigeons.

Dangerous, something still said to him. He should surely have asked Emuin.

And did sorcery strike the Quinaltine and Emuin not send him a warning?

It was the late hour. It was the accumulation of bad news that so set his worst premonitions to wander.

“We must stay an hour, no more,” he said to Ninévrisë. She, better than he, had full cognizance of all it meant when Ilefínian should fall, all the tally of names of men who might be in peril of their lives when Tasmôrden rode in. “Whatever happens, the court must not say we were cast down by the news.”

“This movement of my enemies was almost certain to come,” Ninévrisë said in a faint voice. Her fingers warmed in his hand, and kept a light hold. “The beacon was lit?”

“That is all we know,” he said. “Idrys is trying to learn more, but there is nothing we can do to prevent Tasmôrden’s march, save hope the skies open and the road bogs.”

“And that certain ones would run for safety,” she said. “But they will not.”

“On the other hand,” he said to Ninévrisë, and closed his hand on her fingers which had become rigid, “if there is a bright spot in this, it means Tasmôrden has not lingered to fortify the east shore against our crossing. Tristen coming to the south may disturb his sleep further. I doubt he will have foreseen that. And gods know, Tristen can deal with sorcery.”

“Gods, that we had another month. Or that the snows would come.”

“Gossip be damned. I should get you from this hall.”

“No, my lord. No. Otherwise, I shall have to endure the ladies’ gossip, and their questions. Not yet. Not yet, please you. I wish to be much more settled than I am.” Nails impressed his palm. “On the battlefield one knew one’s enemies. I know them here, but have not a weapon against them, none.”

“Name me them!”

“Oh, Artisane. Artisane, chiefest.”

“Of her I cannot relieve you. Not until—”

“Not until the wedding. Nothing until the wedding. Oh, I mark them down, every one, every petty remark. Men in the field have far more manners.”

“I much doubt it.”

“A man knows there may be blood. These women will shed someone else’s, blithe as jays. Even their fathers they hate. But hate me more. And I endurethem. They carry on their Elwynim war with every look, every stitch they sew: ill-wish me? Oh, if they could. And cannot. Clatter, clatter, clatter, the wicked, wicked, foreignwoman, and just onepetticoat, la! whatis one to think?” He heard her second indrawn breath. “If they could sew harm into my wedding gown, they would, ever so gladly. Every one of them disappointed in their hopes for you, and here am I, the stranger. I should fear the cups I drink if not for Dame Margolis.“

“ Sheis a good woman.”

“A good and a brave woman, but her they despise as common. I can do nothing.” The voice he loved, the voice that lifted his spirits, trembled. “Nothing to defend her or myself.”

“After the wedding,” he said in regret. “Then— then they will have affronted me. They should take sober note. Is there no one else you can rely on?”

“None. No one but Margolis. —Perhaps, in small ways, Cleisynde.” There was still a perilous little quaver in her voice, which was a knife in his heart. They had played at ignoring their enemies. He had thought her safe, serene in her wit and her own worth in amongst such little, niggling attacks. He had thought she had ridden above it all, unassailable within the ladies’ court, a battle of petticoats and pearls irrelevant to the damage men did one another in war. She had ridden and camped with soldiers, faced sorcery and ghosts. Needed she guard herself from Ryssand’s sixteen-year-old daughter?

From Artisane’s sallies of wit, good gods? Ninévrisë was Regent of Elwynor.

“Ilefínian,” Ninévrisë said, then, the outwelling of her deepest, most painful thoughts, and her hand felt cold as ice. “Oh, gods save them, gods save them. Ilefínian.”

CHAPTER 10

In a quick succession of moves, Emuin took three pieces.

Tristen looked at opportunity… regretted winning. It seemed somehow discourteous to the old man. The whole night, since that dreadful shock of thunder, seemed uneasy, tottering with chance and overthrow.

“So?” Emuin asked. The two of them were poised above the scarred board of white wood and red, with counters of opposing colon. And the necessity became clear.

Regretfully Tristen skipped his counter from one to the other of Emuin’s pieces, taking every one.

“Oh, pish!” Emuin cried.

“I think you wished me to win,” Tristen said.

“No such thing,” Emuin said peevishly, and drank a sip more autumn ale. “Set up, set up. Another round.”

Tristen set up the counters again.

“Clever of you,” Emuin said, sounding unhappy. “Vastly clever.”

“If you had rather set aside—”

“No, no, no, I enjoy a challenge.”

Emuin was peeved, all the same. And had not seemed entirely surprised until the fifth, sixth, and seventh captures all in one: at that finish, the old man had sat back in his chair, glaring at the board with a slight squint, as he did at times at his scrying bowl.

Tristen set up quickly, and let master Emuin take the red side this time.

“Learning quickly, we are,” master Emuin muttered, making his initial moves.

“I do try, sir.”

Emuin shot him one of those looks from under his brows. The noise from the square below the Guelesfort had been quite loud during the game. Now it had fallen away to a hush. Their candle had burned to the half and the fire sunk in the grate. It was a moment in which all the world seemed to be the round walls, the table, the light on Emuin’s face.

“So do we all, lad,” Emuin said to him. “So do we all make honest effort, but you are a clever lad in spite of us all.”