Mienthe had to confess that she could not guess. “He ought to thank you,” she added, but cautiously, because no one but she seemed to think this at all likely.
The Arobern grunted, jerked his head No. “I offended his pride. Twice. No. Three times. Once in coming through the pass without leave—twice in leaving Beguchren to delay him on his road—a third time, worst of all, because he knows he must be grateful to me.” The Casmantian king jerked his head again. “No. He will be furious.” He prevented Mienthe from exclaiming how unfair this was by adding, in a low growl, “I would be.”
“He will be more furious still if you do not come as he bids you,” murmured Beguchren. The elegant Casmantian lord looked faintly amused, so far as Mienthe could read his expression at all.
“Yes. True.” The Arobern ran a big hand through his short-cropped hair, looking harassed. “Come,” he said to Mienthe abruptly. “You, come. An apology is well enough, if that will satisfy the Safiad’s temper, but if your king demands a second term for my son in his court, you tell him he should be grateful to me!”
Mienthe could hardly refuse.
Iaor Safiad was in the solar, in a big, heavy chair with ornate carving on its legs and back. Normally that chair occupied Bertaud’s personal apartment, but Mienthe was not surprised to see that the king had claimed it, for it was very like a throne. Especially the way Iaor sat in it: not stiff, but upright, with his hands resting on the polished brass finials that finished its arms. There were other chairs near his, but none were much like a throne, and no one was sitting in any of them. There were guardsmen at the door, but they only stared straight ahead, with the most formally rigid posture possible, and did not even seem to notice the Arobern. Or Mienthe, standing nervously in his shadow. She did not know why she should be nervous, except that the Arobern’s nervousness had communicated itself to her during the ride up to the great house.
Only one other person was with the king: Erich. Prince Erichstaben Taben Arobern, who was standing, his back straight, his chin raised, and his face blank, at the king’s left hand. The Arobern stopped when he saw Erich. His gaze went first to his son’s face, shifted to take in the young man’s height and breadth of shoulder with silent amazement, and rose again to his face with an unspoken but unmistakable hunger.
Erich lifted his chin half an inch higher and met his father’s eyes for a brief, taut moment, then turned his face aside as though the effort of sustaining that intense contact had abruptly grown too great. He glanced instead at Mienthe and tried to smile, but it was not a very convincing effort and he gave it up at once.
The echo behind the tension in the room was so powerful that Mienthe found it difficult to endure. She stopped just inside the door and simply tried to breathe evenly, hoping she would not be called upon to explain anything to anybody.
Mienthe was not surprised the king had Erich with him. What surprised her was how very much the prince resembled his father. Erich lacked some of his father’s bulk, but none of his height. And their expressions were alike, also. They even stood with the same upright pride. She had not realized how very alike they were until she saw them like this: together in good light.
At last the Arobern moved his gaze, as with an effort, to Iaor Safiad. He walked forward with a heavy stride and stopped a few steps away from King Iaor’s chair, his hands hooked in his belt. Mienthe could not read his expression now. There was nothing simple or friendly in the way the two kings looked at each other. She almost fancied she could hear the ringing clash of swords when their eyes met.
The Arobern said, his grim voice touched with irony, “Well, Iaor Daveien Behanad Safiad. I find the second time much like the first. Perhaps someday I will come before you as something other than a supplicant.”
Iaor Safiad answered, with a flash of temper, “Perhaps someday you will come into Feierabiand without an army at your back.”
So everybody else had been right, Mienthe saw, and she had been wrong. Her heart sank.
But the Arobern only lowered his eyes, like a man laying down a sword. He said, “Yes. I did not wish to offend you. But I expected you would be offended. You have been patient. And generous beyond measure.”
“You left me little choice but generosity.”
“You had every choice. You took that one. I am grateful.” The Arobern looked deliberately at his son, then turned his gaze back to King Iaor. He sighed heavily, came one step closer to the throne, and began to kneel.
“No,” said Iaor, stopping him. He turned one hand, indicating one of the other chairs. “Sit, if you wish.”