“I cannot swear never to kill you.”

“No one could swear that,” Kieri said. “That is not what I ask. Swear not to attack me for one turn of the glass.”

“And then you will kill me?”

“Not if I can avoid it,” Kieri said. “Though I do not expect you to believe it.”

The king looked at the King’s Squires to either side of him, and shrugged. “It makes no difference, I suppose, one glass. You can lie, and I will listen, if that is what you want. But one of us will die, and if it is I, your land will suffer.”

“If either of us dies, both lands will suffer,” Kieri said. “My people would like to hear you say it in Common, if you will.”

The king uttered an oath in Pargunese, then said in Common, “I have given my word not to attack your king for the full turn of a glass. I would see the glass.”

“Here it is,” one of the Squires said.

The king looked, and nodded. “Well, then. I am ready.”

“Come in,” Kieri said. “And be seated.” He waved at the chair, and the king sat in it, gingerly at first, and then leaned back.

“It is too soft,” he said. “A man would learn to slump in such a chair.”

“My apologies,” Kieri said, sitting in his own. “I was thinking of your long ride. I can have someone bring a hard one.”

“No matter. Have your say; perhaps in this soft chair I can sleep and not listen to your lies.”

“If you are trying to anger me,” Kieri said, “and force me to fight you, that will not work.”

“Will it not? I had heard you were a man easy to anger, quick to take offense.”

“Perhaps I was once, but I am trying to learn better,” Kieri said. When the king said nothing, he went on. “Until I came here, I knew nothing of where your people came from. I did not know you were Seafolk from over the eastern sea.”

The king opened one eye. “Did you not? It is common knowledge with us. Where did you think we came from?”

“I suppose I thought you were mixed mageborn and old human, like most of those in the Eight Kingdoms.”

“Mixed! We do not mix, and certainly not with magelords. You drove us out of our homes, and then, here, attacked us again.” The king leaned forward. “And then, not content with attacking us, confining us to colder, less fertile land north of the river, you despoil my daughter.”

“You sent her here,” Kieri said. “Why?”

“My first wife’s sister thought you might have changed, and of my daughters, Elis was the strongest … you had wed one of your soldiers before.”

“She told me you had promised her a home far in the north, where she could live unmarried.”

The king waved his hand. “It was a girl’s fancy. And yet, I might have let her—she had frightened away several suitors—but when you came, I thought, if she and you wed, it might bring peace. Worth more than a girl’s daydream, if that could be.”