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beauty in her time, and still retained charm and magnetism.
    “I am totally in favor—and I do not think this is the time to dally! Let the betrothal be as soon as possible— the wedding, even! Training can wait until after alliances are irrevocable.” She glared at Eicarth and Kyril. “It’s my Border the Karsites come rampaging over whenever they choose. My people have little enough, and the Karsites regularly reive away what little they have! But it is also my Border that would be open to new trade with our two Kingdoms firmly united, and I can see nothing to find fault with.”
    White-haired, snowy-bearded Father Aldon, the Lord Patriarch, spoke up wistfully. “As my Lady has said, this alliance promises peace, a peace such as we have not enjoyed for far too long. Karse would be forced to sue for a lasting peace, faced with unity all along two of its borders. Renewing our long friendship with Hardorn can only bring a truer peace than we have ever known. Though the Heir is young, many of our ladies have wedded younger still—”
    “Indeed.” Bard Hyron, so fair-haired that his flowing locks were nearly white, was speaker for the Bardic Circle. He echoed Father Aldon’s sentiments. “It is a small sacrifice for the young woman to make, in the interests of how much we would gain.”
    Talia noted dubiously that his pale gray eyes practically glowed silver when Orthallen nodded approvingly.
    The thin and angular Healer Myrrim, spokeswoman for her Circle, was not so enthralled. To Talia’s relief she actually seemed mildly annoyed by Hyron’s hero worship; and something about Orthallen seemed to be setting her ever so slightly on edge. “You all forget something—though the child has been Chosen, she is not yet a Herald, and the law states clearly that the Monarch must be a Herald, There has never been a reason strong enough to overturn that law before, and I fail to see the need to set such a dangerous precedent now!”
    “Exactly,” Kyril murmured.
    “The child is just that; a child. Not ready to rule by any stretch of the imagination, with much to learn before she is. Nevertheless, I am—cautiously—in favor of the betrothal. But only if the Heir remains at the Collegium until after her full training is complete.”
    Somewhat to Talia’s surprise, Lord Marshal Randon shared Myrim’s mild dislike of Orthallen. Talia wondered, as she listened to that scarred and craggy warrior measuring out his words with the care and deliberation of a merchant measuring out grain, what could have happened while she’d been gone to so change him. For when she’d last sat at the Council board, Randon had been one of Orthallen’s foremost supporters. Now, however, though he favored the betrothal, he stroked his dark beard with something like concealed annoyance, as if it galled him, having to agree with Orthallen’s party.
    Horselike Lady Kester, speaker for the West, was short and to the point. “I’m for it,” she said, and sat herself down. Plump and soft-spoken Lord Gildas for the South was equally brief.
    “I can see nothing to cause any problems,” said Lady Cathan of the Guilds quietly. She was a quiet, gray, dovelike woman, of an outer softness that masked a stubborn inner core. “And much that would benefit every member of the Kingdom.”
    “That, I think, is a good summation,” Lord Palinor, the Seneschal, concluded. “You know my feelings on the matter. Majesty?”
    The Queen had held her peace, remaining calm and thoughtful, but totally noncommittal, until everyone had spoken except herself and her Herald.
    Now she leaned forward slightly, and addressed them, a hint of command tingeing her voice.
    “I have heard you all; you each favor the match, and all of your reasons are good ones. You even urge me to agree to the wedding and see it consummated within the next few months. Very well; I can agree with every one of your arguments, and I am more than willing to return Alessandar’s envoy with word