Sorrel shook the voice out of his head with a whispered Rune-ward. 

Henarian nudged him. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let him get his hands on another drink this side of tomorrow! Make him eat. Half the time he forgets to.’

Sorrel swivelled on the bench in alarm as Henarian sidled out. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To make sure my horse is groomed,’ Henarian said, and grinned. ‘I can’t trust the filthy low-lifes Arianlach allows in and out of his stables! Besides, no Hervik man allows another to take care of his horse.’

Sorrel nodded. He understood. Just like the Tethiri, they don't trust others with their mounts. 

'What are you afraid of?' Henarian teased. 'He isn't going to eat you, you know!'

Sorrel turned back to Arianlach as Henarian left the hall. ‘Earl Cangarth,’ he began, nervously, his mouth suddenly dry. Arianlach had fixed him with a penetrating stare that seemed to dig into his soul and eat out the secrets he held there. It made Henarian's insistence that he was harmless seem misguided. He put up his wards without thinking, muttering the spell under his breath.

Arianlach leaned away, his eyes narrowed, still intense. ‘So it’s true. You’re a mage.’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘How should I? I know nothing more of you but that you’re here to marry one of my red-headed cousins. Did you consent to that, horse-boy? My uncle is clever. He thinks he can have me surrounded by enemies just by palming off one of his brats to their Prince! Twenty-thousand warriors in one fell swoop! Well, I too am a good King’s Gamble player!’

He snagged a passing serving girl. ‘Get me varrtir.’

‘No.’ Sorrel shook his head at her. ‘Bring milk, or water.’

‘Have mercy!’ Arianlach swung back to him in a sudden blaze. ‘Are you here to kill me? Because I’ll…’

‘Wait - bring him varrtir,’ Sorrel said to the serving girl, ignoring Arianlach. ‘Bring the bottle! Bring gorse-wine! Bring every liquor you have! Shall we not toast our meeting, Earl Cangarth?’

Arianlach groaned, dropping his head into his hands, his fire gone as suddenly as it had arrived. He waved at the girl, and she went away, rolling her eyes at Sorrel. He hid a smile.

Arianlach reached out and gripped his shoulder. ‘You mean to force drink down me until I am sick and forswear it forever, don’t you? That trick won’t work. My cousin Kaithenal tried it once. But I need the drink. I cannot live with the pain otherwise.’

The last was spoken softly, so softly that Sorrel had to strain to hear it. His smile faded. That was surely the witchbane that caused so much pain.

Mercy forced his hand.

‘One drink,’ he said, and snatched up the stone bottle that the maid set before him amid the crumbs on the trestle. She added two small, green-glazed stone cups, and a clean linen cloth, coarse and grey from constant washing. ‘Shall I clear up your board, Earl Cangarth?’

‘No. Bring alebread and cream, and a cup of smoked blackleaf. Brambleberry butter too! No, bring a whole pot of tea! I have a guest, after all. Bring him what he wants.’

‘Yes, my lord!’ She hurried away, past the spit-hearths and into the kitchens beyond.

Sorrel poured varrtir for himself and the Earl, and passed one of the little cups to Arianlach.  Then he cupped his hands delicately around his and raised it to his forehead. ‘Sól hen’azhi.’

‘Sóli fehru hen…uh…azh Au,,’ replied Arianlach, and threw the varrtir down his throat with a grimace. ‘Did I get that right? I can never remember. Blazes, that stuff is evil. Give me another.’

‘Sól fehrú azhtán Au,’ smiled Sorrel, amused at Arianlach’s attempt at the formal Tethiri reply to the toast. ‘And your accent is atrocious, Earl Cangarth.’

‘Of course it is. I can buy a sword or knife in your tongue but that’s it. What if I were a woman? What would the reply be then?’

‘I would not be drinking with a woman.’

‘Not drink with women? Oh yes. I forgot. You all eye each other from opposite sides of the camp and must petition the Council just to say hello to each other.’

Sorrel drew in an exasperated breath, his nostrils flaring. ‘Not quite as bad as that. But it doesn’t matter. No, I will not pour you more, Earl Cangarth. I believe the ladies who have entered the hall to be Queen Leiryn and Princess Melysarian.’

‘To the fucking Marwaithyr with them,’ said Arianlach, but without any heat. He glanced briefly in the direction of the women and frowned. ‘She doesn’t usually eat in here, but in the Keep hall. Must have heard you were here. If Henarian told her I’ll wring his neck.’

‘Should she not have heard?’ Sorrel put his cup on the table and refilled it, then folded his hands in his lap to keep from fidgeting. It seemed strange to him that the Queen should have to wait to hear of his arrival until her son - her bastard son - was ready for her to hear. 

Arianlach snorted. ‘Why should she? It is my business who comes and goes in this godforsaken piss-hole. I don’t have to tell her.’

Ah. Sorrel thought he understood. Power. Power that Arianlach held onto by the skin of his teeth. ‘I understood I was her guest.’

‘Someone’s been lying to you.’ Arianlach shook the varrtir bottle and upended it over his cup. Only a few drops trickled out. He slammed the bottle onto the table. ‘You’re my guest. My idea, my skin I’m trying to save. I’m pretty much the only one who cares about it, after all.’

‘Nevertheless, I must make my presentation to her, or be considered ill-mannered and base,’ said Sorrel firmly, rising. ‘Here’s your tea, Earl Cangarth.’

‘Arianlach.’

‘Earl Cangarth,’ Sorrel repeated, steel in his voice, his natural reluctance against familiarity rearing its head. Something deep down told him he’d better keep the Earl at arm’s length, if he didn’t want trouble. The kind of trouble that would have Virishnu haring up here and strangling him with his own boot-tassels.

'Arianlach, or I cut out your tongue and feed it to that old bitch at my feet! Manners dictate you acquiesce to my wishes as to how I want you to address me. You think I offer just anyone the chance to call me Arianlach? No. So, you'll call me Arianlach.'

Arianlach. Silver Leaf, he thought, resisting the urge to feast his eyes on the Earl’s pale hair, shining like tarnished moonbeams in the dull orange glow of the hall. The young man was like a birch, all slender silver beauty, despite the ruinous state he was in. His name suited him well. Too well, and Sorrel thought that if he could craft a steel cage for his own heart he'd be wise to do so.

He stole another long look despite his misgivings. And found the Earl gazing back at him, his lavender eyes solemn, his mouth sulky. There was curiosity in that stare, and a little suspicion, or perhaps only wariness. But there was hope too, and it was hard to resist. Sorrel found himself reaching his hand toward a stray lock of hair, lying in a blond tangle on the Earl's shoulder. 

He snatched his hand back.

Arianlach blinked and looked away, bending to scratch the old hound behind the ears, his shoulders hunched.

‘Vol’ch zhabis Ni. I will go and see your lady mother, the Queen.’ Sorrel said. He picked up the bottle of varrtir, and left Arianlach sputtering indignantly at his back.

He approached the Queen. He caught her eye, then lowered his head and pressed the backs of his hands to his eyes. ‘Lady Leiryn, sól hena…’

‘Prince Ellazhán,’ she said, delight brightening her tone. ‘Welcome! Henarian told me you had arrived.'

Sorrel smiled, a little stiffly, Arianlach's words ringing in his ears. 'I beg your forgiveness, Lady Leiryn. I...'

'And I imagine Henarian has made himself scarce to avoid a tongue-lashing from my son over it,' she said, her smile widening. There was a hint of mischief there too. Sorrel warmed to her. 'Henarian thought it prudent to tell me anyway, regardless of Arianlach's wishes. But he cautioned me to let you meet Arianlach first. What do you think of him?'

Once again, Sorrel found himself re-arranging his perceptions of the Earl. If his feelings were considered before even the Queen’s, then the young man Sorrel had first seen slumped over his table wasn’t who Arianlach really was. Was it his magic? Sorrel thought not. There’d been magic in the Earl’s eyes. Magic, and iron too. It was the iron that had cowed Sorrel. Just for a moment, but that moment was enough to know that if Arianlach stood his ground and exerted his power, the world had better do what he bade it.

'I think he...it's too early to say,' he said. He had been going to say something polite, poetic, and meaningless. But he couldn't bring himself to lie. He didn't think these people went in for lying much, and would not appreciate anyone who did. 'Is he always drunk?'

Leiryn's eyes clouded. 'It's best to pretend otherwise,' she murmured. 'May I introduce my daughter, the princess Melysarian?'

Sorrel turned his attention to the girl who had sat down at Queen Leiryn’s side, at the opposite end of the table to Arianlach. She looked much as Arianlach did, though a few years younger: slim and slight, but with nut-brown hair, her hazel eyes bright and intelligent under thick brown brows.  

But Melysarian’s dress, of soft harebell blue, trimmed with winter stoat and buttoned primly under her chin, was a far-cry from Arianlach’s rough and stained tunic. Her shirt was dyed blood-red, the frothy linen ruffles a pleasing contrast to the blue woollen gown, and her fingers were lavishly bejewelled. She folded her hands demurely in her lap and fixed Sorrel with a hard stare as he made the traditional Tethiri greeting before seating himself again.

‘So, you’re the horse-lord who’s going to marry a Hervik girl? Poor you.’

‘Forgive the Princess,’ said Leiryn, with a sharp look at Melysarian. 'Melysarian, please remember your manners.'

‘There is nothing to forgive. Curiosity is natural,’ said Sorrel, politely, and with little interest.  The girl seemed churlish for all her expensive clothes and high-born position. ‘And I hope to make Sersa a worthy husband.’

‘She’s a Hervik,’ sniffed Melysarian. ‘I hardly think so. Unless you’re really a dragon? Only dragons would stand a chance with one of them!'

‘She is pleased to make your acquaintance, Prince Ellazhán,’ added Leiryn, with another scowl at her daughter. ‘And welcome to the family, albeit a different branch of it. Do return to my son’s side and make sure he doesn’t make a fool of himself tonight. I fear he is a little wayward. I’m hoping you’ll be a positive influence on him, and in turn he and Henarian can teach you how to survive in the Hervik clan!’

Sorrel grimaced. She’d meant it in jest, but his confidence was beginning to wane in the face of such obvious chaos. ‘I have not heard much of the lady. What should I expect?’

‘A hornet’s nest,’ snapped Melysarian. ‘Your task is to keep them from stinging my brother to death!’

Sorrel flicked a questioning glance at the Queen, who smiled kindly. ‘Baron Whiteoak has long had designs on the throne. He thinks Arianlach is weak and unable to rule.’

‘Unfit, mother. The word he used was unfit.’ Arianlach growled low in his throat. He got up from his end of the table, and leaned his arm on Sorrel's shoulder. 'Do I look unfit? One word from me and I can command the Lyr Blaed to ride against all of you.'

Sorrel rolled his shoulders back on an involuntary shiver. 'Why don't you?' he asked quietly. 'If you can, why don't you?'

Arianlach didn't answer. He pushed himself viciously off Sorrel's shoulder and stalked back around the table and slumped down, his head propped on one hand, his brows drawn together in broody anger. 

‘Arianlach is a devout supporter of the…ah…measures taken against the Lyr Blaed.’ A shadow crossed Leiryn's face, brief and too fleeting for Sorrel to be certain he’d even seen it. ‘He poses no threat to anyone, even if he says otherwise. He’s devoted to his land. But Rurien sees it otherwise, unfortunately.’

Sorrel understood. He rose, and bowed. Then he remembered to bow in the Northern fashion, to Melysarian’s derisive laughter, and excused himself to return to the other end of the table, back to the Earl's side, uncomfortably aware that he didn't want to be anywhere else.

I'm here to help him and to do that I need to get to know him. 

But he knew that wasn't it. 

He took another cup of honeyed varrtir from Arianlach's slim warm fingers, and drained it, his heart fluttering erratically.