“What have you to wager?” the Supreme Lord of Sang Marlen asked, very softly so as not to frighten his prey.
“My cloak for yours,” the other replied promptly. His blue eyes were dancing with mischief. The white was the better cloak and they both knew it. Shalhassan said so. “Perhaps,” Diarmuid replied, “but I don’t expect to lose.”
A very great pleasure to tame him. “A wager,” said Shalhassan as the nobility about them murmured. “Bashrai,” he said and his new Captain of the Guard stepped sharply forward. He missed the old one, remembering how Devorsh had died. Well, Sharra, back, in Sang Marlen, would make some recompense for that now. “Order the men to step forward in groups of fifty,” he commanded.
“And to remove their headgear,” Diarmuid added.
“Yes, and that,” Shalhassan confirmed. Bashrai turned crisply again to execute orders.
“This is utter frivolity,” Aileron snapped, his eyes cold on his brother.
“We can use some,” a musical voice interposed. Brendel of the lios alfar smiled infectiously. His eyes were golden, Shalhassan noted with a thrill and, just in time, caught the corners of his mouth curving upward.
Word of the wager had spread through the crowd by now and a laughing, anticipatory sound filled the square. They could see scribbled wagers passing from hand to hand. Only the red-haired Priestess and the grim High King seemed impervious to the lifting mood.
It didn’t take long. Bashrai was pleasingly efficient, and in a short while the entire army of Cathal had stepped bareheaded past the palace gates where the two Kings stood. Diarmuid’s men were checking them, and carefully, but Shalhassan had checked as carefully himself.
Sharra was not in the ranks.
Shalhassan turned slowly to the white-clad Prince. Diarmuid had managed to maintain his smile. “The horses, I wonder?” he tried. Shalhassan merely raised his eyebrows in a movement his court knew very well, and Diarmuid, with a gracious gesture and a laugh, slipped out of his rich cloak in the cold. He was in red underneath to match his feather and the children.
“The hat too?” he offered, holding them both out to be claimed.
Shalhassan gestured to Bashrai, but as the Captain, smiling on behalf of his King, stepped forward, Shalhassan heard an all-too-familiar voice cry out, “Take it not, Bashrai! The people of Cathal claim only wagers they have fairly won!”
Rather too late it came clear to him. There had been an honor guard of five, hastily assembled at dawn in Seresh. One of them now walked forward from where they had gathered on the near side of the square. Walked forward and, pulling off a close-fitting cap, let tumble free to her waist the shining black hair for which she was renowned.
“Sorry, Father,” said Sharra, the Dark Rose of Cathal.
The crowd erupted in shouting and laughter at this unexpected twist. Even some of the Cathalian soldiers were cheering idiotically. Their King bestowed a wintry glance upon his sole remaining child. How, he thought, could she thus lightly bring him so much shame in a foreign land?
When she spoke again, though, it was not to him. “I thought I’d do it myself this time,” she said to Diarmuid, not with any degree of warmth. The Prince’s expression was hard to read. Without pausing, however, Sharra turned to his brother and said, “My lord King, I am sorry to have to report a certain laxity among your troops, both of Seresh and here. I should not have been able to join this guard, however chaotic the morning was. And I should certainly have been discovered as we came into Paras Derval. It is not my place to advise you, but I must report the facts.” Her voice was guileless and very clear; it reached every corner of the square.
In the stony heart of Shalhassan a bonfire burst into warming flame. Splendid woman! A Queen to be, and worthy of her realm! She had turned a moment of acute embarrassment for him into a worse one for Brennin and a triumph for herself and for Cathal.
He moved to consolidate the gain. “Alas!” cried Shalhassan. “My daughter, it seems has the advantage over us all. If a wager has been won today, it has been won by her.” And with Bashrai quick to aid, he doffed his own cloak, ignoring the bite of wind, and walked over to lay it at his daughter’s feet.