"I do," Efanor said, and his face was pale when he said it… damning himself with the promise of a murder, so Efanor would see it.

"You're no priest. You're a lord of Ylesuin, you're the duke of

Guelessar, my heir, and justiceis in your hands, a function of the holy gods, the last good advice the Patriarch preached to me. Murder isn't in question. Justiceis."

"Idrys argues much the same," Efanor said. "And constantly. Yet you will not hear him."

"Caught in my own trap," Cefwyn said.

"Yet if you kill Ryssand—"

"Merry hell," Cefwyn said, and Efanor gasped at the affront. "So to speak," Cefwyn said. "And my wife may be with child. Thatwon't please Ryssand either, especially as he wishes me to die childless and his darling Artisane to bear you an heir. Tarien Aswydd, meanwhile, will bring forth my bastard son, a wizard and a prince of the south, an aetheling. I can't think Ryssand will dance for joy at that, either, although who can say what he'll find to object? Any complaint will serve. He brings them like trays of sweetmeats… here, pick one you like."

"Pray the gods for help. Usethe time you have here. Trust them. And come out and lead the kingdom."

"Dear Efanor." It was on his lips to say wake from your dream, but he could not spoil his brother's faith, not when it was bound to lead to quarrels, and he needed quarrels least of all. "Dear Efanor. I trust you. Ask the gods for me. I'm sure you're a voice they know far better than mine."

"I do. Nightly. And have." Efanor glanced down… had always had the eyes of a painted saint as a boy, and did now as a man, when he looked up like that. "I hated you when Mother died, and I prayed for forgiveness. I wanted to love my brother, and I prayed for that. I wanted not to be king, and I wanted not to marry, and I prayed for that. By now I must have confused the gods. So they give me Artisane."

It was the most impious utterance of humor Efanor could manage, brave defiance of his fears in this overawing place, and Cefwyn managed to laugh.

"I wanted my freedom and they gave me the crown," Cefwyn said. "Both of us were too wise to wantto rule, and thus far, you've escaped."

"Only so I go on escaping, and you keep your head on your shoulders, brother. If Ryssand harmed you, yes, I would kill him with my own hands. I have only one brother, and can never get another. I don't care to be king. I care that you have a long, long reign, and I wish Ryssand nothing but misery. I canbe angry. I canbe our grandfather."

"Oh, I know you can be angry! I knew you beforeyou became a saint."

"Don't laugh at me."

"I never laugh at you. Come, come—" He held out open arms. "As we did before we were jealous. As we did when we were young fools."

"Still fools," Efanor said, and embraced him, long and gently, then gazed eye to eye and in great earnestness. "You need to call the council. You've shown the loyal from the doubtful. Now reward the loyal and chide the rest. And gods save us, master crow reports he doesn't think Ryssand knows yet about the Aswydds."

That was a vast relief. "He's sure."

"He doesn't thinkso. That's as far as he'll go."

"Will you carry a message to Ninévrisë? Can you?"

"I'm a pious, harmless fellow. You know I can go anywhere without scandal."

"Tell her everything we've said. Tell her I love her beyond all telling. Make her understand. Tell her be no more indiscreet than she's been."

"I've no difficulty bearing that message. Will you hold council?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "Our prayers are done. Hers and mine. I need her by me. Tell her… tell her I'll see her in the robing room, beforehand. Two hours hence. Make her know I love her. A man belongs with his wife, after all I've done amiss—and what have I had to do? Be here, separate from her! And if she's ill, where am I? Holding council! Reasonable and wise she may be, but when a gut turns, wisdom has nothing to do with it.—Ask her if it's true."

"I can't ask her that!" Efanor was honestly appalled. "Don't ask me to ask her that!"

"The robing room. Two hours. I'll ask her myself." He clapped Efanor on the arm. "Away. Carry messages. And be there, in the robing room, yourself."

The robing room held no privacy, and hardly space to turn, with the Lord Chamberlain and the pages and the state robes on their trees, the king's and the Royal Consort's, stiff with jewels and bullion. It was of necessity the red velvet embroidered with the Dragon in gold, a stiff and uncomfortable Dragon that reminded a man to keep his back straight; and pages buzzed about with this and that ring of significance, the spurs, that were gold, the belt, that was woven gold, and the Sword of office, the belt of which went about him all the while he fretted and had no word yet of Ninévrisë.

Then the door opened, and Ninévrisë came in, wearing the blue of Elwynor, with the Tower in gold for a blazon, like a lord's, on her bodice, and the black-and-white Checker for a scarf about one shoulder. He had never seen it, had no idea by what magic the women's court had created such Elwynim splendor… Dame Margolis, perhaps, who arrived close behind her. Therewas the likely one, the one who would have stayed up nights to accomplish it; and, nothing of what that array meant was wasted on him, nor would the meaning miss its mark in hall.

Shewas the authority over Elwynor, damn Ryssand and his peace offers from a traitor. She had few jewels. But she shone in his sight, and he came toward her in the silence of the chamber and took her hands. He knew he ought to say something clever and formal and endearing, but he had no words. He simply held her hands and gazed into the gray-violet of her eyes, and said, in a whisper almost hope-less in the silence:

"Efanor carried me a report… are you well, are you able? I'll not risk your health." He kissed her hand, all propriety allowed. " love you. I love you. I love you."

She carried his hand to her lips, bestowed a kiss of her own, unprecedented in his court as the petticoat; but it was tender and fervent and made him for a moment think of things far different than statecraft. He could not take the time, could not deal with her in the way he wished even with loyal servants present. The lords were waiting, the kingdom was waiting… but, damn custom, he said to himself… he was the king, damn it all.

"Out!" he said. "Annas, give me a moment. All of you, all of you but Her Grace, out. Dame Margolis, with Annas, if you please."

There were two senior pages, Annas, Margolis, all sensible people, all in his gratitude for their immediate and unquestioning departure. He need not even look away from Ninévrisë's face, need not let go her hands. He kissed her, long and soundly, and held her tightly against him, and whispered against the flower fragrance of her hair, "Gods, half my meditations were on you, how you fared, how you thought of me, what difficulty you might have…"

"It was a clever thing to do," she said against his neck. "It was clever and wise and gave them all time to stew and bubble."

"And for good men to obey, leaving me the blackguards and the laggards. But Artisane's loose, and I feared for you, gods! I was afraid. And when Efanor said you were ill and the maids were let loose to talk—"

"I fear I betrayed myself. I didn't intend it."

"The anxiousness of the war? Might it be that? A bad bowl of stew?"